Storytelling

HTWF is 10 years old. After all that time and over 500 entries, this is the last post (other than a coming Index Series).

Stories mean a lot to me. Certainly, they provide entertainment and emotional experiences. They also provide insights and readily accessed models for living in a complex world. The characters introduce people who are very different from myself, and, unlike real people, I can get into the minds of these characters and come to understand them.

I believe that people never exhaust their need for stories. Good stories. Stories from new perspectives. Stories that reflect how humans live today and those things that never change about us. Poetic expressions that feed us when we don't know we’re hungry. Tales that embed us more deeply in our own cultures or introduce us to societies that are lost or distant or never were (but maybe should have been). constellation good times and laughs and heartbreak.

So, after over 500 posts, I'm going to offer a few perspectives on storytelling, for storytellers.

Your audience. A lot of writers write for themselves and occasionally the combination of what's in common the rest of us and what's quirky pays off. For most writers (and most writing), I suspect there's more to be had by seeing storytelling as a form of communication. That means the writer is not alone. The writer is actually hoping to say something to someone else. To move someone else. Maybe convince someone else of something. To do that effectively requires real thought on who your audience is for a particular piece. And I agree with Vonnegut that the first draft is best written to one specific person. That will shape the language, the pacing, the details, and the arguments within the story. The next draft may be (and probably should be) to more people, but one person is a great starting point.

Thrills, surprises, and questions. Never write predictably. While it's important to engender participation in readers or audiences, stories that flow as expected are ultimately tedious. We love those twists and turns. It's also important not to explain everything right away. Questions, especially if they lead to worries about characters, keep us involved. Unless you're writing instructions rather than telling a story, withholding is a good thing. It's not deceptive. It's part of the contract with the readers.

Escalation. I often come across stories that have great things happening in them. But even when the choices and the actions are highly inventive, the tension goes right out of the story if the stakes are raised or the problems don't become more difficult. The simple solution is to organize the tasks, once a draft is done, so that more is expected with each one as the story goes on. That avoids one of the major problems with pacing, sections of the story that plateau. (Pacing can also be damaged by excess verbiage. That means making sure there's a reason for every word. Strong verbs. Fewer adverbs. Fewer qualifiers (some, a bit, rather). Too much exposition.)

Clarity. You can have the best story in the world and lose readers if they hit the spot where they're forced to reread. Or even worse, can't figure out what's going on. It's fine to include mystery (see surprises above). For some audiences, ambiguity is a good thing. Confusion is never good. A baffled reader is an ex-reader.

Characters. In most stories we love, it’s the characters we remember best. We reread (or watch) old favorites and follow a series because we want more time with Atticus Finch, Huckleberry Finn, Walter White, and Anne of Green Gables. Most writers I know start with a plot or a premise, but a high percentage won’t get to work on a story until the character comes alive for them. So characters are just as vital to most storytellers.

I’m one of those lucky writers whose characters talk (and talk back) to him/her. That’s why my easiest way to get to know them is through interviews. Others need to do more work at assembling the parts, and I know writers who have to create thick files of descriptions, pictures, and traits. However a character comes to life, the three elements that can be most effective to bringing them to life for readers are voice, action, and flaws. Voice comes across most often in dialogue, but first-person stories are founded on voice. When a character narrates, the perspectives, word choices, concerns, humor, and emotion reach us directly. While exposition may get tricky (point of view problems), empathy is readily available (except to those who just don’t like the character).

Actions show the truth of the character. What a character does may be aligned with thoughts and statements or diverge, but actions don’t lie. They reveal. But actions also make it possible to visualize and remember a character. Someone once told be, when I couldn’t remember what a friend who’d died looked like, see her doing something. It worked for her. It works for characters.

Flaws are the easiest and hardest ways to create a full and living character. Easiest because foibles and sins help readers identify with and worry about characters. Pages turn quickly when a character gets him/herself into trouble. Character arcs are steep and have real impact when a characters is broken, often dealing with one of the Seven Deadly Sins. So flaws make the creation of stories easier. Unfortunately, there is a psychological cost for many writers. Most students (and I’ve had hundreds) can’t bear to give their protagonists serious flaws. They say the makes them unlikable and will drive readers away. I suspect it’s because these writers identify too closely with the heroes and heroines of their stories and revealing their flaws makes the writers feel vulnerable. It does take courage to show evil in a character we love.  

Theme. Most stories, and any stories worth reading more than once, have something to say. In my experience, other than people who write propaganda, most writers don't know what they have to say until they finished at least one draft. The reason why the work means something to them only crystallizes over time. It may take some work to figure out what the writing process revealed. Not everyone sees it right away. And I've known some writers who have only figured out what they were up to while talking to an agent or a friend. But once you have that insight, it can direct rewriting. It can suggest imagery and what needs to be cut and and what might be missing.

Authority. Confidence shows in writing. Much of it flows from hard-earned skill, but a lot depends on knowledge. Well isn't necessary to research the times, the places, and the characters before writing a draft, touchstones in reality (even for fantasy works) suggest moments and choices that will feel right to you and your readers. Story logic also makes a work convincing. While every step in the logic doesn't need to be included, leaving too many out for heading off into different directions will make readers stumble. Own the worlds you create.

Curiosity. This goes in two directions. First, your own engagement in your story will increase if you look closely enough to wonder about it. When things are really working, it's likely that questions will take over. Answers will fill pages, and many of the answers you find will never make it into the story. But all that you learn, even when it's not included, will support the work. How many times have you read a story and had a sense that you were seeing just one piece of a larger world? That has tremendous power and appeal.

But don't restrict curiosity to yourself. Actively suggest enough to make your readers curious. Obviously, some of the questions raised will point to what will happen later on. But some will shape impressions of the characters and their relationships that will go unspoken. That sort of curiosity encourages the kind of participation that leads to readers falling in love of the work and discussing it with other readers.

In addition, it's always great when the mention of a historical figure or a place or a body of ideas or something else from the real world motivates people to look things up and learn more. In such cases, you may be opening new doors for your readers.

Entertainment. The first rule of fiction writing is don't be boring. It doesn't mean you need to write crazy and jarring stuff. Stay near the boundaries of your genres is just fine. Don't be afraid to exaggerate or use colorful language or experiment or introduce a character who makes you feel uneasy. A lot of fun comes from charm, pizzazz, and walking tightropes. Humor, at the right time, is also welcome.

How do you do all of these things? There are lots of hints in the How to Write Fast posts that precede this one. I hope some will be helpful to you. Mostly, whether you discover tips or find a mentor or dig into references, your success as a writer will depend upon writing and growing. It's great if you can dedicate yourself to it, but a lot of value can, from fairly minimal effort. I've had students who have committed to writing (meaning actually putting words on paper or typing them into a file) 15 minutes a day, five days a week. Stories can be created on a regular basis I following the practice. And the more stories you write, the better command of writing, over time, you'll have. We need good stories, so I hope you can do this.

I'll keep writing my own, but my plans don’t include writing more about writing. I think there's enough here to help out. I'm not going to abandon this blog, but most of my efforts will be aimed at making the advice more accessible. Some of these were written in a blistering speed, so I'll be making repairs. I hope to add some illustrations to add a little fun to each post. I suspect I'll find some things that I regret having written. Those might be reworked or removed. And, about every week, I'll suggest topics and point to the best posts that cover those topics.

I'll keep an eye out for any questions or comments and try to respond in a timely manner. This is not been a highly interactive blog so far, but, who knows? It might become one in its afterlife.

Thanks for reading. I wish you success.

Write Out Loud - How listening to actors, friends reading, and even your own voice can make stories better

Countdown to 10 years of HTWF: After 10 years and over 100 entries, this is the second to last post (other than a coming Index Series).

There's nothing like hearing actors, especially talented actors, read your words. Though my favorite part of writing is creating a first draft, a close second is having I read-through of the script by actors . Besides the obvious fun of being part of a team, it's an amazing learning experience.

Though read throughs don't include the action, they do include gestures, expressions, and, most of all, character interpretation. Often, I come to see my characters in a new way based on how an actor speaks the lines. How the ideas run together and show emotion and evoke empathy. So much comes through I just pacing the words in a way I hadn't imagined. Someone once described theater as poetry standing up, and the qualities of the words – a collaboration with language – is only evident when their herd rather than read.

Of course, actors stumble. Most often, that's because there's a better way to phrase the thought, and I've missed it. By the time a read-through is done, I've extensively marked up the script. Changes will be made, but not all them. This is a collaboration, after all. The director may ask for a different "take" on the line. An actor may, having experienced discomfort, ask questions that reveal the purpose of the line and make it easier to deliver. Sometimes, it's not a failure in writing, it has to do with a quality that the actor brings to the role that demands reshaping the words.

Something else happens when the work gets on its feet. Once the director has worked with the actors on their roles, blocked the scenes, and choreographed the actions, there is more for me to learn. The primary thing I'm looking for is the reactions of the actors when they are not speaking. This gives me a good sense of what's happening between the characters, and it gives me a good indication of what's happening internally — which provides much of the real value of the story. I get a sense for the power shifts and what's at stake in a way that's not made possible by simply reading the script.

Finally, there’s much to be learned from an audience. I always imagine specific people experiencing the story as I write, but real people can be different. This is especially true when it comes to humor. Some jokes that seem just right and are delivered well by actors still fail in front of audiences. The same can be true with emotional moments, which tend to be delicate. Sometimes they just don't work and need to be rethought. Most often the problem is earlier in the script, and it can take a real effort to find what needs to be fixed.

One thing that shows up all along the way is any inconsistencies in characters. There's something about having real humans speak the lines that makes any unconscious accommodations for offer intrusions or sloppiness melt away. Turning a character into a vehicle for a good line or bending their actions to fit the plot will stand out and be undeniable.

Now, not everyone who writes gets to hear actors read their words. The best solution is to trade off with other writers and read your works to each other. For novels and short stories, the main concern is avoiding the temptation to blame the reader or to be inflexible about how it should sound. For scripts with different characters, casting friends and having them read, even though they may have no training in acting, can be valuable if your expectations aren’t too high.

You can always just read it all yourself, of course. Reading aloud will reveal a lot more than silent reading. If you can get into role, even better. A lot of the insights into character will become available to you. I've found that, if there are multiple characters, I need to record my readings because I become too absorbed in the presentation, and I miss too much of what the reading offers.

One more option is using text-to-speech. This is available on all personal computers. Minimally, it reduces the number of typos and grammatical errors in your writing. They tend to stand out when you're listening to another voice. Though it can also reveal some awkward phrasing, it's no substitute for reading the work out loud yourself.

I'll add one more thing, though I'm still experimenting with this. I've long been able to get the voices of people for whom I write speeches into my head so that their word choice, cadences, and rhythms are reflected in my work. More recently, I found that I can do this for different characters if, in my head, I cast actors for whom I've written in the past. Lately, I've been extending this.

YouTube is an amazing resource for hearing different voices. By repeatedly listening to real people who are interesting and essentially casting them in my stories, I get a new way of experiencing the dialogue I'm writing. I'm not sure this is really working and making my stories better because I don't have enough experience with this approach yet. Still, it might be something worth considering for your own work.

Tone and Mood in Fiction

Countdown to 10 year of HTWF: After 10 years and over 100 entries, this is the third to last post (other than a coming Index Series).

What do you want your reader/audience to feel while experiencing your story? In most cases, it's whatever the main character is feeling. In commercial fiction, a lot of effort is put into creating empathy between the character and the readers because readers primarily read for emotion (according to Ray Bradbury). Often, in fact, writer/character/reader emotions are one and the same throughout the story. Perspective, mood, and tone coincide. 

Character perspective includes the emotional states of the characters through whom the story is told (generally, first person or third person limited).

Mood is the emotion evoked in the reader by the story.

Tone is the emotion of the narrator of the story, who may be the writer, one of the writers personas, or a character addressing the reader directly.

Now, a good dominant character, who carries along the writer and the reader creates deeply immersive experiences. Who doesn't like that?

Sometimes us. When a character is disturbing, we might not want to live inside him or her. Or, the story might demand a character with secrets. The intrigue and mystery we're looking for would be spoiled if we got too close. In a more positive way, a character who is brilliant or saintly might be diminished by too close a look. It's hard to feel that a character is bigger than we are if we are sharing all of his or her thoughts and feelings.

Humor often depends upon having some distance. Wit may require the writer (say, Dorothy Parker or Oscar Wilde) to step out from behind the curtain and address us directly. More often, humor depends upon the reader having a superior position. Many protagonists in comedies are flawed and obsessive and take themselves much too seriously. They may tell their stories as tragedies, but we, recognizing the absurdities, find their stories humorous.

Irony also depends upon separating ourselves, as readers, from the characters. The teen protagonist on Lovers Lane is interested in smooching, not in the escaped murderer who is approaching the car. Good horror depends on anticipation by audiences, our worrying about oblivious characters. Similarly, Hitchcock’s men discussing baseball, and not knowing a ticking bomb is under the table they sit around, creates delicious suspense.

Tone or Mood?

Both tone and mood are created by the writer (if the writer is successful). Mood is always present. Tone should only appear intentionally. 

For disturbing stories, I think of the Grandfather in The Princess Bride:

She doesn’t get eaten by the eels at this time. The eel doesn’t get her. I’m explaining to you because you look nervous.  

He dials down the tension for the Grandson deliberately. (And the actual writer, William Goldman, adds comic relief, while staying hidden, relying on mood.) 

For intrigue, I love the old Mission Impossible shows. With “Good morning, Mr. Phelps,” the narrator on tape made the mission and its goals absolutely clear, but the narrator never returns to divulge the plan, and, while Phelps specifies tools and roles he keeps many secrets from the audience. The omissions invite audiences to connect the dots and guess the secrets before they play out. The tone created by the writers is evident by their superior position. 

More subtle is presenting the pieces with no explanation. This is done brilliantly in a Better Call Saul episode (“Mabel” Season 3, Episode 1) that presents Mike’s efforts to understand how he was tracked. It’s almost a silent movie and challenges the audience to pay attention, think hard, and be smart while playing fair. It’s not just narration-free. It’s almost scientifically objective. I haven’t had to lock my brain in so completely since I watched Inception.  

Sherlock Holmes stories are told using Watson’s point of view so we can be amazed by Holmes’s genius. We feel (often) what Watson feels. It could be argued that this is all mood, but, to me, Watson is such an obvious stand-in for Doyle that the writer makes himself visible, so tone seems more accurate. 

As stated above, a witty narrator is always tone. And even a witty character feels more like tone that mood. We know Shaw speaks through Henry Higgins and Alfred Doolittle. (This was so obvious, the poster for Broadway’s My Fair Lady showed Higgins as a marionette, with Shaw pulling his strings.)

Huckleberry Finn is first person narration, and I’d say it is funny and ironic without Twain stepping out from behind the curtain. It’s one of those wonderful cases where humor comes from an authentic character voice and empathy for the character. The result: Our mood may not match Huckleberry’s all the time. Readers easily align and diverge from his feelings. 

Compare this to Dumb and Dumber, where the protagonists are presented as fools from the very beginning and never grow to be the equals of the audience. The directors present their tone for the movie and we’re forced to adopt it if we want to join in the fun. 

We also join into the fun of horrors and thrillers in a different way. The irony is baked in deliberately, with the creators being as manipulative as Shaw. I suspect people who can’t buy into such deliberate emotional design can’t enjoy such stories. The characters are oblivious; the audiences need to accept a superior position even as they surrender their emotions to the creators; and the creators work on the levels of characters, audience, and emotional design simultaneously. Isn’t that ironic?

Mood can be created in many ways. Setting, music, cultural triggers, genre tropes, empathy, diction, and more. In Get Out, Jordan Peele seems to use every tool in the box. The many approaches to mood are exquisitely balanced, making this film a masterpiece worthy of study.
 

Writing a Standout Author Bio

Countdown to 10 year of HTWF: After 10 years and over 100 entries, this is the fourth to last post (other than a coming Index Series).

There is a saying in sales that "people buy from people." It's a good thing to keep in mind as a writer. Whether you're chatting up an editor at a bar or pitching to producer, how you present yourself matters. Many writers are introverts without performance skills, so it may take an extra effort for them to make their presentations equal to the quality of their writing. But, in one case, it doesn't matter whether you're an introvert or an extrovert — writing your bio.

Unfortunately, even good writers fall down when they are creating bios for social media or contests or webpages or query letters. They write resumes. They list achievements, big and small. Try not to leave anything out and end up putting in too much.

An author bio is a sales document directed toward a specific audience, and it's also a writing sample. And, just as the salesperson creates collateral and presents him or herself in a way that shows value to a client or customer – and gets a commitment — your bio is a tool for bringing your stories to the public.

Your audience is someone who can help you. You may be seeking a writing partner to complement your talents and skills. A manager who can shape your career so it more closely fits opportunities. An agent may be able to open doors for you. Editors and producers might turn your words into a book, a movie, play, or a TV show. Sponsors of fellowships and grants may provide money and other resources. Competitions may provide prizes, recognition, and visibility. You probably know all that, but have you look at these helpers from the other side? Do you know what they are looking for from you?

They all want good stories, but what do they mean by good? What genres do they care about? What tone (dark? funny?) do they require? What lengths are important to them? Do they hope to attract adults or children? Do they have big budgets or small?

You don’t know the answers if you haven’t taken the time to know who they are and what they’ve done. Some of them may have credits listed in IMDB. Some may have query requirements on their Web sites. All have public records, friends, and associates. Or their organizations provide direction (as with competitions, where the readers are anonymous).

The first way you introduce yourself must be through showing you are professional enough and care enough to target your communication — your bio in this case — to someone who might find it valuable, based on evidence. Ask any editor, and he/she will tell you how often writers disqualify themselves by sending them queries or material that has nothing to do with their interests. Spamming someone is not a way to tell them you care. It's a horrible way to make the case you would be someone they'd like to spend time with.

So, in addition to providing your bio to people who would want to read it, know you, and explore your work, you need to shape your bio. That means cutting out whatever would not be interesting to its readers. It means highlighting whatever would. It means answering the first questions they have in mind and, possibly, raising questions in ways that encourage responses. It means having a good sense of what you can do for them, not just what they could do for you.

Of course, it's much easier to write an author’s biography that will appeal to one specific person (say, a producer or editor, especially one you've met). Shaping your bio for a group of people, whether it be fellowship readers or people reading your Twitter posts, is trickier. My recommendation is to not try to reach everyone. If you can think of one to three people who need most want to read your bio and could through your application or venue, right with them in mind.

Once you've met the needs of the audience you've chosen for your bio, it's time to make your case. You've established that there is a reason for your communicating with them, specifically. Now, why should they reach out to you? Though it may depend upon your audience, a good strategy would be to brand yourself in some way. What's your genre? What's your medium (screenwriting, books, TV, web series, etc.)? Is there a theme, human experience, or subject area that especially attracts you? It might be a good time to look across your stories and see if there's something common about them.

Next, qualify yourself. What relevant, recent accomplishments do you have? As some of your work reached the public? Made money for someone? Has relevant work being recognized in a contest? have you worked with someone who will be reading the bio, someone who might recommend you? As someone famous said something positive about your work that could be referenced? Can you provide links to text or look books or posters or videos of your work? Do you have non-writing accolades or credentials that both are relevant to the work the reader might be interested in and set you apart from other writers? (For instance, I know someone who wanted to write medical romances. She was a doctor, but didn't include that in her query letter bio. She got better results when she added that.)

Two things I've mentioned over and over again regarding qualifying information are relevance and being recent. Both are essential. Provided you have been writing for a while, you probably have relevant writing experience (or why would you be presenting yourself to this person?). And, if you had a measure of success and consistency in your work, your examples will be recent. But the danger of having a lot of accomplishments is talking yourself into how relevant they are. It's necessary to be selective, avoiding even things you really like to include. For those who are newbies, from is not having a list is too long. It's having any accomplishments at all. Don't worry. Be generous with yourself. Make a good first impression and realize that time is on your side.

“Recent” can also become too flexible for some writers. My rule of thumb is not including anything is more than five years old. If you have an MFA from Yale, don’t mentioned that you got it in 1982. If your teacher won the Pulitzer Prize, but she died 10 years ago, consider not including that nice comment she made about your work. Ageism is a real thing. As is a common reader question, “what have you done lately?”

Okay. You’re writing your bio for the right people (and you know who they are and what they need). You’re keeping it relevant and recent (and therefore short). Now it's time to make sure your bio is a good sample. Obviously, that means that grammar and spelling are impeccable. Everything should be clear and an easy read. Less obvious, since most of us have been trained on formulaic resumes, is the need to make sure your bio isn't boring.

Take a moment. Imagine that your bio is being read by someone who has a pile of 500 writer biographies on his or her desk. Most of them start the same way. "Davis writes exciting space operas about intrepid starship captains facing the unknown.” “Madison writes endearing romances about small town women in search of love.” “Betsy writes legal dramas about attorneys torn between obligations to the firm and the needs of their pro bono clients.”

Okay, not all the bios you’ll find on the Web are that bad. But they do fit common patterns. Going from cliche, general statements to lists of works published/produced to achievements (education, awards) to hobbies to the inevitable statements of about family and pets. Find some online. See how similar and predictable they are? (If you ARE lucky enough to find some that thrill you, save them as examples. Such are rare.)

Don’t feel like you need to reinvent the bio. “The same but different” is good enough, and the easiest route is to get conversational. Your voice – personal and friendly — is your salvation. How would you introduce yourself to someone you'd like to have as a friend? What would you say about yourself to a relative you haven't had a chance to meet face-to-face years? How would you talk about yourself to that reader you researched in your first step in developing the bio, imagining that reader as an actual person in front of you.

Unless overcome by nerves, you’d probably be casual and interesting. That works. That's good. It will save you from institution talk that stultifies listeners and readers. It might lead you to making your bio more of a story, one that includes surprises and emotional involvement. It might do what most of the other 500 bios don't – presents a real person, one, perhaps, the reader like to know.

So, the elements of standout bio are attention to the audience, voice, relevant and recent qualifications, specificity, avoiding clichés, brevity, and breaking the formula (at least a little bit). It means writing a fresh bio for each recipient (or at least refreshing what you have). It means not worrying about reaching everyone. (To stand out, you may actually have to write a bio that repels some people.)

And it may mean one more thing – adjusting the tone. Obviously, if you write humor, there needs to be some fun in your bio. If you write horror, your word choice is likely to be different from someone who writes romances. And, whatever you write there needs to be a level of confidence. A bio is not a place for apologies or excuses or belittling yourself. Remember: you're worth spending time with and they would be lucky to work with you.

Five Things for Writers to Add, Five Things to Leave Out

Countdown to 10 year of HTWF: After 10 years and over 100 entries, this is the fifth to last posts (other than a coming Index Series).

It's rare that I don't find something, even in the work of a beginner, that delights me. It may be as little as a line of dialogue or a fresh idea, but I almost always have something to point to when I look to offer encouragement.

Ironically, I'm more frustrated by manuscripts that almost work. To read for a contest and find a page I know will cost the writer acknowledgment saddens me. And when I get lost in a story submitted to a literary magazine and see a scene that feels incomplete and will lead to rejection, it’s hard for me not to feel the loss. If only.

So, after all the pages, I’ve read by colleagues, potential contributors, competition hopefuls, and students, I’m offering my view of what deserves another look based on the tragic disappointments I’ve had. These naturally are subjective, reflecting the things that I look for or dread. Still, unless I’m eccentric, they might be worth considering before you hit send.

Five Things to Add

Flaws. The best way to create a boring character is to make him/her perfect. Some demon English teacher or inept editor has made writers terrified of creating unlikable characters. So too many stories are wrecked by heroes and heroines who are the equivalent of cottage cheese on white bread. I like characters who like mischief or suffer from cravings or bend the rules. I like them to face difficult choices and make the wrong decisions. I like strong villains who don't hold back and supporting characters to mess things up. I look forward to seeing a real arc that puts a happy ending in doubt and leaves scars.

Descriptions. A great conversation needs a good setting, but too many writers seem to imagine dialogue happening in white, windowless rooms. Exquisite words. Real conflict. But no context. Where are these characters? Sometimes, it's "in office." Or it could be "a living room." Both may be wonderful if I know what they look like, what they sound like, how they reflect the characters or, better yet, make them uncomfortable. Give me a heated discussion between two people attending a wedding, and I'll be happy, especially if I know what the bride’s dress looks like and that one of the people arguing is wearing uncomfortable shoes.

Shifts in power. I usually call these beats. Most commonly, a strong scene includes a conflict. The hero or heroine is struggling to achieve the story goal, which means he or she is looking for a certain outcome from the scene. Whether battling a flood or a villain or paralyzing terror, the scene should include gaining power or losing power. Coming closer to success or falling further away. If two characters are in competition, the scene generally has three to five moments when the advantage for one of them increases, decreases, or moves over to the other character. When the character I identify with wins a point, I cheer. When that character loses a point, I worry. That's good drama. It keeps me engaged. Just don't disappoint me by ending the scene without a clear understanding of how the situation has changed.

Surprises. I'm one of those people who usually knows who the murderer is long before the end of the novel. In other words, I'm a very active reader. That makes me appreciate twists and turns and especially (fair) surprises. Now, I don't need to come across what's unexpected on major issues. I can pretty well guess that the master detective will solve the case and that the romantic couple will live happily ever after. But don't make everything predictable. Don't show me just what I've seen before. At the very least, throw in some fun facts I don't know or have the character make a choice I hadn't anticipated.

Emotions. Ideally, I like complex emotions that reflect bittersweet experiences. I do quite well with stories that have the underdog win. I can stand up and cheer for a sports drama. I can take delight in a horror story that keeps me up at night and gives me bad dreams. I can even appreciate clever extrapolation or puzzle design in a science fiction story or a mystery. Both present intelligence and wit that exercise my brain in ways that are fun. But don't give me an essay or a diatribe intended to merely inform me or sell an opinion. That's not why I read fiction. Even worse, don't give me watered down stories where the emotion drains away because the writer takes no chances and doesn't seem to be fully engaged.

Five things to leave out

Exposition. I don't mean this literally. Every story needs to be clear and to have all the elements readers need for understanding. However, too many writers begin their stories with lots and lots of narrative about characters I don't yet care about and a world that hasn't caught my interest. At the beginning of the story in particular, less (a lot less) is more. It is amazing to me how consistently stories can be improved by eliminating most of the exposition in the opening scenes. As an exercise, I often have students highlight every bit of description, deliberation by characters, prologue, flash forward, and flashback that's in the first 20 pages. Most of it can be cut. Most of it needed to be written (so the writer would understand the story), but can be withheld until later or left out. The beginning of the story needs to set things up, but it also needs to raise questions. Too many writers answer all the questions in the early pages, distancing the readers and making the story dull. My rule of thumb is holding explanations and answers for as long as possible.

Realistic dialogue. I only want to hear what causes me to lean in. I don't want characters greeting each other (unless it's more than greeting). I don't want characters telling each other things they already know. I generally don't want characters monologuing. I generally don't want characters talking directly about their feelings. It's much more fun if they try to hide their feelings and fail. What people say in day-to-day life is generally tedious. They make arrangements to get their tasks done. They repeat (a lot). They courteously ask each other about their health. It's all very realistic, but I can get the same standing in line to get my drivers license renewed.

The weather. I'm fine with dramatic meteorology. I'm even okay with enough information to immerse me in the scene. But, too often, descriptions of a spring day or a winter evening that are comprehensive (really going beyond the weather, to be sure) and perhaps imagined to be poetic will stop a story in its tracks and lead me to seek diversion elsewhere. Description can do so many wonderful things in terms of creating mood or immersing me in a story or reflecting the inner states of characters, it's hard to not be disappointed when it's just there to be pretty.

Set pieces. Think chase scenes, fights, sex scenes, stunts, and jokes. If these are brilliant, they can be the most memorable part of the story. The problem is, few people seem to know how to write these. I think they get lost in their inner experience is and don't realize others are not sharing these experiences. Now, any of these can work if they are truly part of the story. They don't need to be marvelous if they advance the plot or deepen my understanding of the characters. The problem is that they often both bring the story to a halt and add nothing. A simple test: cut the set piece out and see if any of the story is lost. Obviously, if your genre requires set pieces (sex scenes for pornography), they should be there. Sometimes, readers skip past the actual story — seeing it as filler — to get to the set pieces. If that's your game, you understand that. Note: writing set pieces is an excellent exercise. Well worth trying. If what is created truly is brilliant and worth pausing the story, congratulations. Your readers will be delighted. If what you created is cliché or more of a delay than a delight, cut it.

Bad language. I'm not talking about curse words here. Though they can become both overwhelming and ineffective. It's all those words that undermine the prose that bother me. Adverbs. Limiters (some, a bit, most, etc.). Clichés. Weak verbs. Convoluted constructions. Anything that gets away from direct, strong, and clear writing diminishes the reading experience. I often feel like I'm hacking my way through a thicket when I read some work. My suspicion is that writers were so charmed by what they put on paper (which can include some wonderful plots and characters), that they couldn't see a need for rewriting. Or the words were too precious. Or they never read it out loud so they didn't notice the problems. Or they had ideas that made them feel vulnerable so they diluted them. Or they just got lazy. What comes across, sadly, is disrespect for readers (including editors).

I'm sure there are many other sins of omission and commission that could destroy opportunities for publication or derail a writing career. It's likely that I've missed your pet peeves. But, perhaps, some of these reflect a problem that hasn't been addressed yet in your own work. In which case, this blog might save some of your best work from extinction. That would make me happy.

Research: A Quick Guide for Fiction Writers

Last time, I noted that I haven’t offered much in this blog about research, which is a vital part of most fiction. It inspires incidents, sets up surprises, and adds to authenticity. I’ll dig in a bit on research without turning this into a course in library science.

Note: I’m talking about research for fiction here. There are no quick guides for nonfiction research.

My first step in research is always to write down everything I "know" about the subject. This can be a lot or a little, and sometimes bits of it are inaccurate. This serves two purposes.

First, it often reminds me of interesting facts that could be useful in the story. Once I have my notes, I usually go through them right away, highlighting those sections that thrill me. (Often, my imagination will kick in and I'll end up free associating or speculating.

Second, I get a good sense of the holes in my knowledge. Both areas that are totally unexplored or unknown and items about which I only have superficial knowledge.

I respond to what's missing and what I'm curious about with questions. Usually, these come bubbling out of me without much effort. But even if I’ve filled pages with questions that I'm eager to trace down for answers, I step back for what I call a "360 view." (This is actually inaccurate, since I don't just look around, I also look up and down.) For something like exploring a real city, I have "go to" questions such as finding out about the weather or what the biggest industries are or the distinctive neighborhoods (especially ethnic sectors). People are shaped by the land, the politics, the history, the work they do, the hierarchy, and the places they come together.

A specific story may need detailed information about some elements and have very little to do with others. Not all questions are equal.The important thing is to focus on questions that can lead to other questions and might provide surprises.

Once upon a time, I'd take my questions into a library and get lost. Now I tend to search on the Web and get lost there. I usually set a timer. Sometimes, it stops the research (especially if I've strayed too far from material related to the project). Sometimes, the timer gets reset because I’ve found a rich store of information.

Anything that's worth noting is worth saving what the source is. This allows me to go back and check for something I might've missed.

Even though this work is for fiction, I'm careful about confirming what pops up. Urban legends are pervasive and can lead to trouble in two ways. First, because they often include a seed of bigotry or malice. Second, because they are likely to be widely known, reducing the impact for readers and audiences. Overall, I don't want to mislead people, even if it's good storytelling. So, in addition to checking what I've learned, I'll check what I "know." It is not unusual for me to have accepted false ideas that are common knowledge or to have attached an idea to the wrong subject.

It is the evocative and little-known facts that enliven a story. If they can be woven in (and not force fit), they can provide delightful surprises. Connections between ideas and facts, especially between people, can it provide even deeper value to storytelling.

I think we’re all curious about relationships and how both power and support are expressed in communities. These are subtle and require time and thought to uncover, but they often provide insights into our own lives. That makes research into relationships invaluable to bringing more to a story than emotional experiences. (Though, I always try to provide rich emotional experiences with stories. Bradbury said that was why people read fiction to begin with.)

Occasionally, the research will offer up themes or suggest problems (like drug addiction) that can be investigated in a variety of ways. These often point to incidents that might be included, ideas that people will expect to see in a story, and, perhaps, ways to structure stories.

Now, I have seen people become too enamored with what they discover in research. It's good to remember that this isn't an essay or a polemic (or shouldn't be). Most research, no matter how engaging, probably shouldn't be included in the story. The same thing goes for falling in love with a theme or a structure too early for most writers. I do know some who avoid the pitfalls and are able to make including what they've learned feel organic to the story, but usually the result is something that slows story pacing to a crawl or draws attention to itself.

Overall, it's great if research is playful and fun, but not at the sacrifice of failing to go deeply enough into the important subject areas. And, fundamentally, what's included from research must serve the story. In my case, this means cutting out a lot of stuff I think is cool in later drafts. Usually, the stories are better for this, and the research, no matter how carefully kept for later, is forgotten. But sometimes, the stuff that gets cut out is so compelling, my imagination holds onto it, embroiders it, and presents it back to me as a new story. And that’s a delight.

 

Getting Your Hero or Heroine into Trouble

Almost any external force that could make someone a victim can create a hero or heroine – provided the character fights back. Numerous stories have been written about protagonists faced with floods or disease or invasion or (unjust) arrest or many other disasters that can launch a story. Each of these (and gentler variations like being targeted by a bully or injured in a car accident are attacked by a dog, etc. etc.) can knock your main character out of regular life and into the need to make changes or seek answers.

Flaws, including the Seven Deadly Sins, can lead to consequences that push protagonist to change as well, and, in these cases, the character probably will need to deal with both the cravings that led to disruption and the unfortunate results of bad choices.

Stories kicked off by outside forces depend upon research and good world building. Knowing how people respond in real life to similar situations, the options created, and the natural escalation of problems create outlines of your plots (which is why stories with similar circumstances often have expected turns in the stories). Stories kicked off by internal forces (flaws) depend upon characterization, the people around the character, community (including laws and traditions), and the traumas and fears that make change difficult.

The challenge for stories about outside forces is avoiding making the character too stupid to live and anything that makes them so much out of control they become victims. For stories about dealing with flaws, key challenges are making the character too stupid to live and creating a character who crosses the line into such foulness that it is difficult to empathize with him or her.

All stories risk disappointing audiences with anything that could be overly contrived or lead to a deus ex machina ending.

So… I've covered world building and flaws (many times) and empathizing with characters in previous posts. I haven't written a lot about research – the primary requirements there are asking good questions, knowing how to dig through references (or ask a librarian), and exploring in all directions to suitable depth of knowledge. Perhaps I'll cover research in a future post.

This post is about avoiding the "too stupid to live" problem. There is no failsafe for that. There's always the chance that a reader or audience member will be more knowledgeable than you are, smarter, or just ornery. Understanding that, the best defense is having a toolkit of excusable mistakes.

Betrayal. We like people to trust us, so, unless they are very naïve, we’re in their corner. If they confide in, believe, or count on another person they know or have a relationship with (friends, family, comrade), it'll feel like a good choice, not a foolish choice. That's true even if the story has included planted information that might have aroused suspicions. Added to this, is the emotional reaction to discovering a betrayal, which provides extra protection against concluding the character is stupid.

Assumptions. Most reasonable suppositions and expectations won't raise red flags. If a reader or audience shares the assumption, the character will be blamed. This can be manipulated in many ways. The most obvious is assuming that the world after the disruptive event is the same as it was before. So, for instance, the character might go on a journey thinking people in neighboring communities have the same norms and expectations. Assumptions can also be used for irony if, for instance, a character moves from a strange world to our own (or one we are familiar with).

This doesn't need to be all cultural. We fall for tricks that include what appear to be normal artifacts in magician’s kit box. And most people good shy away from a lighter built to look like a revolver.

Distractions. Once again, this depends on our common experiences. Everyone gets distracted., Confusing, threatening, beautiful, and big (loud, bright, etc.) experiences can make us lose track of our wallets, what we're talking about, and where our children are. Pickpockets work in teams successfully when they have one person bump the victim and another lift the money or jewelry at the same time.

Habits and coping mechanisms. We all have ways we react that are instantaneous and difficult to train ourselves away from. Even years after World War II was over, my uncle would hit the dirt whenever he heard a loud sound. If you get shot at enough, that reaction is automatic. I've known people who smiled at unpleasant and even tragic news (I suspect because inside they were screaming).

Many people respond to a raised open hand with a class but a handshake even when the person is gesturing for some other reason. Since we all have unthinking responses, we've all experienced moments of embarrassment and trouble because of them. We'll give the characters a pass. And, if you as the author are concerned, previewing the response in a situation where it is appropriate or benign before the scene where it leads to trouble can extend reader/audience acceptance.

Logic. For less simple mistakes, focusing on information that leads to the wrong conclusion (and trouble) will bring along most people with your character. Even when missed or misunderstood points might be seen in retrospect, a logic of the moment doesn't feel stupid.

This is not a comprehensive list, and some of these might be used in a story in combination. Just by imagining some scenes with these defenses against looking foolish, you should find that too stupid to live traps become more visible. In many cases, novel solutions will become obvious and save you from losing your readers and audiences. And that should give you more ways to get your characters into trouble and increase the worry and concern that holds their attention.

Upcoming Course

My A Task Approach to Efficient Writing runs May 1-31.

It provides a methodical approach to getting your writing done.

https://contemporaryromance.org/workshop/a-task-approach-to-efficient-writing/

 

 

Story Twists and Turns - Playing with expectations

Everyone has already seen everything, it seems. It would be hard to find a person over five who couldn't readily recognize hundreds of stories — whether they be from films, books, comics, games, or TV shows. How do you possibly write something that's fresh (or at least seems fresh) when readers and audiences have so much to compare your story to?

Chaplin recognized this problem. In fact, his advice was due this:

• Put a banana skin on the sidewalk.
• Keep the camera on it long enough for everyone to see and understand the peril it promises.
• Have your character (in this case the Tramp) walk down the sidewalk, and show that.
• Include a shot of the Tramp getting closer and closer to the banana peel.
• The audience fully expects him to slip on that peel and fall.
• So instead, he carefully and deliberately walks around it.
• Just as the audience heaves the sign of relief, the Tramp steps into a manhole.

All the expectations readers and audiences bring to the story you're presenting don't make clichés inevitable. The trick is to reverse expectations.

At the beginning of the pilot for TV's Scandal, it looks like Olivia has been suckered into a blind date. A bar. A man recommended by her friend. His offer to buy her a drink. She doesn't want to be on a blind date. So she tries to get out of it. He tells her it's a job interview. She calls him on it. She has applied for any jobs. He throws out the name of the one person she'd most want to work for, and he's convincing enough so she doesn't let him go away. She lets him buy her a drink. Finally, he admits that this is not a job interview at all. She has the job. She's already hired.

Now, those aren't "Luke, I'm your father," twists, but they break up the rhythm of what could've been a boring first day on the job orientation laden with exposition into moments of charm, fun, conflict, and surprise. Along with exposition.

The movie The Untouchables reverses expectation often. Think of the dying Irish cop (played by Sean Connery), who seems to be reaching for a religious medal in his last moments, but really is offering a key that will lead to taking down his murderer. Or the moment when Scarface's hitman gives himself up, knowing he won't really pay for his crime. Eliot Ness, the ultimate straight arrow, must bring him in and sacrifice true justice (and, honestly, get revenge) because he does not break rules. But, in that moment, rules don't matter to him, and he shoves the villain off the top of the building so he falls to his death.

The Usual Suspects destroys expectations with everything coming clear too late, in the last few minutes -- because the protagonist (and we) haven't looked closely enough. We've fallen for the con.

Of course, we want to fall for the con. That’s one of the key statements in the opening of The Prestige cleverly shows how magic tricks surprise and delight (with winking cooperation fro the audience). Playing with expectations is not a cheat… unless you cheat. So don’t lie. It’s fine to distract, but not to
Provide the right plants. No deus machina.

So, how is it done?

Understand what’s expected. This, of course, is important to avoid rewarming old ideas. But it also is key to have a clear idea about what is in the the minds of readers and audience members.

Usually, just sorting through ideas that come to mind first tells you what people will expect in a scene. But, if you don’t have a mind that immediately comes up with common approaches to what happens next, see if you can remember similar situations in older shows. Chances are some will feel very tired, and those are the ones to hold as likely expectations.

I’ve asked people about less than original choices in drafts they’ve written. Why did you choose this? It felt right. It felt comfortable. That’s what the audience expects.

Once you know what’s expected, find something unexpected. Playing with opposites is good. People expect the villain to be a man? Or the club bouncer? Make that character a woman. Created a cowardly special forces operative. Include a tiny man with a basso profundo voice. Defy gravity like Buster Keaton or Jackie Chan. So find something uncomfortable that works.

A class exercise I use is having people list animals. At least one of these —dog, cat, tigers, pig, cow, etc. — makes everyone’s top ten list. Some people have all of them. Insects sometimes show up in the next ten. Go further and weird stuff happens for most people. And this list approach is pretty reliable for solving story problems, too. Clichés run out.

Without cheating, suggest the expected will happen. That’s like putting the banana peel in plain sight on the sidewalk the Tramp is ambling down. Anything you can do to make people feel smart about sussing out the predictable sets up the surprise of the unexpected.

You may also use other characters to provide reactions to what the scene seems to be building toward. And later, to the surprise.

Reactions can buttress what you’ve created so the reversal is clearer. They can also take a form that is fresh.

Let’s look at an example. In a movie I saw years ago, a kid tried a clever dance step and fell. Good enough for a small laugh (since he didn’t get hurt). The kid swore (the reaction) when it happened. And since this was years ago, I remember the audience gave it a big laugh. They weren’t expecting profanity then. They probably would today.

Unexpected fall. Unexpected profanity. But it wouldn’t work today. So, what if his nice grandma, watching it swore. Would that be unexpected? Especially if she fit the stereotype for grandmas? Maybe. Maybe not in our times. What if she hit the person next to her who laughed at the grandson falling and swearing? Or bit him? Or, for some class, dressed him down with Shakespearean insults.

See if you can push the reactions into an odd space (without violating your story world) even further than the unexpected choice. Make fresh fresher.

So the sequence is identify the expected. Prep for the expected (and the unexpected so you’re playing fair). Reverse the expectation with something novel (but credible). Build in reactions (including fresh reactions.)

A few more thoughts:

Be open to possibilities. Sometimes life gives you a gift. When Guys and Dolls was put on at my son’s high school, the casting was a challenge. Big Jule was supposed to be large and intimidating. The role went to a tiny freshman, and he got the biggest laugh of the show.

Over the top can equal reversal. It might not be surprising if road rage led to a character tearing the windshield wipers off  another driver’s car. Or even slashing the tires. Murder happens, yes, so that would be an expected choice. But what if the raging person sets that other drivers car on fire. (Perhaps after apologizing and getting the other driver to step out to shake hands.)

Explore relationships. Even though we all act as part of communities, this is often neglected. At the extreme, good people are goaded into very bad behaviors by friends or in a mob. But this can be simple and elegant. The pilot of Hill Street Blues is standard in many ways, and the conflict between the police captain and the defense attorney was gloves off and unrelenting. In the last scene, the captain is cooling down from a hard day, getting into bed. With the defense attorney. Outside their day jobs, like many of us, they were different. And so was their relationship.

Surprise readers/audiences with who has the power. If we assume someone is the boss, and we’re wrong, it can be a big shock and force a reevaluation of the scene(s).

Make the familiar unfamiliar (and vice versa). SF revels in this. “The door dilated.” (Heinlein’s story Beyond the Horizon)

There are many more ways to play with expectations. Beyond feeling fresh, it can break the spell of thinking we already know and see everything. It can make a moment, a scene, and even a story memorable. It can be revealing, helping people observe life more closely or empathetically. And it can just be fun.

John Ritter starred in a short-lived series called Hooperman. The character was beset with everyday problems, and the first scene has him in a shower, his face full of shampoo… when the water stops. He’s stuck. Maybe he can get away with toweling most of it away. Instead, he steps out of the shower, pulls the lid off the toiled tank, and dunks his head in. Problem solved.

Creating Vulnerabilities in Powerful Characters

Last time, I concluded with a mention about making powerful characters vulnerable. If showing a character's vulnerabilities engages readers (and it does), it's worth exploring how to bring a character with talent or wealth or fame or position down-to-earth. Undermining a hero has a tradition that stretches back well beyond the creation of kryptonite to subdue Superman. Think of mythology’s gods or the knights, princesses, and princesses of folktales or the kings and nobles of Shakespeare's plays.

The classic (and perhaps best) way to make a powerful character vulnerable is to give him or her a serious flaw. We want them to overcome that flaw and, even if they don't succeed in achieving their goals, heal. I think of Walter White in Breaking Bad, and astoundingly powerful character, but highly flawed. I worried about him both when he was a doormat at the beginning and when he was supremely dangerous.

Another approach is to make a powerful character vulnerable through love of and connection to people with less power. Girlfriends, boyfriends, children, and neighbors are among the usual suspects.

Before going further, I'll offer some questions that might be useful in exploring a character’s vulnerabilities:

• Is his or her health/safety compromised or life in danger?
• Is his or her position, job, role, status, or reputation at risk?
• Are some important relationships less than secure?
• Is access to life's essentials (food, water, shelter, air) in jeopardy?
• Can their authority/power be undermined?
• Are his/her dreams, aspirations, peace of mind at risk of being destroyed?
• Could the character lose his/her freedom or have rights compromised?
• Are major supports (advisors, mentors, defenders, advocates) in harm's way?
• Are there threats to the characters integrity, morals, values, dignity, autonomy, or sanity?

Though (I hope) this list is helpful, it's incomplete. Really thinking about how people might be brought down and exploring human needs (see Maslow) can lead to fresh concerns about a character. And, of course, these get more interesting if they come in bunches and/or are connected in some way. It's especially interesting when pursuing a goal opens up a new vulnerability.

Back to the idea of piercing the armor of a powerful character, one place to look is narrowing options – especially those the character is apt to choose first. (And ignorance that that option has gone away, say through a betrayal, can lead to nasty surprises.) Sometimes a shadow can fall the character because a more competent or powerful character arrives on the scene, even if the new character isn't malicious.

One thing I like to do is change the risk calculation. Increase the price for an action that could benefit the protagonist, either by increasing the number of negative consequences or making one matter more. Position for all it is valued, can make life harder. A deacon in my church hit a common bump in mid-life when his marriage fell apart. A tough situation for most people became unbearable for him. He resigned and left town.

A character who is used to having it all to himself or herself can be challenge by something that forces sharing (of a friendship, a home, a job, etc.). This is common in comedy (e.g., The Odd Couple), but it can be used in other genres as well.

Powerful people also may be presented with difficulties we can empathize with if they have family, friends, or allies who suffer a loss a reputation (earned or not) and bring scandal to them.

Sometimes powerful protagonists can be hurt deeply by experiences that others would brushoff. If a wound or a trauma is part of the character's back story, they might be derailed or overreact to something that evokes a time of pain and vulnerability. Similarly, the character might have built a narrative that's important to maintaining power, but could be seen in a different way. A few facts (known or unknown), a witness, even something coincidental could put a new perspective on their life story, reshaping opinions and undermining trust.

Many of the challenges above can strike deeper than the external effects and what others think. The protagonist may be forced to grapple with his or her identity, which can shake or shatter a person. While it's always good in fiction (especially commercial fiction) to have things happening through action and conversations, I suspect most readers and audiences find themselves especially concerned about characters who move from confidence to being haunted. That won't work for every story, but it's always worthwhile to imagine what that would look like.

I’m reminded of Ophelia lamenting Hamlet’s insanity.

O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!

Make Me Worry MORE About Your Characters

When readers are truly worried about your characters, they keep turning the pages or watching the show. I've known that for a while, but I recently stumbled across a TV series that taught me something new.

Presenting a character's vulnerabilities on many levels compels people to stick with the story.

I've long known that concern for characters requires two things: People must empathize with the characters and the characters must be at risk. For the first, stories where a character does something noble (classically, saves a cat) are common, but there are other ways to build empathy. we empathize with wronged characters, with those who have an interesting talent, and with those who are funny, according to Damon Knight. There are other approaches, but, as a general rule, people want to empathize with the protagonist unless the actions and descriptions are boring or foul. You can't do anything about boring characters, but foul ones can be saved by adding positive traits.

For some authors, creating risks, dangers, and vulnerabilities is difficult. They are comfortable with exploring flaws, and they reflexively shy away from the chance that the characters could face real suffering. I found some success in counseling writers to focus on cravings as a way to include flaws. Suffering? Some people are too kindhearted, even though they'll admit that the challenges to a character are what promote growth and change (essential to most successful commercial fiction).

The show I came across was the original, Venezuelan version of The Cleaning Lady. In a half hour, the writers got me so agitated with concern about the protagonist I had to stand up and walk around to some my nerves. What they did was expose a series of vulnerabilities in the character. Her job is in jeopardy. Her boss is a soul-crushing bully. She has a critically ill son, and depends on a somewhat feckless mother to help care for him. Because she's so poor she has to work two jobs.

For her second job, she's employed by criminals. She witnesses a murder and is forced to destroy evidence. The detective in charge of the case is clever and suspects her as an accomplice right away. The criminals who hold both her employment and her life in their hands are messy and incompetent, inviting more attention from the law.

She's vulnerable in terms of family, safety, freedom, reputation, psychological health, and life. That's a lot to worry about. The attacks kept coming and the stakes shifted through a variety of possibilities… And I couldn't stop watching. I was reminded of Breaking Bad's pilot episode, where Walter White's health, family security, and dignity were all under assault. The pilot for My So-Called Life also exposes multiple vulnerabilities, even though it is a domestic drama with no focus on murders or criminal empires.

Cruising up and down Maslow's hierarchy, it's easy to say that life makes all of us vulnerable because we all have essential needs. The job of the writer is to create enough vulnerability to make a story compelling. So, if one vulnerability doesn't do it or doesn't create enough storylines, it's a good idea to add more. Personally, I went back to some of my stories and found some that already did a good job and others that immediately benefited from exploring more ways in which the protagonist could be made more vulnerable. Though I lean toward simplicity, my new rule of thumb is to see if presenting three or more vulnerabilities early in the story can make people (reasonably) worry more about my characters. (Shorter works don't usually need more than one vulnerability, so this is for longer works.)

Balancing all of this is the power the protagonist has. In an age of super heroes, it can be helpful to consider how reducing options and undermining the strengths of a character can make things more interesting. There is a reason why the creators of Superman invented kryptonite.

A Wealth of Emotions, and One That’s Special

The music of Ashokan Farewell moved me deeply when I watched Ken Burns’s Civil War years ago. Going sideways from friend’s post of the reservoir that lent it its name, I recently listened to the music with fresh ears. It churned up powerful emotions, undiminished by time. Yearning? Maybe. Regret? A hint of that. Nostalgia? A cousin of that, but richer and more authentic.

Since storytelling is underpinned by emotions, I dug deeper. I found 300+ Emotions and Feelings, a site that offers odd and familiar emotions, defined. I discovered some intriguing ones: 

Dépaysement (French): The disorienting feeling of being an outsider.

Duende (Spanish): The mysterious power we feel when a work of art deeply moves us.

Evighed (Danish): The felt eternity of the present moment.

As well as a couple that felt close:

Aware (Japanese): The bittersweetness of a brief, fading moment of transcendent beauty.

Wabi-sabi (Japanese): A state of acceptance of the imperfections in life and appreciating them as beautiful. Appreciating the flow of life.

The nearest match was this: Mono no aware (Japanese): An empathy toward impermanence of things and both a transient gentle sadness (or wistfulness) at their passing as well as a longer, deeper gentle sadness about this state being the reality of life.

Close enough. The definition cued, George Harrison’s All Things Must Pass, which gives me something of the mono no aware feeling, especially since George died. Have I experienced it outside of music? I think so. Dead Poets Society (ignoring the crowd-pleasing standing on the desks in the finale) gives me the feeling. Especially since Robin Williams died.

That led me to think about happy endings. I prefer them as a reader, an audience member, and a writer. I’ve stopped reading work from people I truly admire when they got too bleak. But this mono no aware is neither happy nor bleak. It isn’t quite tragedy (which is much too scarce in popular culture). It leans toward bittersweet.

The feeling is also persistent, surviving repeated experiences in music and stories. As much as I love The Wizard of Oz, I can’t watch it anymore because the joy at the end is just a shadow for me of what it once was. The same is true for the upbeat ending of Star Wars (A New Hope) and a dozen other former favorites. It would be an eccentric but wonderful triumph to write something with such a deep and lasting emotional impact.

Have I ever created the feeling in my work? A short story turned short script of mine, Waverly, came to mind. It was inspired by a scene that struck me deeply as a child. In the Van Johnson version of The Pied Piper of Hamelin, the unpaid Piper lures the children away from town, through a crack he creates in the mountain (at about 1hr 7 min). One disabled boy can’t keep up with the others and, when the mountain closes, is left as the only child left in Hamelin. This level of exclusion resonated with me as a child.

Though I doubt I felt mono no aware as a small child, that’s what the memory created for me over time. I think, over the years, it was transformed into a sense of loss of the younger me. The feeling (I hope) is created in Waverly. Is it possible to provide a guide to creating the feeling in prose?

This is my attempt:

• The character must lose something.
• It must be precious. The loss must leave a mark.
• Time must pass, enough so the broken character can be remade.
• The character must understand that the loss brought a gain.
• While still holding onto the melancholy of deep loss, the character must be grateful for the time before the loss, the healing, and the ability to assimilate the truth revealed.

Of course, this pattern needs to be followed sincerely. The story needs to be personal in some way. I can’t imagine conveying this emotion with out feeling it. The prose must be impeccable, creating as few distractions as possible. That kind of writing requires a lot of rewriting, and here’s something surprising. The feeling is as resilient for the writer as it is for readers and audiences.

I’m hoping I’ll become more conscious of mono no aware in life and art. And, though I still have happy endings in my future, I’ll be making more room for this special emotion.

Characters Acting and Reacting

Someone told me that the best way to remember someone is to visualize them doing something. I found it to be extremely useful as I’ve tried to recall relatives and friends who are lost or no longer part of my life. Sometimes, I get images of a gradient gardening or a friend playing catch with me or a neighbor from years ago walking his dog. But at other times, my mind simply shows people turning to face me or breaking into a smile.

No matter how complex or simple such action is, there is often a release of places, events, distinctive mannerisms, and even hearing words spoken. I use such memory mining to open up my past and deliver moments for my own amusement or to provide models for characters and situations in my stories. The process can work in reverse, too, as I conjure up scenes and am reminded of real events that have parallels.

Now, when I am deliberately creating or exploring characters, my primary approach is to interview the characters. But it's amazing how often visualizing them acting (or reacting) pays off in ways I don't expect.

Obviously, watching a character as he or she participates in the scene both provides material for what transpires and deepens my understanding of who he or she is. That's analogous to see my neighbor walk his dog. The problem is, with something that's imagined, it's necessary to look closer. 

It is amazingly easy for someone who has read a lot of books or watched a lot of television or movies to grab clichés for character action. It takes some discipline to make every scene original, even though it may feel new within the context of a story that's being composed. One of the most powerful questions to ask when a character is in motion is, have I seen this before?

It's easy to assume the details, too. Remembering something that's experienced will make unusual details stand out. Imagining those specifics can be more challenging in fiction. (One reason I like writing fantasy and science fiction is, to do it well, even the most mundane elements need to be re-examined.)

When a character is visualized turning toward me or breaking into a smile, those actions are so common, originality becomes essential to cueing the mental cascade of mannerisms, places, sounds, etc. that I get with real memories. That means there is an automatic check against drifting into clichés. The question I use when asking a character to look at me or smile is, but what’s new and authentic here?

Of course, character can come across under pressure. That's how I usually apply my questions, and it works with actions and reactions as well. Forcing an innocent character to shoplift or an evil one to share a bag lunch or almost anyone to walk through the woods at night without a flashlight can bring out quirks and flaws and hidden virtues that otherwise might go undiscovered.

More and more, I've found that characters in combination expose a lot of who they are (even if there shielding their vulnerabilities with dishonesty). But, just as actions that commonly show up in stories need to be challenged, action/reaction moments can't be accepted as they first appear in my imagination. 

There have been times when I have needed to rerun scenarios a dozen times before they felt fresh. Two characters digging a grave together might go full Sopranos cliché on me, while the action/reaction of the same two characters digging a garden might provide surprises. (This scene from All in the Family is my favorite example of two characters revealing themselves through a mundane action.) Of course, if the grave digging is under extreme stress, say with two teenagers who are strangers to each other burying the body of someone one of them accidentally killed, it could get interesting quickly.

With actions/reactions, you don't have to use two characters from the same story. You actually can introduce a stranger or a real person or a character from someone else's work. (Reminder — don't include recognizable real people or characters under copyright in your stories.) Creating such scenes may open amazing and unanticipated images and ideas.

Giving your full attention to any scenes with characters acting and reacting provides real value even if the scenes don't end up in your stories. Most people come to fiction for good characters, and creating full and authentic characters requires a real investment in the process. But there is a dividend beyond audience approval. As these characters come to life for you, the storytelling will become easier and a lot more fun.

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I'm teaching an online course, exploring The Promise of the Premise, beginning March 7.

 

Inviting Readers into Your Stories

I write to accommodate my audiences. With nonfiction, that has been varied, from six-graders to PhDs. From salespeople to poets. From accountants to Disney Imagineers. And, of course, I address a lot of very different audiences with my fiction.

If you don’t set the tone, the vocabulary, pacing, and the interests areas correctly, people may still pay attention, but they’ll have barriers. They will be spectators more than participants. They won’t feel invited in.

I expect everyone feels that way at times. A lot of academic work pushes me to the side, and a big piece of my education (formal and informal) has been learning to expand the circle in which I feel comfortable. Today, I calibrate myself to reading. It takes a few pages for me to get past the language and be immersed in Shakespeare. I need a running start for Brecht, too. 

I’ve learned to move myself past the artificiality of screenplays, so much so that I’ve had to be reminded that they are “white noise” for some readers. (Although someone as brilliant as Frank Darabont, who wrote the screenplay for The Shawshank Redemption, may draw in readers with his elegant style.)

The point is that while we may be able to participate in many areas as readers, it’s important to lower the barriers and invite in those we hope with be audiences for our writing. That means first and foremost knowing who you are writing for. 

For speeches, I always talk to the sponsor asking what was the worst speech to this audience. Then I ask what was the best. But my go-to for all of my writing, I imagine a specific person I’m writing to. (I can always name the person who’s my first audience.) That sets the initial tone, vocabulary, pacing, and interest areas because I can easily imagine reactions along the way.

It takes some doing. Practice, especially storytelling and reading work aloud to people may help if it doesn’t come naturally.

Easier, and often neglected, is what the text looks like on a page. Screenwriters know this, and there are many articles about “white space” and balancing description/action with dialogue. Many novelists consciously break work up with short passages of dialogue (often in rewrites) so readers aren’t faced with a dense page of text.

I can remember coming across a short story I was excited to read because it was by one of my favorite authors, a lyrical stylist who appealed to my ear as much as my head. But not, for this story, my eye. His paragraphs were four or five times longer than for his typical stories, and I labored through the work the first time through. It was only later I realized he’d made it difficult on purpose because the protagonist was suffering in prison.

There are good reasons for making stories uninviting. Showing mania and obsession, especially when in builds, is just one. Often, incantation, rhythm, repetition, and all sorts of poetic approaches can make dense prose engaging and pull even reluctant readers in as surely as I know Shakespeare will grab me.

However, if you don’t have a specific purpose for making your work uninviting for your readers, it’s probably better to serve them in rewrites that simplify reading. That means making paragraphs one topic each and less than a standards (Times New Roman, 12 point, double-spaced) page. It means avoiding sentences that take on too many ideas and run beyond two independent clauses. (Generally, vary length and keep under 40 words.) Break the page up with dialogue, and ration the monologues. Dialogue is inviting when, by just looking at the pages, you can see the back and forth than implies purpose and conflict rather than exposition.

Parallel construction can provide relief because it suggests comparison. Description, going from big to small (neighborhood, house, kitchen) or general to specific (soldiers, officers, General Patton) also help readers. (Going from small to big and specific to general can work, too.) For a character, balancing experience with reflection provides a good way to get readers to identify.

And for all of these, break things up were it makes sense.

One more thing. Be cautious with the omniscient narrator. As much as I love this point of view in literature, it tends to be distancing and difficult to do well. When in doubt, use third person limited (unless you’re writing young adult fiction, which often uses first person).

Action and dialogue for individual characters can be combined in paragraphs (reducing the need for he/she said) successfully. And there are games that can be played with punctuation (m dashes, ellipses, and italics). 

Good contemporary writers come up with a lot of devices, and it’s becoming more common to see Texting in stories. I haven’t seen anyone recreate Zoom calls in stories, but I supposes someone has. This is new, but not breakthrough. The use of quotes and artifacts (like descriptions of video and clips from newspapers) have been used a long time in stories. 

You are not limited, but you are responsible for those you invite into your stories. (Or choose to discourage.)

Creating Quirky Characters for Your Stories

My mind is populated by less by the heroes of stories and more by the quirky characters who add color, humor, and strangeness. Dickens was my on-ramp to these weirdos, and his work provides many examples, from the obsequious and ‘umble Uriah Heep to the implacable Madame Defarge to the unmoored Miss Haversham to the garrulous Alfred Jingle.

Those kind of high-relief characters often provide a lot of the fun, but also pathos. I think of the Weasley twins in Harry Potter whose pranks provide relief, but who are deeper than their jokes. (The Weasley family has always reminded me of the Cratchit family, but more fun.) From dramas like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest to sitcoms (I think of Taxi), quirky characters provide essential ingredients.

What defines a quirky character? The answers are infinite, so I’ll offer a few common examples:

• They may be people with obsessions or cravings they can’t control, but it’s often in a small way (a pickpocket, not a bank robber). If they are aggressive, they rarely actually hurt anyone other than themselves.
• A fish out of water is quirky because their habits, customs, and appearances are out of place. Think Crocodile Dundee.
• There are delusional characters who imagine they are Lotharios or geniuses when they aren’t. In fact, people with false beliefs undermine their own best interests (pursuing imaginary, impossible goals or avoiding opportunities because of superstitions).
• Many are damaged and can’t move on from the harm. Often these, unlike most quirky characters, have out-sized power. On a lesser scale, they could be cowards or fools or gossips.
• Some create a deceit about themselves they believe is invisible to others (and it isn’t) or are successfully deceptive (making many of their choices inexplicable until the secret is revealed.
• Characters like Sherlock Holmes and Raymond Babbitt (Rain Man) are neurodiverse and face challenges in trying to fit in.
• The list goes on. Oddballs and pests. Characters who need protection and others who charge in at the worst moments. Schlemiels and schlimazels.

Almost all comedies include quirky characters since one quality of most comedies is putting the audience in a superior position. Quirky characters have been created (and looked down on) in a deliberate way at least as far back as the creation of the commedia dell'arte characters about 500 years ago. But beyond humor, quirks and quirky characters may be used to:

• create obstacles for the protagonist (Charlie Babbitt)
• present an inclusive environment (think of depressive Eeyore in Winnie the Pooh)
• illustrate the consequences of bad choices and, perhaps, forgiveness (Ralph Kramden)
• challenge societal norms (The Little Tramp, Forrest Gump)
• humanize a hero (snake-phobic Indiana Jones)
• break rhythms and patterns in a story (characters who have panic attacks or get completely distracted at inconvenient moments)
• create immovable objects (let the wookie win)

An easy way to create an oddball character is to use what’s above to build a character who’s quirky (or modify one you have who isn’t). Or you can recall people you’ve met or know now who are eccentric and amplify their weirdness. Nowadays, mine tend to appear within stories as I write them (so recognizing them has value). And since interviewing characters is part of my development process, they often give themselves away to me when they provide unexpected answers.

I think of that quote “we all have that one friend.” I think it’s true, and, whether they are endearing or exasperating or both, they are memorable. So writers who include quirky characters do more than generate more plot options, they also create the possibility of making their stories memorable.

Justice in Storytelling

We have a deep sense of fairness. It's in our genes. Even monkeys, if they see that another monkey is getting paid in grapes while they are getting paid in cucumber bits, will go on strike.

Obviously, the search for justice is almost always involved in legal dramas. Police dramas can be more complicated, especially if there's a level of corruption. (Though even something as straightforward as The Fugitive has the memorable exchange, "I didn't kill my wife." "I don't care.") Playing fair as usually a big component of sports dramas. Tragedies often turn on a lack of fairness because of unjust systems (especially with social dramas). A major part of romances is the so-called "grand gesture."

A grand gesture has a specific structure. First, it needs to come from the character who goes through the most change (usually, the man in a romance). Second, it has to involve a level of admission of a flaw and a real sacrifice. Third, grand gestures and romances often take place in a public setting.

If all of those elements are present in a grand gesture, it's usually satisfying. Justice is served. We don't have to accept cucumber bits.

There are interesting correlations between the grand gesture and the Catholic form of confession. A "good confession" requires reflection, sorrow, admission of culpability, penance (which is usually prescribed prayer, but may include reparations for a sin like theft), and forgiveness.

I think romance readers often provide most of the reflection on a flaw than the character making the grand gesture does. Much of this is set up by the author, of course. The sorrow is evident in the price being paid — the character losing the love of his/her life, seemingly forever.

The admission is usually an explicit part of the grand gesture, along with an apology. Unless and less there is a symbolic element (which may be the character, say, wearing a costume that implies admission and apology), the culpability and regret are expressed explicitly. When/where the sacrifice is may vary in a grand gesture. Sometimes it's seen in letting go of a reward that's within the characters grasp. Other times, it's the run through the airport or battling guards to reach the character’s true love. And, in romances, there will be enough forgiveness to allow a happy ending.

There may be something else as well – humiliation. In Jerry Maguire, Jerry's statement is presented in front of a group of women whose main purpose seems to be discussing the foibles of men. Jerry is the only man there, and the crowd is decidedly unsympathetic to begin with. He needs to face their anger and disdain, and it's undoubtedly a humiliating experience. (But, hey, it's Tom Cruise.)

In romance, there's usually healing as well, with a better path evident (and often shown a scene or two later). We tend to hope for healing in justice, but it's not always part of the deal. Few police procedurals carried the story through to a reintegration of the criminal into the larger society. Punishment is enough.

But back to humiliation. It's a kind of punishment that is so often part of stories that the phrase "creative humiliation of the villain" has become a maxim in advice to storytellers. This is especially true in stories where there's a big difference in power. Bring down someone who is in authority (and using it unfairly) or who is not living up to an exalted reputation, and punishment or healing may not be enough. We want something equivalent to a perp walk, preferably including manacles.

To me, this goes too far in some stories. The more the villain's humanity is taken away, the more simplistic the story becomes. Often, true justice can be undercut when a character is dehumanized.

Revenge fantasies not only indulge in this brutalization of the character, they require it. Whatever the villain has done, that he/she is unforgivable. Everything must be taken away from him/her. The death must be gruesome. The bad guy must be unmourned. There is no necessity for healing, and justice is beside the point.

We all want justice. Some want revenge. So it's good to know who your audience is as you work toward a satisfying ending. Personally, I lean toward stories that have justice and healing, and I assess my drafts by looking at the elements above that can satisfy the urge for justice without undercutting the humanity of villains. With that said, many big, popular successes sacrifice justice in the name of getting even and ending with a bang.

Sharpen Your Stories by Exploring What Characters Fear

Guidance on storytelling almost always includes a focus on goals. On the secondary level, wants and needs are explored. But fear is often ignored, even though it offers opportunities for understanding values, doubts, "bad" choices, unlikely alliances, and even humor.

On the last, anyone who is obsessed with movies (as I am) knows that Indiana Jones is afraid of snakes. This fear humanizes him, making him less of a super man. It's funny when a man who faces outrageous odds and isn't fazed panics in the presence of snakes. But that fear is also used to demonstrate a kind of Hemingway-esque courage when he faces down a room full of snakes in an Egyptian tomb.

Fear can also be used to explain bad decisions. My favorite is in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, where Sundance isn't afraid of an impossible cliff dive because of the height. He's afraid and refuses because he can't swim.

Many stories turn on unlikely alliances between people who need to cooperate to avoid otherwise certain death. Their motivation doesn't even need to be explained. And this is true for many other fears that are strong and most of us, such as fear of humiliation or abandonment/expulsion (or even being rejected by a clique).

Because all this comes so naturally, it's understandable that fear isn't featured by some story gurus. But I found that fear has a real advantage in solving one of the problems I often face when teaching. People just don't want to identify flaws in their protagonists. Some say any real flaws (like the Seven Deadly Sins) make their protagonists unlikable — despite recognizing that many of their favorite characters in fiction have such flaws.

On another level, I suspect that some writers identify so deeply with their protagonists they feel personally threatened by any exploration of weaknesses. And here's where fears have a real advantage. It's a lot easier for most people to talk about protagonists's fears than their flaws. Why? It may be that admitting fears doesn't challenge core beliefs. It's easier to admit to fearing poverty than it is to acknowledge a tendency towards greed. In the musical, The Unsinkable Molly Brown, Molly says, "it's not the money I love, it's the not having it I hate."

Exploring fear allows discovering a deeper understanding of flaws from a safe distance. (Of course, fear of snakes, spiders, heights, flying, etc. provides even more distance from the real vulnerabilities in a character or a writer.)

How do you do this? Identifying fears is easy enough. There are plenty of lists online of phobias or you can find them from your own experience or just think of some favorite characters and what they fear. For your story, it's important to have a sense of how that fear fits in. The second Indiana Jones movie shows the origin of Indy's fear of snakes, and that can be useful. 

Poverty, trauma, losing a parent, and more will tend to both provide deep (and even irrational) fears and suggest a larger context that fills out the character. And many fears simply match the circumstances of the character. A small, relatively weak character is more likely to fear bullies than a large powerful character would.

So, finding of fear, making sure it's appropriate to the character, making sure there is a context and perhaps a back story provides a good basis for the next step — writing a scene where the fear is active. This can involve the character avoiding the fear or overcoming the fear, but it's helpful if the character is able to form a strategy to deal with the situation.

Also, it’s tremendously valuable to include the emotional and physiological reactions to the fear. Many people get angry when they are afraid. Others get quiet and retreat within themselves. Some run away and some attack. Some gain power in some lose it. Swearing, sweating, laughing, blaming, getting inventive, and pleading for help are all human reactions to fear. How does your character react? And by writing the scene, rather than just listing bullet points, a lot can be learned that feeds into other scenes.

Living through the fear with the character's amazingly powerful tool. So, even if the "fear scene" doesn't belong in the story, it's worth the trouble to create it.

It can be worthwhile to test the fear in a number of ways. People will respond to a fear and reveal themselves differently when they are alone or when they are with friends or when they are among enemies or strangers. They'll respond differently to a threat when they know it's coming from the way they'll react when the thing they fear most comes out of nowhere. (Comic relief is often used to manipulate the fear of audiences by getting them to put their guard down. Think of how often something funny happens before a big scare in a horror movie.)

Stakes also make a difference. People will face tremendous fears to do something attached to the principles or people that mean the most to them. I suspect most people would sacrifice themselves for the children, for instance. And history is filled with tales of courageous soldiers who gave their lives for their peers or their country and with martyrs to die for the sake of their faith.

I have not exhausted all possibilities, story-wise , that come from exploring the fears of characters. My hope is that some of the examples I've offered will open some doors that will add richness to what you're writing.

Here a question arises: whether it is better to be loved than feared, or the reverse. The answer is, of course, that it would be best to be both loved and feared. But since the two rarely come together, anyone compelled to choose will find greater security in being feared than in being loved. . . . Love endures by a bond which men, being scoundrels, may break whenever it serves their advantage to do so; but fear is supported by the dread of pain, which is ever present.

                                                                                                                            Machiavelli