One of my principles is that writing should be fun. It is also, inevitably, frustrating, challenging, surprising, revelatory, therapeutic, disappointing, embarrassing, and rewarding. In short, like all human activities, a mix of the mundane and the marvelous. However, it’s a creative act, and therefore can be interfered with and even halted by negative emotions. In particular, writers are vulnerable to fear, so I’m taking on that emotion for a series of posts.
From idea development through to signing off on galleys, I've seen writers twisted out of shape by fear. Fear can cause them to look for distractions, including research, housework, and alcohol. Fear can become anger leading to battles with editors or agents or collaborators. Sometimes fear just leaves writers frozen, looking at a blank page with no idea (or too many ideas) on how to move forward.
Through my teaching, workshopping with writers, and my personal experiences, I put together a list of seven fears that can cut into productivity or quality for writers. These are:
Fear of performing — Performance anxiety doesn’t need an audience. All by yourself, when you face a blank screen or a fresh sheet of paper, you can be overwhelmed by an sense you won’t be able to put words together that make sense, change minds, or move readers. There are special instances of this, such as the inability to respond to a pressing deadline. Or to be funny on command.
Fear of commitment — Every decision (and there are many in writing (precludes other choices). To work on a short story is to not work on a feature film script. When you select a protagonist, a hundred characters in your head, vying for attention, are silenced. The direction of a story can be changed by a scene, a paragraph, a line of dialogue, or a single word.
Fear of qualifications — Who gave you permission to tell the story you’ve chosen? Are you the right author, the best author? Do you have the right education? Are you blinded by your own perspective or guilty of cultural appropriation? Hasn’t it already been done better by Shakespeare, Flannery O’Connor, or Mickey Spillane?
Fear of conflict — Will this upset people? Will you cause your character to suffer? Is your protagonist too mean? Could anyone love your flawed hero? Isn’t this going too far?
Fear for your reputation — What if your mom read this? Won’t people think this happened to you? How could you have such evil thoughts?
Fear of pain — Won’t this trigger a dormant trauma? Is the real story underneath this safe scene too much for you? Will writing this scene give you nightmares? Can you spend months or years living in a story that makes you feel awful? Can you handle the truth?
Fear of failure — What if no one understands this story? What if it bores them? What if it is misread? What if the story comes across as incompetent, foolish or trite? What if the story succeeds and changes your life?
Fear is not always a bad thing. Sometimes it's a genuine warning that it's not time yet to move on with the story. Or it could be that a poor choice was made along the way, that needs to be corrected. I've had times when fear has been a good indicator that it was time to take a break or get some emotional distance from a scene or a sequence. It is even possible, in cases where someone else is involved in the creative work, that some sort of misunderstanding, incompatibility, or betrayal may be at hand.
Listening to fear can be smart at times. It's worthwhile when writers find themselves seeking distractions or blocked or bewildered by the possibilities in front of them or in conflict with others that they set aside time to calmly explore what's going on. For me, that usually means just writing down words about what I'm feeling and my concerns. Eventually this leads to articulating specifics and creating a clearer picture of what's happening and how I need to respond. Sometimes this validates the fear. More often, it directs me toward putting anxieties into a context that helps me move the writing forward.
For each the seven fears, I'll provide examples and descriptions aimed at recognizing the fears that can hamper your writing. In some cases, fear can hide behind other emotions, like anger, so I’ll discuss ways to trace back to the scary stuff and isolate what’s prompting fear and what risks it’s highlighting. With a clearer idea of what’s going on (not always simple, since some fears combine or show up in unexpected circumstances), I’ll offer some options, even possible solutions. Finally, for those who want to be resilient writers, I’ll point to exercises and habits that can help prevent fear from taking hold.
Writers talk a lot about fear. Symptoms include complaints about the doubt monster and blocks. The rewriting blues. Abandoned manuscripts. Carping about editors and unfair reviews. Jealousy. And escaping through distractions, addictions, and surrender. I think every writer needs the support of other people. It can be friends or relatives or other artists. It may be a therapist. But I think an essential element is fresh perspectives on fears writers face, and that’s what this series will offer.
Friday, February 28, 2020
Thursday, February 20, 2020
Playing with Time - Putting story transitions to work
Handling time efficiently is a requirement for good writing.
Film and TV scripts compress time. An athlete wriggles into a jersey. Ties a shoe. Slams his locker shut. And the next thing we see is him running onto the field. The illusion of his preparing for the game is created with a few fragments.
Or, in older movies, time moves forward as the hands of a clock run fast or the pages of a calendar are blown off one-by-one, by a wind.
Novels and books have their own transitions, explicit (days later…) and implied (an blank line or ***). Lighting cues may do the job in stage plays.
These approaches lean heavily on conventions at times, and that’s acceptable in the name of clarity. Unless the device is very out of date, like 70s split screens, audiences and readers go along without a second thought. (And, if you have great skill, like the creators of the Fargo TV series, you can even get away with split screens.)
But… once clarity is achieved, it’s worth considering taking things further. In particular, including emotional content is the first place I look. As an example, scraping a name off a glass door was often a way to show the (often unseen) result of a power struggle and introduce a new regime. (Both The Maltese Falcon and Chinatown include this trope.) Recently, I saw a movie where that bit didn’t just show the change in power. The protagonist had presented himself as a nice guy, but his joy at the removal of the name revealed him as someone who could celebrate of the fall of a rival. The raw ambition and lack of empathy on the part of the character disturbed me and changed my attitude toward him.
Time may be shown by characters clearly aging. But such a sequence can also use change in attire to show increasing or decreasing wealth. Or, for a couple, going from holding hands to having physical distance between them lets an audience know their relationship is growing colder.
Before and after shots can extend to landscapes. It’s a common feature in online news stories to show wipe pictures of disasters. Such comparisons show change that is heartbreaking. In a reversal, The Biggest Little Farm presents before and after over and over again in ways that are joyful and life affirming.
Your story's requirements to show the passage of time are filled with opportunities to incorporate emotion, new perspectives, power shifts, and poignancy. Babies are born. People die. We say goodbye to winter by starting spring. People heal. Bakeries open or close.
What can you use to touch people or make a point? Include witnesses, winners, and losers. Find something common, like letting go of a child’s hand for the first day of school. And make the event specific. Imagine one image that tells it all. Or two images (before and after). Echo an earlier moment in the story, and add something.
In film, you can put in a title card that explicitly tells the date and place. And, of course, some prose works do this as well. It gets the job done, and it often adds to the tone. But it’s worth exploring less easy ways to show time that may reveal more about your characters and their stories.
Film and TV scripts compress time. An athlete wriggles into a jersey. Ties a shoe. Slams his locker shut. And the next thing we see is him running onto the field. The illusion of his preparing for the game is created with a few fragments.
Or, in older movies, time moves forward as the hands of a clock run fast or the pages of a calendar are blown off one-by-one, by a wind.
Novels and books have their own transitions, explicit (days later…) and implied (an blank line or ***). Lighting cues may do the job in stage plays.
These approaches lean heavily on conventions at times, and that’s acceptable in the name of clarity. Unless the device is very out of date, like 70s split screens, audiences and readers go along without a second thought. (And, if you have great skill, like the creators of the Fargo TV series, you can even get away with split screens.)
But… once clarity is achieved, it’s worth considering taking things further. In particular, including emotional content is the first place I look. As an example, scraping a name off a glass door was often a way to show the (often unseen) result of a power struggle and introduce a new regime. (Both The Maltese Falcon and Chinatown include this trope.) Recently, I saw a movie where that bit didn’t just show the change in power. The protagonist had presented himself as a nice guy, but his joy at the removal of the name revealed him as someone who could celebrate of the fall of a rival. The raw ambition and lack of empathy on the part of the character disturbed me and changed my attitude toward him.
Time may be shown by characters clearly aging. But such a sequence can also use change in attire to show increasing or decreasing wealth. Or, for a couple, going from holding hands to having physical distance between them lets an audience know their relationship is growing colder.
Before and after shots can extend to landscapes. It’s a common feature in online news stories to show wipe pictures of disasters. Such comparisons show change that is heartbreaking. In a reversal, The Biggest Little Farm presents before and after over and over again in ways that are joyful and life affirming.
Your story's requirements to show the passage of time are filled with opportunities to incorporate emotion, new perspectives, power shifts, and poignancy. Babies are born. People die. We say goodbye to winter by starting spring. People heal. Bakeries open or close.
What can you use to touch people or make a point? Include witnesses, winners, and losers. Find something common, like letting go of a child’s hand for the first day of school. And make the event specific. Imagine one image that tells it all. Or two images (before and after). Echo an earlier moment in the story, and add something.
In film, you can put in a title card that explicitly tells the date and place. And, of course, some prose works do this as well. It gets the job done, and it often adds to the tone. But it’s worth exploring less easy ways to show time that may reveal more about your characters and their stories.
Tuesday, February 11, 2020
Obituaries for Your Characters - A good way to keep the ensemble straight in your mind
How do you encapsulate the story of your character’s life in just a few words.? I found hints for this while exploring the topic of how to write an obituary. That led me to some intriguing (and sometimes heart-breaking) obituaries. The best bring more than facts. They stick in you memory. They bring a part of the person back to life.
To me, that seemed like a good way to lodge my characters in my mind in a different way. So I began writing obituaries of my characters. It was not a morbid exercise. It was a way to celebrate how real they were becoming for me. A way to share their travails, stumbling, successes, and happy endings. (Yes, I gave them ALL happy endings. Even the villains.) They were notes from my heart.
The payoff was that, even in an ensemble piece I was writing with eleven equally important people, I got hooks that helped with storytelling. My characters each have their own needs, perspectives, strategies, and voices. And I don’t need to look at references to keep them straight.
So here are the four elements of an obituary, as modified by my explorations into the best, most engaging ones. They provide a map you can follow (or digress from) for your own characters. And I’ve provided one I wrote for one story’s hero as an example.
Death Announcement
This includes the date (which sets the character in time), location (space), and cause of death (often skipped in real obituaries, but good to put into fictional ones).
Family
This orients the character in terms of relationships. It can provide a context that implies responsibilities (legal, financial, emotional), losses (predeceased) and choices (divorces). It can also be a place to include something about friends.
Biographical Details & Personal Observations
This is the big one. The goal is to illustrate who this person is in a few memorable words. There great thing is you always have a starting point, basic facts like where the character was born and something about employment. That can make it easier to come up with the observations, which are invaluable. I will write about 250 words and cut it down to 75-150. That’s brief enough to add clarity to the character.
When I get stuck, I give the job to another character — either one who would not want to offend the subject of the obituary or one who uses it for revenge. (The latter can have a lot of power.)
Funeral Arrangements
This can be dry, but this subject does point to beliefs, religion, and family obligations. The “in lieu of flowers” part may be the most revealing.
Sample (created to explore my character):
Bertolan Olah, 74, died of natural causes on Friday, May 6, 2022, at Reynards Assisted Living Center.
Though Bertolan often spoke of his brothers and other family members, no information about his relatives is available at this time.
Bertolan was born behind the Iron Curtain in Nádudvar, Hungary. Most of the men in his family fought in World War II. His uncle died in the unsuccessful Hungarian Revolution. His father emigrated at that time, and he and his brothers became adept at trading, ultimately founding an import-export firm that still exists today. He emigrated to Rockville, Maryland. to retire, having already made many US friends through his business endeavors. He was often seen at embassy functions, where he gravitated toward American politicians.
He said, “Accept favors when offered. Return them as you can." Having lost an arm during military service, Bertolan pushed himself to be independent when he could. He learned to type fifty words per minute with one hand. But he also found relying on others created lifelong bonds with others. While at Reynards, he became known as the one to talk to if you have a yen for fancy chocolate, herbal cigarettes, or hard-to-get publications.
His wake will be held on June 9 at Reynalds Funeral Home. His friends at Reynards Assisted Living plan to hold a memorial service later this year.
Note: It might be fun to try this first for a character from someone else’s work: Captain Ahab or Tom Sawyer or Molly Bloom. Also, while real obituaries are rigorously factual (used to train reporters), yours can be full of lies.
To me, that seemed like a good way to lodge my characters in my mind in a different way. So I began writing obituaries of my characters. It was not a morbid exercise. It was a way to celebrate how real they were becoming for me. A way to share their travails, stumbling, successes, and happy endings. (Yes, I gave them ALL happy endings. Even the villains.) They were notes from my heart.
The payoff was that, even in an ensemble piece I was writing with eleven equally important people, I got hooks that helped with storytelling. My characters each have their own needs, perspectives, strategies, and voices. And I don’t need to look at references to keep them straight.
So here are the four elements of an obituary, as modified by my explorations into the best, most engaging ones. They provide a map you can follow (or digress from) for your own characters. And I’ve provided one I wrote for one story’s hero as an example.
Death Announcement
This includes the date (which sets the character in time), location (space), and cause of death (often skipped in real obituaries, but good to put into fictional ones).
Family
This orients the character in terms of relationships. It can provide a context that implies responsibilities (legal, financial, emotional), losses (predeceased) and choices (divorces). It can also be a place to include something about friends.
Biographical Details & Personal Observations
This is the big one. The goal is to illustrate who this person is in a few memorable words. There great thing is you always have a starting point, basic facts like where the character was born and something about employment. That can make it easier to come up with the observations, which are invaluable. I will write about 250 words and cut it down to 75-150. That’s brief enough to add clarity to the character.
When I get stuck, I give the job to another character — either one who would not want to offend the subject of the obituary or one who uses it for revenge. (The latter can have a lot of power.)
Funeral Arrangements
This can be dry, but this subject does point to beliefs, religion, and family obligations. The “in lieu of flowers” part may be the most revealing.
Sample (created to explore my character):
Bertolan Olah, 74, died of natural causes on Friday, May 6, 2022, at Reynards Assisted Living Center.
Though Bertolan often spoke of his brothers and other family members, no information about his relatives is available at this time.
Bertolan was born behind the Iron Curtain in Nádudvar, Hungary. Most of the men in his family fought in World War II. His uncle died in the unsuccessful Hungarian Revolution. His father emigrated at that time, and he and his brothers became adept at trading, ultimately founding an import-export firm that still exists today. He emigrated to Rockville, Maryland. to retire, having already made many US friends through his business endeavors. He was often seen at embassy functions, where he gravitated toward American politicians.
He said, “Accept favors when offered. Return them as you can." Having lost an arm during military service, Bertolan pushed himself to be independent when he could. He learned to type fifty words per minute with one hand. But he also found relying on others created lifelong bonds with others. While at Reynards, he became known as the one to talk to if you have a yen for fancy chocolate, herbal cigarettes, or hard-to-get publications.
His wake will be held on June 9 at Reynalds Funeral Home. His friends at Reynards Assisted Living plan to hold a memorial service later this year.
Note: It might be fun to try this first for a character from someone else’s work: Captain Ahab or Tom Sawyer or Molly Bloom. Also, while real obituaries are rigorously factual (used to train reporters), yours can be full of lies.
Tuesday, February 4, 2020
Characters in Action - Revealing the inner person
I’m a big believer in getting to know characters by seeing them in motion. Ideally, these actions are dramatic:
• kissing,
• punching,
• breaking into a building,
• rescuing a drowning puppy,
• dancing on a rooftop,
• confessing to murder,
• escaping a fire,
• flirting with a stranger,
• eulogizing a parent,
• calming a baby.
(Go ahead and imagine your characters doing those things. It’s fun and it might surprise you.)
A step up from this list is imagining your character doing something you did that was dramatic. We all have times in our lives when we did something that mattered. If we did something that made a positive difference, it may be a resume item or a story you inevitably tell someone you care about or a boast. If we failed in some way, it may be an action we took that embarrassed us or reveal a flaw like cowardice or caused someone distress or pain. It may have been a action that ended a relationship forever. Seeing your character do these consequential things, things we hold onto for years, can bring real gold to a story.
It’s also possible to think of moments of trauma or compassion. When others acted upon us with impact, it often shaped our views, including concepts of what was possible. Trust and a sense of community can be formed by these moments. These also can be used to test our stories’s characters, but it’s a tricky choice. Putting moments of victimhood into stories carries the possibility of insight, but also the chance of self-indulgence or bids for sympathy or justification. Each of these is challenging to turn into art.
It’s best if the action you visualize for your character is one connected to the work in progress. From a practical standpoint, it can turn into a scene that writes itself. But even if it ends up being cut, it puts the character into a context. Characters are not real people (though I hope they feel that way to you). They exist in relation to the theme of the story as a way to personalize truths for your audience. Relevant actions reflect the selectivity that’s essential to every story. Discovering such actions help writers to focus and heighten moments in a story, and these are the building blocks that create beauty, insight, and passion for readers.
This action-based approach isn’t just for the protagonist or antagonist. For me, it helps in the development of every important character. I wouldn’t apply the ten actions above to a spear carrier, but they provide a quick and powerful approach to seeing secondary characters like best friends, partners in crime, confidants, and mentors.
• kissing,
• punching,
• breaking into a building,
• rescuing a drowning puppy,
• dancing on a rooftop,
• confessing to murder,
• escaping a fire,
• flirting with a stranger,
• eulogizing a parent,
• calming a baby.
(Go ahead and imagine your characters doing those things. It’s fun and it might surprise you.)
A step up from this list is imagining your character doing something you did that was dramatic. We all have times in our lives when we did something that mattered. If we did something that made a positive difference, it may be a resume item or a story you inevitably tell someone you care about or a boast. If we failed in some way, it may be an action we took that embarrassed us or reveal a flaw like cowardice or caused someone distress or pain. It may have been a action that ended a relationship forever. Seeing your character do these consequential things, things we hold onto for years, can bring real gold to a story.
It’s also possible to think of moments of trauma or compassion. When others acted upon us with impact, it often shaped our views, including concepts of what was possible. Trust and a sense of community can be formed by these moments. These also can be used to test our stories’s characters, but it’s a tricky choice. Putting moments of victimhood into stories carries the possibility of insight, but also the chance of self-indulgence or bids for sympathy or justification. Each of these is challenging to turn into art.
It’s best if the action you visualize for your character is one connected to the work in progress. From a practical standpoint, it can turn into a scene that writes itself. But even if it ends up being cut, it puts the character into a context. Characters are not real people (though I hope they feel that way to you). They exist in relation to the theme of the story as a way to personalize truths for your audience. Relevant actions reflect the selectivity that’s essential to every story. Discovering such actions help writers to focus and heighten moments in a story, and these are the building blocks that create beauty, insight, and passion for readers.
This action-based approach isn’t just for the protagonist or antagonist. For me, it helps in the development of every important character. I wouldn’t apply the ten actions above to a spear carrier, but they provide a quick and powerful approach to seeing secondary characters like best friends, partners in crime, confidants, and mentors.
Thursday, January 30, 2020
Finding the Confidence to Draft Your Story — Believing you can fix it in revision
Filling blank pages is an act of hope. Even when you feel like the sentences are perfect, maybe its just the intoxication of enthusiasm. And, sad to say, some sentences that really are wonderful may be axed later on because they don’t belong in the story that finally emerges. “Kill all your darlings, etc.”
But when you draft, it’s more likely you’ll encounter doubt — if not in the moment by the next the day. The editor in your head will look askance at each sentence, questioning your word choice, and shouting when a “rule” is broken, a requirement isn’t met, or the work does not measure up to Shakespeare.
Whenever the emotion for the prose exceeds the emotion for the scene or your empathy for the character, remember these words:
It can always be fixed in the rewrite.
It can. It isn’t over ’til it’s over, and you get to decide when that is. But, no matter how much you believe in happily ever afters, you may not think your story has a chance of rising above its humble beginnings. Having confidence in revisions, especially if it’s not your favorite part of the writing process (true for me) can undermine storytelling. So here are a few ways to fight back:
1. Recognize the stories you read and admire are rarely first drafts. Some of them have gone through many revisions. It’s not fair to compare your virgin pages with these highly processed works. That’s labor, and one reason why so many people quit writing (but not you). By the way, despite what the movie Amadeus contends, Mozart did revise his work.
2. Remember you’ve done this before. If you’ve had some success with your stories, you’ve fixed them up before sharing them. (If you haven’t done this before, start writing some flash fiction and getting it out there. Revised. Then you WILL have success to build on.)
3. Have a revision process. Document it. Then you’ll be assured that you know what your next steps will be. Finishing a draft won’t be stepping into a void.
4. Edit and critique other people’s stories. This takes your ego out of it and becomes proof that you know a lot about how to make stories better.
5. Write down what you think you’ll never be able to do in revision. Make it funny? Provide a hook that catches attention? Fix the point of view? Find the right starting point? Just saying it sometimes reduces the concerns. This is especially true if you have any evidence that you can do what’s needed. (And it’s good, if the same questions come up, to compile instances where you showed you have the chops to do what you’re afraid is beyond reach.) If you have no evidence (say, when you are experimenting with something new to you like a love scene), do two things. First, analyze three works by different authors who have done what you’re attempting. Figure out how they did it, so — in revision — you’ll have some options to emulate. Second, give yourself permission to fail and credit for trying something new.
6. Dictate. This won’t work for everyone, and I think you have to have confidence about dictating before this approach can overcome concerns about revision. But, if you can use the mic coming on as cue to start and the difficulty of making corrections as the encouragement to press forward, dictation can silence the editor in your head.
7. Trust in other people. If you can’t quite believe you’ll do a good job revising, lean on other people. They can ask good questions, call out problems with clarity, let you know where pacing is off, and contribute in dozens of other ways (including catching your typos). Editors, writing buddies, and beta readers are your friends.
8. One more thing — Sometimes there’s concern about missing mistakes in revision. It’s fine to make a habit of taking some notes after drafting to check later, during revision. Also, it’s helpful to know you have a checklist to review your common mistakes (including omissions) scene by scene.
Trust is born of two parents: Good intentions and competence. We trust those who have our best interests at heart and who know what they’re doing. To believe in revision as you draft, you need to know you are on your own side (I hope that’s a given) and that you are a skilled editor (hence creating evidence of this and referring to it, as stated above).
Add one thing. Boldness. It takes courage to explore your own confidence and to develop it if it’s not up to supporting you in drafts. Be brave.
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In case you missed it, I wrote a bonus blog entry to promote my SavvyAuthors class...
But when you draft, it’s more likely you’ll encounter doubt — if not in the moment by the next the day. The editor in your head will look askance at each sentence, questioning your word choice, and shouting when a “rule” is broken, a requirement isn’t met, or the work does not measure up to Shakespeare.
Whenever the emotion for the prose exceeds the emotion for the scene or your empathy for the character, remember these words:
It can always be fixed in the rewrite.
It can. It isn’t over ’til it’s over, and you get to decide when that is. But, no matter how much you believe in happily ever afters, you may not think your story has a chance of rising above its humble beginnings. Having confidence in revisions, especially if it’s not your favorite part of the writing process (true for me) can undermine storytelling. So here are a few ways to fight back:
1. Recognize the stories you read and admire are rarely first drafts. Some of them have gone through many revisions. It’s not fair to compare your virgin pages with these highly processed works. That’s labor, and one reason why so many people quit writing (but not you). By the way, despite what the movie Amadeus contends, Mozart did revise his work.
2. Remember you’ve done this before. If you’ve had some success with your stories, you’ve fixed them up before sharing them. (If you haven’t done this before, start writing some flash fiction and getting it out there. Revised. Then you WILL have success to build on.)
3. Have a revision process. Document it. Then you’ll be assured that you know what your next steps will be. Finishing a draft won’t be stepping into a void.
4. Edit and critique other people’s stories. This takes your ego out of it and becomes proof that you know a lot about how to make stories better.
5. Write down what you think you’ll never be able to do in revision. Make it funny? Provide a hook that catches attention? Fix the point of view? Find the right starting point? Just saying it sometimes reduces the concerns. This is especially true if you have any evidence that you can do what’s needed. (And it’s good, if the same questions come up, to compile instances where you showed you have the chops to do what you’re afraid is beyond reach.) If you have no evidence (say, when you are experimenting with something new to you like a love scene), do two things. First, analyze three works by different authors who have done what you’re attempting. Figure out how they did it, so — in revision — you’ll have some options to emulate. Second, give yourself permission to fail and credit for trying something new.
6. Dictate. This won’t work for everyone, and I think you have to have confidence about dictating before this approach can overcome concerns about revision. But, if you can use the mic coming on as cue to start and the difficulty of making corrections as the encouragement to press forward, dictation can silence the editor in your head.
7. Trust in other people. If you can’t quite believe you’ll do a good job revising, lean on other people. They can ask good questions, call out problems with clarity, let you know where pacing is off, and contribute in dozens of other ways (including catching your typos). Editors, writing buddies, and beta readers are your friends.
8. One more thing — Sometimes there’s concern about missing mistakes in revision. It’s fine to make a habit of taking some notes after drafting to check later, during revision. Also, it’s helpful to know you have a checklist to review your common mistakes (including omissions) scene by scene.
Trust is born of two parents: Good intentions and competence. We trust those who have our best interests at heart and who know what they’re doing. To believe in revision as you draft, you need to know you are on your own side (I hope that’s a given) and that you are a skilled editor (hence creating evidence of this and referring to it, as stated above).
Add one thing. Boldness. It takes courage to explore your own confidence and to develop it if it’s not up to supporting you in drafts. Be brave.
--------
In case you missed it, I wrote a bonus blog entry to promote my SavvyAuthors class...
Story Whispers – An odd sort of exaggeration writers can put to work
Wednesday, January 22, 2020
Drafting a Story's First Sentence - Slipping into the world of imagination
When it comes to getting started on a new story, lots of people get stuck on the first sentence. There's a lot of pressure to get it right. Should I set the scene? How can I include a hook? Oh, I have to remember to give it just the right tone.
Agents, editors, and readers do you need to be drawn in by a story's initial sentence, but not the draft version. The draft version just has to get you, as a writer, started. I think of it as the tool that cracks the door open so you can enter a new world. Now, if you already have a starting point and the words are flowing as soon as you sit down, go ahead and use a battering ram. Don't worry about the suggestions below. Just write.
But if bits of the story are floating around in your brain and it's just getting started that's the problem, getting a good enough sentence – for you – is fine. Objectively, you're even allowed to write a bad sentence. You have my permission. It can be fixed in the rewrite.
I actually went through the first sentence exercise recently for a story I'm writing about people in an assisted living facility who have computer access taken away after one of them falls for an Internet scam. I'll use the sentences that came up (and sometimes the words that followed right away) as examples here.
⁃ What your character sees and why it matters. If you can see something that catches a character’s interest and bring meaning to it, the is likely to lead to more… Coins and dollar signs floated across Gus’s iPad screen. They twisted and danced to the clink of coins tuned to one enticing song: greed.
⁃ Some piece in your head is already creating a strong emotion (for the character or for you). This is often a reaction to something that just happened but isn’t described, a response that is deep and visceral. For instance, it may be a moment of wonder or of sense of injustice… It was an amputation: His phone and iPad and the computer power cord seized as he sat helplessly looking on.
⁃ A telling quote (and note that it does not need to have subtext). When characters speak, they do so for a reason. Usually, it’s to get something or to change someone’s behavior. That’s powerful. While on-the-nose dialogue probably shouldn’t appear in the final version, it is acceptable (even valuable) here in a draft… “From now on, we can’t permit unsupervised computer time.”
⁃ A character doing something visual. Characters in action define themselves and usually create images that include setting. Other characters might show themselves, too, giving you a lot to work with… As Gus clung to his iPad, struggling to stop Nurse Daniels from seizing it, Betsy rolled her wheelchair behind them — to the cart, to her phone, to the only connection she had with Nina.
⁃ A character’s deep realization. If you already have a strong reason for writing the story or the theme is vivid, this can be great. If not, this might challenge your muse to provide real treasure… With her phone locked away, Betsy knew she would not be there when Nina called, perhaps for the last time, crying, cursing, and gasping for breath.
⁃ Reader orientation. This is classic, establishing the time and space. And including the props needed to play out the scene. And all of these can help you get immersed in your story, bit by bit… The recreation room, its four round worktables set with paper and crayons and flooded with afternoon sunshine, was filling up with high-end carbon fiber wheelchairs pressed forward by the elders who rolled them in.
⁃ A sentence that raises a key question. This can be something that needs further explanation, sucking you further into the story. Or it can be a statement of principles or ideas that imply more… If a man who had served his country, buried his wife, raised four children and gotten them through college, and put aside enough for retirement could not buy a mint,1936 buffalo nickel was he still a free man — or just waiting to die?
⁃ A reversal of expectations. I like this one a lot. When cold facts or a familiar experience suggest a conclusion, and the opposite closes the sentence, interest is created. It’s a great way to flow into more explanation or illustration… Elderly people lose three billion dollars a year to scam artists because they are confused or scared… or having the time of their lives.
⁃ A description of a striking image. This can be poetic, and usually is. Something is rendered, usually visually, in a specific way. When done well, it gives readers confidence that they are in good hands. And, in a draft, a halfway decent image can give you as a writer the feeling that this story is going to work… Uncle Henry tossed little Gus a shiny buffalo nickel — Liberty, 1936, with a D from the Denver mint.
Note: Nine approaches are listed, but there's nothing canonical about these. You can add to this list as much as you want. And, if you come to this post as an exercise, don't feel like you need to create first sentences to match each example. In all probability, by the time you get to your third or fourth sentence, the door will be cracked open, and you can get down to the business of storytelling.
Of course, first sentences don't need to just be first sentences for the whole work. They can be first sentences for chapters or scenes. Also, my experience in creating a lot of first sentences using different approaches is that the exploration itself tells me more than I knew about the story and its characters. I did this for one story, and I found myself using what I've learned to put together a complete outline in about an hour. That was a nice additional pay off for the work I've done.
Once you're well into storytelling, it won't matter which sentence opened the door. Once you see what you have, some of the ways to make it work better in revision will be obvious. One of these, may be cutting the sentence or even the first pages. Beginning a draft with a perfect first sentence really, really, really isn't necessary. So don't let that get in your way.
I think one reason people get stuck on first sentences – and in other parts of the stories, such as ending scenes – is because of a lack of confidence in in their rewriting skills. So next week, I'll explore building confidence in revision.
This week, a bonus blog entry to promote my SavvyAuthors class...
Agents, editors, and readers do you need to be drawn in by a story's initial sentence, but not the draft version. The draft version just has to get you, as a writer, started. I think of it as the tool that cracks the door open so you can enter a new world. Now, if you already have a starting point and the words are flowing as soon as you sit down, go ahead and use a battering ram. Don't worry about the suggestions below. Just write.
But if bits of the story are floating around in your brain and it's just getting started that's the problem, getting a good enough sentence – for you – is fine. Objectively, you're even allowed to write a bad sentence. You have my permission. It can be fixed in the rewrite.
I actually went through the first sentence exercise recently for a story I'm writing about people in an assisted living facility who have computer access taken away after one of them falls for an Internet scam. I'll use the sentences that came up (and sometimes the words that followed right away) as examples here.
⁃ What your character sees and why it matters. If you can see something that catches a character’s interest and bring meaning to it, the is likely to lead to more… Coins and dollar signs floated across Gus’s iPad screen. They twisted and danced to the clink of coins tuned to one enticing song: greed.
⁃ Some piece in your head is already creating a strong emotion (for the character or for you). This is often a reaction to something that just happened but isn’t described, a response that is deep and visceral. For instance, it may be a moment of wonder or of sense of injustice… It was an amputation: His phone and iPad and the computer power cord seized as he sat helplessly looking on.
⁃ A telling quote (and note that it does not need to have subtext). When characters speak, they do so for a reason. Usually, it’s to get something or to change someone’s behavior. That’s powerful. While on-the-nose dialogue probably shouldn’t appear in the final version, it is acceptable (even valuable) here in a draft… “From now on, we can’t permit unsupervised computer time.”
⁃ A character doing something visual. Characters in action define themselves and usually create images that include setting. Other characters might show themselves, too, giving you a lot to work with… As Gus clung to his iPad, struggling to stop Nurse Daniels from seizing it, Betsy rolled her wheelchair behind them — to the cart, to her phone, to the only connection she had with Nina.
⁃ A character’s deep realization. If you already have a strong reason for writing the story or the theme is vivid, this can be great. If not, this might challenge your muse to provide real treasure… With her phone locked away, Betsy knew she would not be there when Nina called, perhaps for the last time, crying, cursing, and gasping for breath.
⁃ Reader orientation. This is classic, establishing the time and space. And including the props needed to play out the scene. And all of these can help you get immersed in your story, bit by bit… The recreation room, its four round worktables set with paper and crayons and flooded with afternoon sunshine, was filling up with high-end carbon fiber wheelchairs pressed forward by the elders who rolled them in.
⁃ A sentence that raises a key question. This can be something that needs further explanation, sucking you further into the story. Or it can be a statement of principles or ideas that imply more… If a man who had served his country, buried his wife, raised four children and gotten them through college, and put aside enough for retirement could not buy a mint,1936 buffalo nickel was he still a free man — or just waiting to die?
⁃ A reversal of expectations. I like this one a lot. When cold facts or a familiar experience suggest a conclusion, and the opposite closes the sentence, interest is created. It’s a great way to flow into more explanation or illustration… Elderly people lose three billion dollars a year to scam artists because they are confused or scared… or having the time of their lives.
⁃ A description of a striking image. This can be poetic, and usually is. Something is rendered, usually visually, in a specific way. When done well, it gives readers confidence that they are in good hands. And, in a draft, a halfway decent image can give you as a writer the feeling that this story is going to work… Uncle Henry tossed little Gus a shiny buffalo nickel — Liberty, 1936, with a D from the Denver mint.
Note: Nine approaches are listed, but there's nothing canonical about these. You can add to this list as much as you want. And, if you come to this post as an exercise, don't feel like you need to create first sentences to match each example. In all probability, by the time you get to your third or fourth sentence, the door will be cracked open, and you can get down to the business of storytelling.
Of course, first sentences don't need to just be first sentences for the whole work. They can be first sentences for chapters or scenes. Also, my experience in creating a lot of first sentences using different approaches is that the exploration itself tells me more than I knew about the story and its characters. I did this for one story, and I found myself using what I've learned to put together a complete outline in about an hour. That was a nice additional pay off for the work I've done.
Once you're well into storytelling, it won't matter which sentence opened the door. Once you see what you have, some of the ways to make it work better in revision will be obvious. One of these, may be cutting the sentence or even the first pages. Beginning a draft with a perfect first sentence really, really, really isn't necessary. So don't let that get in your way.
I think one reason people get stuck on first sentences – and in other parts of the stories, such as ending scenes – is because of a lack of confidence in in their rewriting skills. So next week, I'll explore building confidence in revision.
This week, a bonus blog entry to promote my SavvyAuthors class...
Story Whispers – An odd sort of exaggeration writers can put to work
Tuesday, January 14, 2020
Courage That Stands Out — Thrilling your readers
Courage may be David facing Goliath, a mountain of a man, just one sword length away. Or a shy man asking for a date. Or an honest judge choosing to dismiss charges against the most hated man in town. When courage is part of your story, and you presented this with skill and heart, your readers will be moved.
I was taught that courage was morally optional but socially essential. Since writing is a social activity (providing you care about readers), courage isn’t optional for authors. This means stories need to have someone who faces a test of courage that matters to readers and that test must get the attention it deserves.
Courage must be a challenge.
For the hero or heroine (an apt way to designate such a protagonist), the choice and the action involved must be difficult. The more difficult it is, the more courage is required. Superman, facing a hail of bullets that will bounce off him, has it easy. For someone to stand at the wrong end of a firing range (as Gen. Patton purportedly did to overcome his fear) with no shield or superpowers, would be a challenge. Someone who has slipped through life telling lies may face an insurmountable obstacle if he has to confess to serious wrongdoing. He certainly would need to be highly motivated. So there can be physical courage or it could be more personal. Readers may need to know a lot about the character to understand how brave his or her choices and actions are.
Courage occurs in context.
In most stories, the character must expect to pay a price for a courageous act. The bigger the price is, the more courage is required… And the more readers will worry about the character. The level of risk must be clear and this tangible as possible. For clarity, repetition or an explicit warning is often necessary. "If we take on the enemy, most of us will be dead by morning." "If you disclose the true earnings in the meeting, the boss will fire you."
Often, the context is demonstrated. It may be that the protagonist did something similar earlier in the story and failed miserably, suffering a substantial loss. Or there may be an immediate example, where another character attempts to do what must be done and faces a horrible fate.
There are ways to heighten the risk and increase reader worry. In The Karate Kid, Daniel faces a formidable opponent… After having received a severe injury. In Jerry Maguire, Jerry must declare his love not privately, but in the midst of a hostile crowd.
The hero or heroine cannot act secretly or in an altered state in most circumstances. The courageous act must be attributable and performed soberly with consideration. Having someone get drunk and blurt out critical information, even if it's a great risk, does not demonstrate agency and ownership.
Normally, the consequences of the courageous act should be presented. There are times when the loss that will be suffered is so obvious that it works (and perhaps works better given the cruelty of imagination) when it is implied. But there should be no doubts about whether a character pays a price.
Of course, it's fine to have anticipated a disastrous turn (fairly), so that the courageous act is rewarded. There even can be bittersweet circumstances where the act is both punished and rewarded.
A word about failure. Not all courageous acts lead to success. It's okay to have things take a tragic turn. In addition, the mission might succeed, and the results might still be horrible. Intentions matter, but they don't guarantee happy endings. It's a chancy thing to show readers an act of courage that fails or leads to painful results. They may the story or hate you. But if the emotional response is genuine, the work may succeed artistically.
Note: many of these points may be reversed in a comedy. In fact, considering these and turning them upside down can be a great way to add humor, often humorous that has an underlying point.
The courageous act must draw attention.
If you have all the elements, it's important to make sure that the writing is clear and whatever matters gets attention. Repetition, including examples, was mentioned above. It’s also valuable to look for the possibility of contrasts. Sharp contrasts tend to be noticed. Physical differences (Laurel and Hardy), differences in attitude (The Odd Couple), differences in power (master and slave), etc.
All eyes are on the protagonist, so a courageous act by a secondary character may be wasted. In addition, it's good to consider how far they hero or heroine might fall if he or she fails. One reason so much classical literature is populated by royalty, aristocrats, and military leaders is because their disasters have major ramifications. If Hamlet had been a shepherd instead of a prince, much of the impact of his story would have been reduced.
One more thing about courage… It comes across with more power if the writing of it requires something of the author. Giving readers exactly what they hope for and expect, when it sacrifices truth and authenticity, may be easier. It may please editors and fans. It can be more lucrative. But, if the more courageous choice is made by the author, something wonderful might be possible. Potentially, real human insight might reach people in ways that can support them when they are discouraged, inspire them when they see new possibilities, or even bring more meaning into their lives.
I was taught that courage was morally optional but socially essential. Since writing is a social activity (providing you care about readers), courage isn’t optional for authors. This means stories need to have someone who faces a test of courage that matters to readers and that test must get the attention it deserves.
Courage must be a challenge.
For the hero or heroine (an apt way to designate such a protagonist), the choice and the action involved must be difficult. The more difficult it is, the more courage is required. Superman, facing a hail of bullets that will bounce off him, has it easy. For someone to stand at the wrong end of a firing range (as Gen. Patton purportedly did to overcome his fear) with no shield or superpowers, would be a challenge. Someone who has slipped through life telling lies may face an insurmountable obstacle if he has to confess to serious wrongdoing. He certainly would need to be highly motivated. So there can be physical courage or it could be more personal. Readers may need to know a lot about the character to understand how brave his or her choices and actions are.
Courage occurs in context.
In most stories, the character must expect to pay a price for a courageous act. The bigger the price is, the more courage is required… And the more readers will worry about the character. The level of risk must be clear and this tangible as possible. For clarity, repetition or an explicit warning is often necessary. "If we take on the enemy, most of us will be dead by morning." "If you disclose the true earnings in the meeting, the boss will fire you."
Often, the context is demonstrated. It may be that the protagonist did something similar earlier in the story and failed miserably, suffering a substantial loss. Or there may be an immediate example, where another character attempts to do what must be done and faces a horrible fate.
There are ways to heighten the risk and increase reader worry. In The Karate Kid, Daniel faces a formidable opponent… After having received a severe injury. In Jerry Maguire, Jerry must declare his love not privately, but in the midst of a hostile crowd.
The hero or heroine cannot act secretly or in an altered state in most circumstances. The courageous act must be attributable and performed soberly with consideration. Having someone get drunk and blurt out critical information, even if it's a great risk, does not demonstrate agency and ownership.
Normally, the consequences of the courageous act should be presented. There are times when the loss that will be suffered is so obvious that it works (and perhaps works better given the cruelty of imagination) when it is implied. But there should be no doubts about whether a character pays a price.
Of course, it's fine to have anticipated a disastrous turn (fairly), so that the courageous act is rewarded. There even can be bittersweet circumstances where the act is both punished and rewarded.
A word about failure. Not all courageous acts lead to success. It's okay to have things take a tragic turn. In addition, the mission might succeed, and the results might still be horrible. Intentions matter, but they don't guarantee happy endings. It's a chancy thing to show readers an act of courage that fails or leads to painful results. They may the story or hate you. But if the emotional response is genuine, the work may succeed artistically.
Note: many of these points may be reversed in a comedy. In fact, considering these and turning them upside down can be a great way to add humor, often humorous that has an underlying point.
The courageous act must draw attention.
If you have all the elements, it's important to make sure that the writing is clear and whatever matters gets attention. Repetition, including examples, was mentioned above. It’s also valuable to look for the possibility of contrasts. Sharp contrasts tend to be noticed. Physical differences (Laurel and Hardy), differences in attitude (The Odd Couple), differences in power (master and slave), etc.
All eyes are on the protagonist, so a courageous act by a secondary character may be wasted. In addition, it's good to consider how far they hero or heroine might fall if he or she fails. One reason so much classical literature is populated by royalty, aristocrats, and military leaders is because their disasters have major ramifications. If Hamlet had been a shepherd instead of a prince, much of the impact of his story would have been reduced.
One more thing about courage… It comes across with more power if the writing of it requires something of the author. Giving readers exactly what they hope for and expect, when it sacrifices truth and authenticity, may be easier. It may please editors and fans. It can be more lucrative. But, if the more courageous choice is made by the author, something wonderful might be possible. Potentially, real human insight might reach people in ways that can support them when they are discouraged, inspire them when they see new possibilities, or even bring more meaning into their lives.
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