Writer’s Doubt - A perspective

Even the best writers have doubts about their work. I recently listened to a reading of Dear Elizabeth, which is based on the correspondence between two of America's great poets, Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell. Both of them wondered about the quality of their work, even after they had achieved great success. Unless it becomes paralyzing, I think that's actually a good thing. It can be a spur to do better work and to avoid complacency (something I've seen in later works of writers of great potential).

Of course, the kind of doubt I see most often is among people who have had, so far, limited success. Much of this is based on commerce — works sold, money earned, and awards that really only come to people who either have, or show potential to have, large, paying audiences/readerships. There are some writers, of course, who fret about not having fame or an academic reputation or good reviews or well-known honors supposedly reserved for works of the highest quality.

Doubts related to money can lead to the sensible choice of getting or continuing in a day job. If you have bills to pay, and especially if you have dependents, working is noble, even if it cuts into writing time. A life of poverty can also make it harder to be prolific and create your best work.

As to reputation, unless you're as good at publicizing yourself as Walt Whitman was, it's largely out of your control. While you can continue to improve your work and focus on projects that both inspire you and reach the audiences you choose, a lot is based on luck. (Provided you don't actively offend people who have influence, something I've seen some writers do.)

So where does that leave us as far as doubt is concerned? If you have worries about quality, education and practice provide the answers. You keep writing in challenging yourself. Doubt becomes a positive. If you have financial concerns, you may relegate writing to shorter periods of time. And you treat that time as precious. Even 15 minutes a day, used purposefully with a focus on completing works, will be enough to seriously pursue writing (based on what I've seen with my students). Most writers, including some who are well-known, have day jobs. So doubts about making a living as a writer are well warranted. Having to write part-time maybe disappointing, but it's not fatal to the work. It can lead to creative approaches (such as building connections within writing communities and fashioning a portfolio of works in case opportunity knocks). Or, doubt can be resolved, just by accepting a typical writer's life — one that's split.

What about "am I really a writer" doubts? Here's the answer: You get to decide. If you write 15 minutes a day (even five days a week) and complete works, no one can say that you are not a writer (except you). No one can say you're not contributing when you devote an hour and a quarter every week to something that matters to you.

That last is the key. The work has to be meaningful for you. Not every day. Not every part of it. As an analogy, I like to think about one of my other roles, cat owner (or servant). I love animals, and felines fit into my lifestyle. They are companionship and therapy and entertainment. They also are hairballs and litter boxes and midnight howling. They have pluses and minuses – as does writing. If I were to make a list of the reasons why I devote hours of my life to cats, the list would be long and full of reasons that are important to me. And the same would be true for writing. I strongly suspect that many people who doubt whether they are writers or not put too much focus on the minuses and not enough on the pluses.

If you truly worry about whether you are a writer or not, take the time to list the pluses and minuses. If writings litter box problems feel overwhelming, maybe it's time to quit. Maybe something else deserves your attention. But chances are that most of you reading this will discover or rediscover the reasons why writing matters to you.

Ray Bradbury wrote every day for most of his life. When he had a stroke and lost many of his abilities, one of the first signs of healing was his finding a way to dictate stories. He loved writing. It was part of who he was. Without a doubt.

 

 

For Story Design, Consider Characters' Cravings Instead of Wants

I’ve always had a problem with a fundamental element of storytelling — the character’s wants.

Wants and needs largely define a characters anxieties, choices, and behaviors. The wants are usually obvious to the audience and the character. The needs (especially psychological) are often invisible and in conflict with the wants. Growth happens when needs are served and wants move into second place (after sacrifice). A happy ending usually gives the protagonist what he/she wants and needs before the story is over.

One my favorite stories in film (and TV) is Marty, by the great Paddy Chayefsky. Here’s the quote that shows his moment of change:

You don't like her. My mother don't like her. She's a dog. And I'm a fat, ugly man. Well, all I know is I had a good time last night. I'm gonna have a good time tonight. If we have enough good times together, I'm gonna get down on my knees. I'm gonna beg that girl to marry me. If we make a party on New Year's, I got a date for that party. You don't like her? That's too bad.

He steps out and away from the people who, though they love him, don’t want him to change. He doesn’t let them hold him down. He chooses connection. He chooses it hard: I’m gonna beg that girl to marry me.

Huckleberry Finn has a similar moment, choosing a friend (and what’s right) despite what everyone he knows holds tight to (property rights in the form a slavery).

I was a-trembling, because I'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself: “All right then, I'll go to hell”—and tore it up. It was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was said.

Again, strong words in making what the true right choice is. But I don’t think it was hyperbole. I think Huck believed he was damning himself, even as readers redeemed him.

So what’s my problem?

To me, it has often felt like the game is rigged against wants. It feels like they are essentially nonessential. Like there’s a selfish component. Even worse, it’s hard to imagine them as urgent. While the power of the choice is clear for Marty and Huck, that’s not what happens in most fiction. And it has been difficult for me to find that level of intensity.

But I got an interesting perspective (thanks to a course on playwriting, taught by Lisa D'Amour). Stop thinking wants and start thinking cravings.

The concept is realistic. I suspect we all know people who have thrown away good jobs, friendships, mortgage money, health, and reputations because a craving took over. Drugs, booze, infatuations, revenge, and ambition can become all-consuming. Daily headlines tell the story. Sadly, most of us have seen the corrosive action of cravings closer to home. In real life, we’d probably wish away cravings. In stories, they can replace the milder wants to create compelling dilemmas.

Nurse Jackie is an amazing series for lots of reasons. One is that it illustrates the power of cravings, even as it shows the social context. We have structured ways to help, manage, and restrain people who have lost themselves to addiction, but the choices are heavily weighted toward disaster. And people of great talent and purpose are destroyed. Along with many who care for them.

Of course, it doesn’t always work out that way. But the threat is powerful, more so because of how it reflects the experiences of many people. We worry about Nurse Jackie because her work and wit and charm make her easy to empathize with. Watching the show, I wanted her to triumph over addiction. I cheered as the character “got help,” hoping for a happy ending. But part of me knew she was damned. That the cravings would win.

House, who went on a similar journey and seemed equally damned, clutched at his last chance, friendship, for a semisweet ending. But the writers made it a near thing for him. Cravings created story moments that were excruciating at times.  

I’ve long leaned toward the Seven Deadly Sins for genuine character flaws, so I probably should have found my way to cravings and plots and character arcs they bring sooner. I think my journey’s through painful honesty found the cravings in my stories, but only after a lot of stumbling. When I interview my characters, asking them what their cravings are, I’ve found their answers reveal raw story ideas. (Not right away. Interesting characters cooperate anymore than real people do. If I asked you to tell me about your cravings, would you give me a pure and honest answer?)

Now, not every story needs a craving as powerful as addiction to narcotics. A boxer can refuse to retire and sacrifice his health (identity, fear of change).  In Amadeus, Salieri wants to strike back at God for choosing Mozart as His agent for beauty (pride). Another of my favorite films, The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz, is about a young man who will do anything to lock up a real estate deal (greed).

If the craving is so strong, there’s a likelihood the character will betray a loved one, the actual focus of compulsion doesn’t matter. (And this can be scaled back for gentler storytelling, say, for younger audiences.) And I’ll note that cravings are a major mechanism in comedy, where obsession with the trivial and self delusion are common. The cravings of comic protagonists tend not to be destructive (except to the protagonists, and not in an extreme way). The humor, forgiveness, and lack of lasting harm allow audiences to reflect on cravings from a safe distance.

One more thing. I think wanting something on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs and putting it in opposition to another of those needs creates powerful dilemmas without cravings. Which is what happens with Marty and Huck. Neither of them want drugs. They don’t covet the property of others or seek domination. They want to belong. They want easy relations with those around them. So if the “good” that’s wanted, the need that does have real value, gets corrupted by resistance to change (Marty) or bigotry (Huckleberry Finn), it works like a craving.

And it can be as potentially damning for the character and riveting for the audience as a craving.

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July courses

How to Write Fast

July 5-August 1

Crank up the efficiency and get that novel, short story, article or script DONE.

Through exercises, evaluations, tips and technologies, you can learn to write faster. Discover how to break through blocks, get ideas, develop plots, draft and polish in less time without losing quality.

Mastering Character Arcs

July 5-30

One reason we come to fiction is to experience the changes characters go through. And, while the external journey from maid to princess or farmer to Jedi knight may create engaging challenges, we identify with characters because they learn how to trust others or master their tempers or become their true selves. They go on journeys where they learn who they are and how they fit in. They overcome their flaws, form connections, grow up and heal. 

The internal change is shaped and forced by their external tasks, giving them arcs that delight readers. This class will help participants to honestly assess the flaws in characters they love. They’ll look to how hard choices avoided make things worse and how choices faced with courage bring growth, understanding… and credible happy endings.

 

How Do You Know You’re Finished Writing a Story?

Two anecdotes: I don't know if either of them are true.

One is about a famous artist. He'd sneak into museums with his pallet of paints and "fix" the works of his that were hanging there.

Another is about Isaac Babel, who would trim his stories until nothing was left. In desperation, his editor would sneak into his home and steal the manuscripts.

Sometimes brilliance and obsessive behavior come together. There is a tendency to hang onto works, hoping that one more revision will bring them to perfection. Poets, who rarely make a living with their poems, are famous for "never finishing, just abandoning." 

Those writers fortunate enough to make a living with their work usually face the discipline of deadlines. It doesn't always work. In high school, I heard, Guy Owen, the author of The Ballad of the Flim-Flam Man (which became a film), speak because he had to get the on lecture circuit to pay off an advance for an undelivered novel. And Douglas Adams famously said, "I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.”

Of course, conceding that a work is done when the deadline arrives doesn't mean much to writers who are working on spec (either because they are still unpublished or because they can only sell finished works — maybe). How do they know when they're done?

I use a task-based approach, meaning that I always have specific steps that need to be completed before I even imagine that the work is finished. Now, once I have gone through all those steps, I'm still likely to have misgivings. But the good news about having tasks is that steps that were completed (but not to my satisfaction) tend to stand out. When none stand out, I know that, despite my gut feelings, I won't be embarrassed if I hand it to someone I trust to take a look. Outside views usually provide what I need to  discover and fix what needs to be taken care of.

At times, I've completed a draft and realized that revision isn't the right choice. When one piece of the manuscript inspires me and directs me to do a new story based on it, I usually trust my instincts, throw out 90% of what I have, and work on the 10% that's golden.

Another realization I've had is that changing the protagonist offers rich possibilities I haven't explored. A manuscript I just completed had two previous versions — one finished decades ago – that didn't satisfy me. So I had these two proto-novels that led to something that, at last, feels right.

I'm a big believer in Heinlein's rule, "You must finish what you write." Not only does this suppress the urge to initiate too many projects, it also enhances learning. I have many stories sitting on the shelf that I like, but don't see much prospect for. There is not one of them that hasn't taught me something important about writing — something I would not have learned if I hadn't gotten to "the end." In addition, I'm amazed at how many times I'm working on a story nowadays and I'll remember a scene from one of these works. To a surprising extent, these scenes fit right in, as if they were created for the new work.

I think a sure sign that a work is finished is when the corrections become trivial (to the point where often fixes are put back to their initial states). After a cooling off period, if writing time ends up being devoted to minor tweaks, let it go. Don’t be Isaac Babel.

Similarly, if you get to "the end" and there is no passion left the project, it's time to put it on the shelf. You may get back to it, but your muse is telling you there's something else to work on. That manuscript has (at least for now) done all it can for you as an artist.

One question that rarely comes up is, are you calling it finished when it's not? I suspect this happens far too often with best-selling writers. No one is there to tell them "no," so they turn in works that are beneath their capabilities. For some people, raising the bar is very difficult. (Of course, you don't have to be a successful writer to stop growing as an artist.) It's challenging and sometimes painful to move to a new, higher level of ambition.

Here's what I do to challenge myself. Once I have a draft, I look to see if I'm missing an important part of its potential. Sometimes, my muse gets ahead of my understanding and gives me gifts I don't recognize. So I write down the theme and some of the major points of the story and explore them with questions, and often a lot of lists. That usually shows me if I'm shortchanging the content. 

The shape of the work is more difficult to appreciate. The beauty of the language or the opportunities for symbols and metaphors or reinventing the structure so the story has more impact means asking less obvious questions. I found that listing works other people that seem to be related to what I've written forces me to imagine my story in different ways. It's a very right brain, intuition-driven approach, but it works for me.

One that I also depend on that is likely more generally applicable is approaching people who have provided good feedback and explicitly asking them for their thoughts on beauty and language and symbols and structure. A good reader may not have the exact answer, but he or she can push you in the right direction.

Rewriting to Create a Page-Turning Story - Transitions 4

Transitions are the links that keep people reading (or watching). In addition to orienting and reminding, they can charm, raise questions, and make people worry about characters. One standard practice for writers revising their manuscripts is to look at beginnings and endings (of chapters, scenes) to make sure they have strong hooks and cliffhangers. That’s part of the job of improving transitions, but it can miss a few things. So this week, I’m offering a short quiz and some guidance on what to do when transitions score poorly.

Transition Scorecard

Rate each one from 1-5, with 5 being the best score. (Note, it’s okay to consider transitions that are sequenced rather than single blocks.)

A) This transition is clear. All the elements (time, location, characters present, and situation) are presented in a helpful order.

B) This transition delights. It does more than the minimum. Voice, appropriate humor, poetic devices (such as metaphors), and/or imagery make it fun to read.

C) This transition engages through curiosity and concern.

D) This transition elegantly reminds people about key points before launching into the next phase of the story.

E) This transition is spare, without distracting and diluting extras (purple prose, artsy description, asides of questionable value, etc.)

F) This transition, without calling attention to itself, entertains with rhythm, precise word choice, and ideas that demand attention and invite rereading.

Chances are, there are few perfect scores. So here’s some help:

A) Clarity is the easiest fix. Usually, it’s a matter of discovering what’s missing and adding it in. But sometimes, writers are too clever by half. The elements are all there, but they are hidden or presented poetically when prose will do the job. If so, it becomes a matter of balancing appropriate emphasis with directness.

B) Delight involves a lot of choices. The important thing is what’s fun has to be fun for the chosen audience. And even for people who enjoy broad humor and shock, there’s a limit. When I think if what delights, I tend to look for three levels and go for the highest level where possible. I explore the levels by analogy to Stephen King’s types: gross-out, horror, and terror.

C) Curiosity is raising questions and deepening interest. (And this fails if the subject is hard to connect with or the answers are well-known.) Concern is an essential ingredient to most fiction, making people worry about a protagonist with whom they empathize. (Where many writers fall down is making the worry is about something trivial. Jeopardy, risks, and stakes need to be high and getting higher as the story progresses.)  Note: Questions make some people uncomfortable. So some readers will advocate, even demand, that some questions get answered right away. In general resist this (unless it’s genre related). In my experience, for every person who hates a delayed reveal, there are four who love it.

D) I’m frustrated by the “last week” reminders for episodic TV that I stream. TV has (or had) an excuse for being so ham handed. Most stories, though they need reminders of key points (especially in puzzle stories), repeated images, the reaction of a different character to the situation, or a worsening of the situation can bring the detail back to mind. Don’t have one character recap with nothing new to offer the reader. (This is a good place for artifacts, like news stories or songs to be dropped in.)

E) Good writing can paper over everything. No junk words. No relying on adverbs when robust verbs can do the job. Kill your darlings and resist the urge to show off. If it doesn’t serve the story it needs to go.

F) Having something to say is good throughout fiction. It can set a transition (which is often reduced to bare function) apart in the best way. Beyond ideas, make the words feel good in your mouth. That means reading the passage out loud (not silently) and not tolerating anything that feels false or awkward.

Taking things a step further, if reading beyond individual transition passages (or transition sequences) can be enlightening. By reading just the transitions, one after another from beginning to end, you can make judgments on consistency and variation. Generally, the tone, complexity (including word choice), and pacing should be similar (or deliberately chosen to jar). The transition techniques should be varied enough to provide novelty without distracting. And singletons (only one use of a quote, only one section from a character’s point of view, only one titled chapter) should be avoided.

Getting enough variation is trickier as the overall writing becomes more sophisticated. In these cases, there often are good reasons to break rules and the writer probably has the skills to do it well.  

For some of these, it will be easier to identify a concern than to create a solution. Creating a great title or opening sentence (for the work or a section) can be a challenge. But I’m hoping this series will make the opportunities for better transitions more visible, and some of the options will suggest possibilities that fit the need.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Signals 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Orientation 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Threats and questions 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is odd because story transitions fulfill many important roles.

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

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

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

So, with all the value, the questions become:

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

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

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