I did a series on key scenes that can be used to help create focus and power for stories. One point I had was how the right scene could be used to generate the whole story.
Much of what I explored came from Paddy Chayefsky’s comments and interviews, so I was delighted to find a perspective from another luminary, John Gardner. In chapter seven of The Art of Fiction, Gardner takes on plotting and, among other techniques, presents an approach to writing backward from a climax. It’s worth a read, but I’ll provide my interpretation, abstracted from his discussion.
Note: It does not need to be the climactic scene. It can be any of your story’s high impact, thematic scenes with an abrupt change of fortunes. Also, I may have drifted from Gardner’s perspective, so, if this interests you, going to his original material may do more for you than working through this article.
The worthy scene is one that intuition says is promising. It’s interesting. The possibilities go beyond the obvious. It feels meaningful.
Both when selecting the scene and developing it, come up with multiple choices. Have a bias toward a fresh and surprising choice. Determine what occurs.
The example that came to mind was one of a baby snatching.
At the most basic level, the climactic (or pivotal) scene suggests other scenes to be intelligible. What’s going on is more than a confrontation and its resolution. Who is this person? (Or who are these people?) Why did this person make this choice? How has this confrontation changed the person, both in terms of external consequences and in terms of internal factors, like values?
The baby snatcher could be a middle-aged man, a policewoman or a tourist. The person losing the baby could be the victim of a home invasion, a mom waiting at a bus stop, or a con artist.
Lots of motivations come to mind. One thing Gardner cautions against is victim stories, so the motivations of the person snatching are more promising for this example. For some reason, I see the tourist racing away with them baby out of revenge. Of course, there could be other reasons — a deep attraction to the baby, replacing her own lost baby, concern about the child’s welfare.
Choose the character whose perspective provides the most opportunity. This is most obvious when the scene has two people in conflict. And you can arrive at the point of view by analysis or intuition.
Not the victim. And I seem to have chosen a tourist by instinct. (Though I know remember of story where a pickpocket would toss her baby at a mark. No one lets a baby fall to the pavement, making the person depended upon to catch the baby vulnerable.) It is a less that obvious choice, which is good.
What’s the best style to use? Should the story be told by a folksy narrator or an eminent professor? Is this humor or tragedy? Is the logic spelled out? Or does the narrator miss the main point, leaving a way for the reader to engage? Is the style congruent with the subject matter or (intentionally) at odds or ironic?
The intrinsic sentimentality of this concept suggests to me that an objective treatment, like a police report, might be valuable. It’s so serious, it might be worth making this a comedy.
If you are writing a short story (or a chapter in a novel or an act in a script), first consider this in terms of as few scenes as possible, say, 3-4. This will provide focus and make you more selective. By the way, you can come up with dozens of scenes — and this may help for larger works or create more options — but the limits here will force deeper thinking on what is essential and most valuable to the work.
In reality, I’d probably take no fewer than three approaches and (in one-sentence summaries) spec out about 20 possible scenes. But I’ll mention just one sequence to illustrate. Margie has saved up all her life to visit Paris. She has learned the language. She has selected clothes that she thinks will set her above the fanny pack crowd. And everything has gone wrong on the visit. She gets on the wrong Metro and loses an hour. A threat leads to an evacuation of the Louvre before she gets to the Mona Lisa. She gets distracted by a dog at the cafe and spills her cocoa on herself. By the time the baby is tossed at her, she’s itching to grab back power. So let’s say I choose two of those and an aftermath scene — with the police or the pickpockets following her back to her hotel.
If there are two characters in conflict, do they have mutually exclusive values? Why must they engage? Why can’t they have sympathy for each other? Why can’t they find a compromise or delay the confrontation or avoid each other? Why is the confrontation both inevitable and surprising?
Both characters want to have possession of the baby, and there is only one baby. If someone takes your baby (or gains possession because you tossed it), you need to take immediate action. If you are a baby snatcher, your opportunities are limited and failure is not an option.
When two people (or rational beings) are not in conflict, when it is someone confronting a force (disease, the weather, an icy mountain), what does this confrontation symbolize in terms of moments that matter in our lives? (This can be considered with two character confrontations, too.)
This story could have to do with maternity or the struggles of being an outsider, but I think it has to do with how what we possess reflects our power. And this can be ambiguous. A baby is a good example, since you baby is yours (with legal rights and privileges), but a baby has claims on your time, attention, and resources.
Which parts of the scene result from volition? Which is a natural consequence of circumstances? How are the choices of characters relevant? What motivates them, which outcomes match their motivations, and which would surprise, disappoint, delight, or appall them?
For the pickpocket, this is a way to earn a living. It is predictable and orchestrated. Everything seems to be in her control. Margie’s action is surprising and disastrous. For Maggie, the action is her deliberately taking power when she is assumed to be powerless. Ultimately, the scene is about her choice. The natural consequence is a need to maintain possession (otherwise why snatch the baby?), and that probably means fleeing. I suspect all are surprised, the pickpocket is bereft, and Maggie, in the moment, delighted.
Consider what your spare little sequence conveys, paying special attention to the specifics in your scenes (which likely bubbled up from your subconscious for a reason) and the order in which the beats come and play out your intention. These provide hints about the theme you should be exploring.
I can’t help but think of the statement, “No plan of operations extends with any certainty beyond the first contact with the main hostile force.” It’s true both for the pickpocket and for Maggie. And in direct conflict with Maggie’s saving, setting an itinerary, dressing in a specific way, etc. The folly of human order is a repeated element of each scene.
If there is an element that jumps out as symbolic or resonant, explore it in terms of the rest of the story. Going from the tangible to a theme that touches your art and provides insights brings authenticity to your work.
If I had actually drafted these scenes, I’d now have the job of noticing opportunities. For instance, Maggie might find a button that doesn’t even show has fallen off and make some effort to sew it back on before her tour. Or I could include something as simple as her straightening her collar after the wind blows it.
One thing Gardner speaks of elsewhere in his book is the artist’s vice of frigidity. This is when something of great value isn’t given the space, consideration, and effort it deserves. It is far too easy to be superficial or conventional when more is in play. My mind turned this around to insist on giving every story its dignity. One thing along these lines that sets my teeth on edge is the unserious use of a battlefield trauma or abuse to explain the behavior of a character. Major societal wounds used as devices to push less serious plots forward reflects a lack of thoughtfulness or empathy.
Because it’s part of my writing process, I make a big deal about considering the audience for the work. It helps me to focus. This is not really explored in this chapter by Gardner, but it suggests another set of valid an important choices.
In practice, since I write rapidly, many of my choices come out in a quick draft and then those choices are tested with these questions (and more invention/experimentation). That is about putting a real investment in the scene that started it all, and it pays off (I hope) with something deeper and more meaningful.
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