Tuesday, December 21, 2021

A Writer’s Resolutions

 I’ve already compiled a list of key projects for 2022. Since opportunities pop up, a list like that isn’t “final,” but it’s invaluable to my resetting focus and avoiding weaker projects that beg for my attention.

My rule is always to keep goals confined to what’s in my control. So it’s about completing a novel, not selling one. If I have a finished work I want in the marketplace, my goal is to submit, not be accepted by a specific editor, agent, or producer. And with something like a podcast, it’s producing the show, not reaching an audience size that I set as a goal.  (Of course, doing due diligence on markets and collaborators may be a goal.)

There’s another kind of list, a list tied to the formation of myself as the kind of writer I want to be. It’s a project where instead of a manuscript, I am the project. The planning is comprised of education, experiences, and exercises that will mold my skill, habits, knowledge, and sensitivities… directing me toward being a more capable writer or discovering a new perspective on writing.

Anyway, here’s my list:
 
    1.    Collaborate with someone new. Nothing teaches like working with someone else. Sometimes I learn by observing. Other times, it’s through helping someone else explore something new. Most often, it’s because I or my collaborator(s) ask questions. Doable? I’ll be putting on a producer’s hat in 2022 and enlisting people to work with me.
    2.    Write poetry.  I want to think more deliberately about language and capture/develop insights. I haven’t written poetry in years, so it’s time for me to return to it. Doable? Yes. It’s a matter of putting the work on my calendar. I’ll draft a poem a week and get four of them ready for submission.
    3.   See a world in a grain of sand. When I serve the scientist in me, I sharpen my powers of observation. One year, I paid attention the birds who visit my feeder (often those waiting for a turn), and I discovered differences in behaviors and strategies. Some of those got me thinking about analogues to humans. I’ll take 2022 to learn more about trees. Doable? I already have a book, and I’m lucky enough to have a variety of trees on my property. Let the exploration begin!
    4.    Pitch and/or propose a novel. This has been on my projects list before. It belongs here now because my purpose is less about finding opportunities than it is to knock the rust off and reorient myself toward books. (My focus has been more on scripts in recent years). The manuscript is worth testing in the marketplace and will teach me about a world I've been away from. Doable? I have a starting point. I know how to research publishers and, in the past, I’ve been able to pitch and write proposals in ways that got requests. Even my skill set is out of date, there are no barriers to making the attempt.
    5.    Mentor. This is always on my list, so I know it will force me to articulate ideas and listen deeply. I never know what I’ll learn. Doable? Yes. I’ve kept my project list modest enough to provide the needed time.
    6.    Get out of my comfort zone. One year, even though I’m an introvert, I took an improv class. It paid off in pitching I’ve done because it requires dealing with whatever someone else throws at you, and making responses brief. (Note: This one doesn’t need to be directly related to writing.) Doable? I have a fallback list of courses and activities, but I’ll probably choose something that’s ridiculous. As long as it doesn’t involve jumping out of an airplane.
    7.    Kill a project. This won’t be an active project. It will be something that has been rattling in my brain too long. Doable? Yes. I can be ruthless. My time is not infinite.
    8.    Master one skill. I’m curious about operations, ways to handle flow of media (magazines, books, podcasts, etc.), opportunities, and tasks vying for my attention. I think having a wide net is essential for a writer, but too often, what flows in doesn’t get processed. And stuff accumulates. Doable? Probably. So far, my needs don’t match up well enough with what I know of engineering principles to create an ideal process. But rather than get bogged down with finding perfect answers, I'll see what emerges from trial and error. Could be disappointing.
    9.    Explore the weird. Hours can disappear if I accept the rabbit holes the Internet offers. I’ve gotten good at resisting all the allures, but, with that discipline, there’s been a reduction in the curiosities that used to fill my life, all the way back to my days of leafing through encyclopedias and wandering library stacks. I need some fun facts to know and tell my friends. Doable? I’d love to return to haunting library. Covid has kept me away for too long. But I have an old encyclopedia and lots of weird books gathering dust, and they’ll do the job if “normal life” continues to stay on hold.
    10.    Fun. I’ve never have added this before. That's been a mistake because too much of what might be recreation (reading, films, hobbies) ends up serving projects. Focus is fine, but my instincts tell me I need more fun and nonsense in my life. Doable? I'm not sure. There's a contradiction inherent to planning to be spontaneous. I may need to add notes on my calendar. And a daily question… Did you have fun (unrelated to a project) today?

Almost certainly, my list isn’t the best one for you, but I hope you’re encouraged to reflect on the kind of writer you’d like to become in 2022 and how you could get closer to realizing your goals.


Thursday, December 16, 2021

Thirty Questions to Help Storytellers Make Scenes More Emotional

Ray Bradbury maintained emotion is key to storytelling. In fact, his advice was…

“find out who you really are, and try not to lie, try to tell the truth all the time. And the only way to do this is by being very active and very emotional, and get it out of yourself — making things that you hate and things that you love, you write about these then, intensely. When it’s over, then you can think about it; then you can look, it works or it doesn’t work, something is missing here. And, if something is missing, then you go back and reemotionalize that part, so it’s all of a piece.”

A starting point for evaluating a scene is getting back to your own emotional experience. It can’t be faked. In my experience, there are more steps to bring emotion to readers, and I created some questions to explore along four dimensions — Assessing the Scene, Putting Emotions in Context, Considering the Audience, and Tuning with Tools.

Assessing the Scene
    1.    Can you name the emotions? Beginning? End?
    2.    Do the emotions feel genuine?
    3.    What score would you give the emotions (1-10 or something subjective like meh, intriguing, unsettling, inciting.)
    4.    Are emotions experienced through the right character? (Often, this is the character with the most at risk.)
    5.    Are emotions proportional to the stakes?
    6.    Do emotions reflect change to an important relationship?
    7.    Is surprise an element? Could it be?
    8.    Do the characters react in proportion to events that trigger emotion?

Putting Emotion in Context
    1.    How do the emotions connect with the story’s theme? Do they add to the impact?
    2.    Are the emotions named worth the scene?
    3.    How do emotions add to the motivation and character arc?
    4.    How is the emotional experience interwoven with the plot?
    5.    Is the emotional experience highlighted by irreversibility? Or can what is done or decided be undone?
    6.    Does the emotion reflect the genre (horror/fear, romance/love)?
    7.    Does the emotion of this scene fit within the emotions and pacing of scenes before/after? The whole story?

Considering the Audience
    1.    Will the audience find this authentic or melodramatic?
    2.    Are the hopes/fears of the audience at the scene’s start set up?
    3.    Will the audience be defending against strong emotions or have they been made more open though devices like comic relief?
    4.    Are there elements in the scene (descriptions, complexity, too many characters) that distract from emotion, or is it trimmed to the essentials?
    5.    Is the emotional arc of the scene accessible to the intended audience?
    6.    Is the audience sufficiently engaged with the viewpoint character, the situation, and what’s at risk?
    7.    Are alternative choices (allowing the character — and audience — to avoid emotion) cut off?  

Tuning with Tools
    1.    Is necessary information fresh and valued or are reminders needed? Should elements be repeated?
    2.    Are emotions merely stated or are they shown physically, through character statements, and through actions?
    3.    Is each essential emotional beat given enough (or too much) time? Is the pacing right?
    4.    Could poetic tools (sound and imagery) be used to deepen emotion?
    5.    Could the stakes be raised or the choices made more difficult?
    6.    Is emotion understated (or overstated)?
    7.    Could the setting be changed to charge the emotion (say, putting the scene is a public setting)?
    8.    Could the protagonist be put under a time constraint forcing an action or decision?

Overall, the biggest barrier to true and appropriately intense emotions is usually the writer. Like the audience, there are times when we may protect ourselves (and our characters) from feeling too much. Also, fascination with the intellectual elements (like puzzles and inventions), settings, and language may provide value that is more about wit than feelings. So a final test of the scene might be seeing if, once what appeals to the head and the ego is removed, the emotions of the scene alone have enough power to engage and entertain.

Wednesday, December 8, 2021

Eleven Questions to Ask About Your Story Premise

The deeper I get into writing, the more I appreciate the value of making careful choices about the material I choose to write about. Though I still get value out of doing quick drafts (five pages or so) to explore story ideas and characters, I’m much more selective about projects that will likely take more than a week to reach “the end.”

This is not to say my radar is still up for what might be interesting to audiences. For me, both capturing notions (real or imagined) and brainstorming are processes done without filters. The strangest ideas smash together (sometimes years later), and weird, inappropriate stuff will often lead me to treasure.

Which brings up a Washington Post story that popped up today. A climber reached the site of a 1966 airline crash and found a box full of emeralds and sapphires. What a story prompt! The box was found in France and headed to India. I’ve visited both countries! This is perfect for me!

No. No. No. My connection is not exactly strong since I have not climbed in the Alps and I have no expertise in jewels. This is a front page story internationally, meaning writers worldwide will take this as a prompt (no doubt, one with a deal with the climber). And I’ve just suggested this to you and anyone else who reads this post. (Or blog, possibly books, of those who regularly harvest my blog posts for non-English-speaking audiences.)

No. (Probably not.)

On the basis of analysis and instinct, I’ve been cutting back on my to-be-written and to-be-rewrtten lists. I’m happy with the results, so I’m sharing some questions I use to qualify premises. (For an earlier view on this, see A Story Premise You Can Love and Cherish: 10 questions. For analysis of premises, see my series on the topic.)

  • After noting the idea, developing a premise, and exploring with a few pages, am I still excited? Even after letting the premise cool for a month? Does the excitement rise to a sustainable passion to tell the story?
  • Am I the best one to tell this story? Can I really get into the world (either because I know it or I can do enough research)? Can I authentically present the characters? Does this resonate with an experience or issue that matters to me?
  • Is the character compelling? Already whispering in my ear? Insistent? Popping back into my head even after I say no to the story?
  • Are there already intriguing answers by a character to some of the 50 Rude Questions?
  • Are more than one ideas connected in a fresh way that implies specific scenes?
  • Does this premise fill me with anticipation and expectations? Does it fit into a genre I’m comfortable with?
  • Is the setting one I know well or could learn about through friends, lesser known research materials, or my processes for speculation?
  • Do I have one big scene or three small scenes of interest already running through my brain?

Not necessary, but supporting my commitment, are these questions:

  • Do I see a connection with an emerging social issue?
  • Can I already see an appealing ending? Beginning?
  • Do I have a terrific title?

Work still needs to be done. Research may show necessary information is inaccessible. The character in mind may be a bad fit as a protagonist. Development may reveal reasons not to proceed. A shorter work that includes most of what I love may be a better choice.

The main advantage for me of making questioning and ranking premises part of my process is focus. The stuff that’s set aside isn’t distracting or tempting me. In addition, the questions suggest pathways for further exploration and development. Overall, my commitment to projects (and eagerness to stay engaged) goes beyond completing a draft (a problem for some, but not for me) to doing all the rewrites that make the story as good as it can be (often my worst problem).

Though I hope some of these questions are useful, one size does not fit all. I’d encourage you to develop your own. The more they are yours, the higher the possibility that you’ll get full value from this step.