Getting Your Hero or Heroine into Trouble

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Upcoming Course

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

It provides a methodical approach to getting your writing done.

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

 

 

A Writer’s Bucket List

I’m someone who’s driven more by enthusiasms than desires. I’ve never created a conventional bucket list, filled with places to see and things to do. At least not consciously. So, when exploring material for this post, I was surprised to discover that many of the things I might have put onto a list — from a writer’s perspective — I’ve already done.

For instance, I heard actors read my dialogue after I tagged along with a friend to a theater group. That was so thrilling, it should have been a target for me. Another unknown goal was getting into a writers’ room. The seeds for that were planted in me by years of watching The Dick Van Dyke Show. They grew to fruition when I was invited to join a writers’ room for a Web series. I even got to be head writer the second year of the series. Writing persuasively? I was inspired by the great speeches of the 60s (Martin Luther King, Kennedy, etc.), but this was a hope, but an unlikely goal when I was younger. Nevertheless, I somehow wandered from the lab to into a new career, learning the ins and outs of communicating clearly and persuasively to audiences from high school to the World Economic Forum.

So a lot of things were checked off my list already. Saying “yes” to collaborating with a variety of people and doing things that pushed me out of my comfort zone has worked for me.
Nonetheless, I’ll offer my own bucket list from my perspective as a writer, and I hope a few resonate with you.

    1.    Really finish a passion project — A lot of my writing has been done as an employee. (Paying the bills.) This sometimes bleeds into the creative, speculative work, moving me toward a market focus. But what about the stories I need to tell? I’m happy to say that my work is moving more and more in that direction. And I’m making progress. Step one: Know what the passion projects are. (Some I fall in love with. Some reveal themselves in the writing.) Step two: Give them the time they need. Don’t let them fall to the bottom of the list. Step three: Get a good draft completed. Step four: Keep pushing until they become irresistible.
    2.    Write something for posterity or intended as a gift or to honor to someone - This came up almost every time I had a conversation with my cousin, who wrote comedy. His focus was on posterity, but that always felt too grand to me. When I began to write with the idea that work could be a gift for someone alive or a way to honor someone who was lost. I’ve completed a few, and others are higher on my priority list. (While all my passion projects are lengthy, these tend to be small, doable efforts.)
    3.    Get a reading - To hear your words spoken by others can be painful or marvelous. When I was a young writer, it was almost always painful. Sometimes because I’d never read the words out loud and heard how awkward they were. Sometimes because the reader had more enthusiasm than skill. Mostly because I was stuck on how the words “should” sound. Anything other than a perfect match to what was in my head disturbed me. Luckily, I got over that to the point where, if someone matches my inner voice now, I’m disappointed. I actually work to provide words worth interpreting in fresh ways.
    4.    Finish a large/small work - A lot of writers I know get stuck in one form and never try another. Even if it’s not obvious, the true value of your work may lie outside your comfort zone. In my own experience, I’ve seen stories come alive when I’ve reinterpreted them — novels as screenplays. Short plays as short stories. And more. Roger Kahn wrote in his book,  Good Enough to Dream, about his dad at bat. A minor leaguer who only lacked the ability to hit home runs, his father switched around to bat left-handed for a game after his retirement. What was meant to be fun became a poignant moment when he sent the pitch soaring. The one tool he needed, hitting the long ball, wasn’t discovered until it was too late.
    5.    Connect with and say thank you to a writer you admire - Writing is a community with its own history and heroes. I grew up owing a debt to Melville and Shakespeare and Poe that I could only repay with my work. But I might have gotten the opportunity to thank Ray Bradbury or Paddy Chayefsky or Vonda McIntyre. I know now it would have mattered because I have had the chance to express my gratitude to other writers, and my moments with them have anchored my efforts in real and valuable ways.
    6.    Collaborate and/or mentor - My first attempt at collaboration was a disaster, but it taught me lifelong lessons I needed about tact and generosity. For me, even when projects don’t work out, I’ve found I gain a lot in terms of new perspectives and appreciation of skills. This is also true for mentoring, which has long been part of my practice. Enthusiasm rubs off. Questions teach. Diagnosing problems of another challenges me to look more closely at what I’m doing. Plus, writing means a lot more alone time than acting or playing music in a band. Collaborating and mentoring create community and friendships.
    7.    Write something that influences others or yourself - Persuasion is an essential element of speech writing, so I’ve been forced to think in terms of audience, reflecting on what people care about, what structures/phrasing/words are clear, emotional elements, providing entertaining experiences, and more. Especially when the stakes are high or the message isn’t welcome, this can push you to a new level of care and understanding in writing. I’m grateful to have been put into difficult real-world situations that have both improved my craft and forced me to empathize with people who are very different from myself. More recently, I’ve come to appreciate how the right projects can influence me. In particular, answering rude questions and looking for pivotal moments in my own life have opened up my writing and led me to a deeper understanding of myself.
    8.    Finish a poem worth memorizing - This is my own goal for 2022, and I might have included it under number 4 above, but the second part feels important. Taking something on that’s difficult and testing its value with a specific task goes further than testing the waters. For me, as a definite non-poet, this creates a goal that my intuition says is worth the time and effort.  
    9.    Write something just for fun - I’ve always believed that most writing should be fun. It is possible to do joyless writing. I’ve taken on demanding tasks, needed by clients, that called more for discipline and professional dedication than fun. That happens when writing is a career. However, I’m happy to say I’m someone who mostly takes delight in writing, and not a writers who only enjoys having written. In the past couple of years, perhaps because of the challenges of Covid, I’ve found myself working with writers who’ve lost their zeal for writing. In most cases, something took it away — a relationship, health problems, financial pressures, or life events. Writing just for the joy of it — not to pay a bill or get published or please someone else — is both valid and vital.
    10.    Go on a pilgrimage for inspiration - To me, Grand Central Station is a temple. I love spending time there, soaking in the beauty, the people, the echoes, and the drama. Walking through Robert Frost’s house in Vermont provided another experience of space, as the poems I grew up with (he was a favorite of my mother and grandfather) settled into my spirit in new ways. And, of course, the people and events that are part of the journey to a location of meaning can delight, terrify, or shape your consciousness as a writer, as well. Sometimes pilgrimages are created by circumstances out of your control, but mostly they need to be planned and invested in. Selecting a destination and putting it onto your calendar (almost) guarantees new perspectives.   

My original list had 25 items, and I discovered some I had (like attending Bread Loaf) spent a lot of years buried before they were realized. I also found that a lot of things that came to mind first like awards and contracts, were out of my control. I captured them anyway and made them prompts that help me to discover what I could add to a list. 

What’s on your bucket list?

Thoughts On Plot Twists

Last week, I was reading an old interview with Philip K Dick. In it, he mentioned that a lot of the choices that shaped the plot of The Man in the High Castle came from his use of the I Ching.

It got me thinking about plot twists and where they come from. My preference is for the work to be as organic as possible. Often, some of the more interesting turns in my stories occur to me as I'm writing and surprise me. I can trace back where they came from, but they are far from deliberate. Since many of my stories come from intuitive (not systematic) collisions of apparently unrelated ideas, sometimes the odd story developments emerge from the natural consequences of those combinations.

Because the muse doesn't always show up, I have techniques that lead to twists. Sometimes, these fit right in. Sometimes, they necessitate a lot of rewriting to smooth them out enough so that they feel organic. And sometimes they lead me into lots of pages that never make it into the final manuscript. My first "go to" approach is to list 10 to 20 options. Often I write these out in full sentences so that I know I'm being absolutely clear about each. It's very rare that one of these doesn't feel both right for the story and unpredictable.

Another thing I do is imagine how some of my favorite authors would move the story forward. Oddly enough, even though these are really coming out of my brain, no two authors ever make the same choices. More often than not, I'm stuck with more than one option that intrigues me — not a bad situation to find myself in.

On occasion, I've also written the scene over again from a different character's point of view. This is less successful, but always worthwhile in terms of insights. In fact, it's worth mentioning that many of my favorite story terms seem to been whispered into my ear by one of the characters. Or they've resulted from the reaction of another character in the scene that was stronger than I expected. One more character piece that has worked is including a wildcard character (often a trickster) in the story and introducing them into the problematic scene.

Context can play an invaluable role as well. Getting out of the character's head and exploring the larger meaning of the scene, in terms of the story world, often causes me to include forces (such as cultural) that make a modest decision epic. More rarely, I focus more tightly on the character's interests, even breaking down each beat and working to experience deeper emotions that come into play.

The easiest way to flip expectations in ways that engage rather than lose readers is to refer to models. I’ll often look to similar stories or history to explore possibilities. These come with their own authenticity, which helps me to be convinced as I use what I’ve learned to work on my own story. The one caution here is that the excuse “this really happened” may work its charms on the author, but may mean nothing to a reader. The improbable doesn’t work in fiction. And that goes double if it benefits the protagonist.

One more thing. Every plot twist needs to be challenged in revision. This can be a pain if you’ve fallen in love with it and other elements of the story depend on it, but a bad plot twist can shatter the story logic and drive readers away. Luckily, it’s almost always the case that any concerns that arise can be fixed by making changes to scenes that come before the twist. In my experience, these are not just simple fixes, but opportunities to make large chunks of the story more interesting.

——————————
August course
A Task Approach to Efficient Writing
August 16-September 5 

 

One key to writing productively and doing a thorough job is understanding the tasks of writing. If you only see big activities, like exploration, drafting, revision, and polishing, it’s hard to plan the day’s work. Each requires many different skills, approaches and time commitments. That’s one reason finding “revision” on your to-do list can be so overwhelming. Where to start?

By breaking the work down to specific steps (like analyzing story logic, tightening prose, and sweetening the humor), you can assign yourself tasks to make each writing session rewarding.

This course will help you divide huge writing jobs into bite-sized pieces, with guidelines on how you can order them to match the way you write.

Through exercises, checklists, and approaches to integrate task-based planning into your writing, you’ll be able to create your own map to finishing a manuscript. With over 50 different tasks listed, ordered, and defined, you’ll never sit down with a vague idea of what the day’s work is.

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.

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.

Learn About Your Characters Through Their Complaints and Regrets

Many writers have a hard time acknowledging their characters’ dark sides. This can weaken their stories because so much—including character arcs—is built on flaws. When I’m teaching, It takes more than a gentle nudge to move writers toward spotting the imperfections. Usually, total immersion in the Seven Deadly Sins is required.

But here’s a gentler way: get the characters complaining. This is almost too easy for comic characters, But it’s only really difficult for the strong, silent types —the ones you can imagine Clint Eastwood playing. I think it works most times because writers like to complain and don’t feel especially guilty about it. Yes, there are a few Saints out there, but most people would look for opportunities to complain about lousy service at a restaurant. Or aggressive drivers. Or rude neighbors.

Obviously, it can be legitimate, even courageous, to bring notice to injustices or suggest ways systems can be improved or to stand up for people who are being oppressed. But, like gossip, telling a story to add to the toxicity of the world rather than to aid in creating positive change is usually a revealing vice. If the story pays you back because you let off steam or gain sympathy or get a moment of feeling superior, it’s probably just complaining and not done for noble reasons.

I remember my dad once saying, “You know, I’ve been offering critiques of these other drivers for over half my life, and they aren’t getting any better.”

That statement was both hilarious and insightful. Note - I have not personally benefited from that insight.

As a starting point, don’t worry about your characters. See if you can get yourself complaining with a few prompts. You might want to warm up by singing along to Gilbert and Sullivan’s politically incorrect, "I've Got a Little List."  (Warning: Here's an especially rude updated version. Watch at your own risk.)

Okay. You are looking for answers that are stories. Not just, I got root beer itnstead of cola. If there is a conversation or escalating interactions, you’re probably in the right place.

Has everyone taken their blood pressure medicine? Good.

    ▪    What’s the stupidest exchange you’ve had with a bureaucrat? This can be government, insurance, electric company… your choice.
    ▪    Which work (or club) activity was the worst waste of time?
    ▪    When were you appallingly disappointed? It’s likely to be something connected to leisure — seeing a movie, going on a date, joining a friend at his or her favorite dive. Recommendations that lead to bad experiences may be memorable.
    ▪    When were you not properly thanked? When you went out of your way, worked to make something perfect, or sacrificed your own joy and pleasure, only to be met by a shrug or a quibble?
    ▪    When were you not justly rewarded? No raise or bonus or recognition for exceptional work?
    ▪    When were you disproportionally punished or singled out for no reason? Given the lousy task? Stuck with the unpleasant duty or person?
    ▪    When did cruel fate afflict you? When did luck fail you? When was something wonderful missed that would have been possible if someone else had made the slightest effort?

I have a much longer list, but I hope one of these jogged a memory that really mattered. And that you captured the whole experience for analysis.

If you got emotionally involved, that’s good. Something is there. Especially if your suffering was not life changing. The more trivial, the better. Because these are the sorts of things that reveal a dark side, something that may be difficult to admit to. If “honor” is involved, in may be almost impossible.

If it doesn’t seem like your answers offer much, even after some time has passed, start keeping track of your complicated complaints (as above, conversations and multiple interactions). Write them down as if told to a friend who’s willing to put up with your worst whinging. Then give it some time and see if there are lessons about flaws you might have. Chances are better with captured complaints than remembered complaints because these are likely to be easier to see objectively over time. Memories can weave themselves into who you are.

Here’s when things get good. If you can do this for yourself, you can probably take questions like those above and get to the truth with your characters. That offers the possibility of raising the quality of your stories dramatically.

But what about Clint Eastwood? Grunts and single word answers don’t offer much. For these stoic folks, it’s better to pursue regrets than complaints. Regrets often are part of the same cloth, but include a level of accountability. And that ownership and acceptance is why the strong, silent types, flawed though they are, provide some of the best loved heroes.

Mastering the Story Scene

 A good scene is one of the beauties of great fiction. Ideally, it pulls readers in with a hook (which can be a soft hook, based on what came before). The protagonist’s purpose is clear. There’s hope and disaster with escalating jeopardy throughout. And, at the ending, there is a clear indication of how the purpose pursued turned out. (Usually, not well.)

In other words, a good scene is a good story, all by itself.

When a scene opens, it could be a continuation of what happened before (particularly if there was a cliffhanger), but it’s more likely to be occurring  in a different place at a different time. And who is present matters, too. If it becomes unintentionally confusing to a reader, it’s likely they are disoriented.

This is all essential information, but it tends to drag the story down if it is pure narration. This can be dodged if an arresting image (a prison wall, the Emerald City) or action (plane crash, kiss) is used to carry valuable orienting information. Poetic language and quotes can also be used to make the information more palatable (less easily in the 21st century than it was in the more patient 19th century).

The most common and one of the best ways to orient a reader or an audience is through the eyes of a character (especially the protagonist). Whatever the character notices, responds to emotionally, and sees as important becomes valuable to the reader. So, adding humanity to the job of specifying time and place makes the information difficult to skip by or ignore.

Mastery of Story Scene 1: Orient the reader as efficiently as possible.
Practice: Find a way to get the point of view character emotionally involved in the setting. Looking for danger. Being flooded with memories. Feeling awe at the beauty of a palace. Setting a scene outdoors can make this exercise easier because most of us have a relationship with Nature. If the main character pauses to enjoy the setting of the sun behind snow capped mountains, a lot of orientation is done. If the hero slows his pace as he steps off the path to enter a dark forest and listens to catch the growls of predators over the pounding of his heart, the reader is there with him, and not skipping ahead. 

Why are we here? Obviously, so the protagonist can achieve the story’s overall goal. (If the antagonist is the point of view character, it’s his or her goal, probably to foil the protagonist.) But the specific scene has a specific task that contributes to the overall goal. Readers have to know: 

• what the task is,
• what success would look like,
• what the obstacles are,
• what the current risks and consequences of failure might be, and
• what the price of achieving (or failing) the task is expected to be.

My favorite example is the Cliffs of Insanity scene in The Princess Bride. Vizinni and his gang have the goal of leaving their pursuer (Westley) behind. The task is climbing the Cliffs. Vizzini imagines Wesley losing time finding a port, ensuring an escape (and using the Princess to achieve their major goal, starting a war). No such luck. He follows them up the cliff. Westley could catch up and stop them. Fezzik is berated and directly threatened with losing his job. But there is more than a hint that Westley might be personally, physically dangerous to all of them (except the Princess) because he seems to be a force of nature.

So, Vizinni’s almost-monologue narrates the need for success and the consequences. Also, Vizzini shows his desperation with the tone of his remarks and the speed with which he cuts the rope (beginning even before Fezzik is safely off the cliff face). The visuals of the Cliffs and Westley pursuing and gaining on them shows the obstacles and implies risks (failing, being slain, falling). The presence of the Princess is a reminder of the larger goal.

Of course, a real dialogue can occur (including warnings and premature fantasies about success). Things can be set up in a previous scene. (“Tomorrow, we rob the bank.” The next scene begins with the banker opening the door.) Reactions of multiple characters (usually with differences) can be good indicators. (“This will be easy.” His partner frowns.) Irony can be used. Think of the ending of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid where they have no idea that they are up against, not a posse, but an army.

Mastery of Story Scene 2: Make it clear why this scene matters.
Practice: Find three scenes you love. See when and how that task is presented. (It may be that part of this was presented at the end of the previous scene. If all your chosen scenes use the same devices, try to find a scene that uses a different approach.

To begin to develop your skill, write the beginning of a scene from your story in at least two different ways that communicate the purpose of the scene within the larger context.

Since you know the purpose of a scene in terms of information presented and how things will end up plot-wise, it’s easy to get that down and feel like the job is done. No. Not true. A joke fails if the punchline is revealed before the end. Scenes need to be journeys, not destinations. The pacing matters. The energy matters. The moments matter. The tension matters.

Fundamentally, a scene is built up of beats (even in prose, where a scene and sequel structure may be used). The meaning of beat has been blurred and used for a variety of purposes, but I find it useful in this context to refer to power shifts. Throughout a scene, there are points where power moves from one character to another or the powerful person becomes relatively more powerful.

Imagine a fight. The hero gets clocked and staggers backward (opponent has more power). But when the opponent charges, the hero slips to the side and trips him so he’s flat on the ground (hero has more power). As the hero goes to finish him off, the opponent pulls a knife and slashes his Achilles tendon (opponent has more power. When the hero falls, the opponent slides over and holds his blade against the hero’s neck (opponent has even more power).

Of course, a battle does not need to be physical. And it need not involve intrinsically bad things happening. Humiliation, threats, and dark revelations can shift power, but so can bribes and flattery. Even advice and warnings can shift power, with Iago’s lie-filled counsel to Othello being a horrifying example.

A good rule of thumb is to have three to five beats in a scene. Too few can make a scene feel trivial or incomplete (recognizing having things unresolved may be good at times). Too many can make it feel redundant or static.

While beats are the primary means for managing the energy in a scene, there can be more than power shifts. The reader can be brought in personally (and not just exploiting empathy with a character) through raising questions and exciting curiosity. The main character may reveal a secret that explains and even twists what came earlier (Vader: “No, I am your father.”)
 

Set pieces, like car chases, may intrude (real risks to managing energy). Comic relief may interrupt tension, allowing for greater emotional impact in what follows. French scenes, where another character enters, can dramatically shift some elements or everything about a scene. Or they can add excruciating delays as when one character asks a vital question and someone who can’t or shouldn’t hear the answer breaks in. And we wait.
 

Generally, a scene grows in intensity by escalating in terms of risk or what’s at stake. I always end up shifting scenes in a story to avoid plateauing, but it’s sometimes necessary for me to stack beats so they escalate.

Most scenes begin with a hook (or an answer to a previous scene) and end with a cliffhanger (to keep the reader or audience engaged and eager for the next scene. These may modulate the energy of the scene or reach past the single scene to shape tension of the larger work. Story logic reflects the larger work as well, but the scene beats can’t violate that. One thing leads to another.

Mastery of Story Scene 3: Manage the energy of the scene.
Practice: Explore scenes in stories you love and identify the beats (power shifts). Note your emotional response to each beat. Do the beats escalate? Are they interrupted by comic relief, set pieces, or French scenes? Do the beats in the scenes you love or your favorite genre come at predictable intervals? Now see if you can find beats in a scene you’ve written and use what you’ve learned to better manage the energy.

Scenes require so much to be successful, that a good test, during revision, is seeing what parts fail to do more than one thing. Dialogue with subtext reveals the on-the-face concern while indicating the real concern inside. Exposition in dialogue is used to battle an opponent. (As Robert McKee says, exposition as ammunition.) A character handing over the map to the expedition’s leader may do so eagerly or with great reluctance.

Readers and audiences can absorb more than they’re given credit for. In addition to doing more than one thing at a time, there may be opportunities to skip moments, condense, and direct focus. Don’t strive to reflect reality as it is. Make choices. Degas said, “Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.”

Note: The more challenging the scene is for readers and audiences, the greater the likelihood of confusion. Write complex scenes with confidence anyway. Begin by trusting the audience and yourself. Clarity is king, but it’s much easier to add clarity than it is to make a scene more elegant.

Mastering Language in Stories

Words matter. They are the passports to fictional worlds. But, oddly, the first duty of the writer is to make them invisible. That means using the right words (not just close enough) for the intended reader. It means sequencing the ideas they convey in a way that builds and is logical. Mostly, it means doing the task without making readers reread.

Heinlein wrote about a class he took at the Naval Academy where a situation was presented to the students, and they had to write an order that was unambiguous. Each day, if the order had perfect clarity, the student passed. But, if another student could find a way to misconstrue the order, it meant failure.

I faced a similar challenge in my first job. I had to write detailed instructions on purifying valuable biological components (monoclonal antibodies and enzymes for genetic engineering) without any mentoring. The readers of these instructions were often people for whom English was a second language. I wrote over 100 of these, which was good training for clarity.

New writers get beat up over misspellings and grammatical errors, but I consider this to be borderline hazing. You should not turn in a manuscript with such errors. It makes people suspicious about your seriousness. But, ultimately, you can hire someone to make fixes, and, if you pay attention to their work, your spelling and grammar will probably rise to a professional level (unless you have dyslexia or a similar disability). Mechanics are low on the list, far below storytelling, character development, and graceful prose.

I’ll deal with storytelling later, and character mastery has already been covered in this series. Now is the time for graceful prose.

I have a bias toward hearing words. My father was in broadcasting for many years, and, as a speechwriter, I came to appreciate the value of what language can do when it’s heard. (It is immediately evident to me when a written speech was never read out loud before presentation.) I believe it is essential to read most works aloud as a check.

Now, with that in mind, many writers are not tuned to hear the difference between good prose and great prose. I think this is one of the things Stephen King recognized, and it led him to be a strong advocate for writers reading. My advice is to read more and dedicate some time to reading great, lyrical prose aloud. Include poetry in the mix, but also monologues and speeches. Read the Jaws Indianapolis monologue in isolation. Read the Glengarry Glen Ross steak knives speech in isolation, too. Read a sonnet by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

The listening mind picks up the rhythms. The listening mind (except when spellbound by the sounds) finds skips, bumps, and inversions in the progression of ideas. The listening mind finds opportunities for beauty, emphasis, and deepening emotion.

Mastery of Language 1: Learn to write for the ear (even when the words are not intended to be spoken).
Practice: Make a habit of savoring passages with beautiful language. If you read a lot of good work, you’ll probably notice glorious language. As a first step toward making it yours, just go back and read it out loud. (Notice the pauses. Notice how the words might be spoken differently.) As you strive to master the sound of language, memorize these passages from time to time.

I make a point of reading diversely. English is wonderful for that because, in addition to its being interpreted by different cultures, it has gone through wonderful permutations over time. I also try to meet a quota for reading out loud and reading or listening to poetry on a weekly basis.

Beyond the sound value is the image value of language. Use words that create visuals. This means specific,  well-chosen, clearly described descriptions. General words (beautiful) and ambiguous words (tall) create a blur. Too many words overwhelms. Every good visual is a poem that is cut to the right length. Comparisons, when apt, can help. Texture almost always adds because it combines the visual with the tactile.

Of course, an effective metaphor has power, too. It can grab a reader’s imagination and reference webs of associations and levels of experience. (A bad metaphor distracts.) Lean into metaphors and imagery that connects emotionally (first with you, then with readers).

Mastery of Language 2: Learn to write for the inner eye.
Practice: Exercise your visual imagination by recalling an image from your grade school years. See if you can describe it in a few sentences in a way that might evoke emotion. As a followup, you might create a description in your story in such a way that can stand poetically by itself. Finally, create a metaphor that fits a character, a celebrity, or someone you know well.

Thomas Mann advocated the view of the artist standing apart. He consciously worked to create a voice that was measured, almost scientifically objective, and unlikely to be noticed by readers. His was an amazing, deliberate achievement that, nonetheless, created a recognizable voice in his works.

I don’t believe that’s a problem. My guess is that the most compelling voice is the one that emerges in a calm state that is not self-conscious. Teachers love the show-off voices. Sometimes, they can be entertaining. But I think the most reliable voices tend to closely reflect voices we use in casual conversation.

Oddly enough, writing tends to bring out the pleaser or poser in many people. Amateur writers want to be seen as someone who is glib, smart, and “good.” They don’t even suspect that the hesitant, fumbling, flawed, truer self, the self the friends know, is actually both authentic and more interesting. So, it usually takes a lot of writing before a writer drops the instinctual defenses and speaks with a normal voice. It’s odd, but it takes a lot of craft to be natural.

Mastery of Language 3: Develop a unique, authentic voice.
Practice: Oddly enough, the best shortcut I know to sounding like yourself is to mimic other people. There’s something about doing pastiches of other writers that provides the tools needed to find your own voice. Writing in a lot of voices reveals how you say things naturally. I’ve also found imitating well tweaks something inside that wants to be authentic. (Enough of writing like Melville, Cather, Hammett, and Morrison,  just let me be myself!)

The best alternative I know is to dictate. It takes some getting used to. It feels odd. But, by speaking, most people are drawn to their natural voice, even if that’s not their intent. The reason is the faux voice is a lot more difficult to maintain when the pace is that of speaking, not writing. And when your whole body already knows there’s an easier way.

Of course, it’s fine to create more than one voice that’s distinctive, as long as it’s true. An obvious example is first-person narratives, where two different books coming from two different characters should sound different enough to seem to have come from different authors. But, even in traditional third-person limited narrations, a comedy should have a different voice from a tragedy. And usually the voices across genres have differences, too.

Next, I cover dialogue. Much of this post applies, but there are other elements to consider.

Mastering Story Setting

In stories, “where” usually matters. “When” usually matters. And it goes beyond “a dark and stormy night.” The setting — both time and place — does at least five things:

1. It orients readers (and audiences). It’s difficult to connect with characters floating in a void, unstuck in time.
2. It sequences the story. I think of The Graduate. Ben Braddock needs to reach the woman he loves (Elaine Robinson) before she is married. His car runs out of gas, leaving him (what seems to be) miles from his goal as the clock toward “I do” ticks away. Even a flashback (if clear) connects moments ties to urgency and provides revelations that matter against the real time of the story.
3. It creates the mood. We feel differently about sunshine and blizzards. A jail cell is confining. A view from a mountain peak is freeing and maybe inspiring. Note: Often the writer’s voice provides a key contribution to adding mood to setting. Think of the dread that underlies Poe’s setting descriptions or the dark humor that permeates Joseph Heller’s Catch 22.
4. It provides context. We connect periods of history with assumptions of danger, etiquette, rank, and ignorance.
5. It exposes the characters. Personal items in a space often say things about who the character is or who he/she aspires to be (or maybe what the character wants to leave behind). But setting can also be used to show the values, emotions, and desires of a character by reflecting the interior or standing in contrast to it. Weather has often been used to suggest characters’ feelings.
   

Sometimes setting can even become a character. This is especially true for survival tales. Or it may create wonder and a sense of possibilities. Think of Oz. Think of 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Yet, setting is often the most neglected part of a story. The mortal sin is a talking in white spaces scene. But almost as bad is putting people in a generic office. Or shoving characters into booths in diners. Or police stations that have plenty of stuff, but nothing distinctive. (A detailed description of a cliche is still a cliche.)

Overdoing setting can be just as bad. “Literary” writers seem particularly vulnerable to the temptation of painting pictures that don’t serve the story. Beauty in the service of nothing. Those paragraphs (or pages) often get skipped.

What’s too much? What’s too little? It depends. My preference is to do just as much as is needed to get the job done. Orientation is a necessity, but, in a longer work, it can often be evoked by context (following a pattern or suggested by the section before) or with a cue rather than reiterating details. Place and time may be entwined with a specific character or a goal. (In the film The Wizard of Oz, the first visit to the city of Oz is a full tour. The second visit jumps right to the Wizard’s hall, with Dorothy holding the singed broom.)

How much description is provided depends on the needs of the story and the expectations of readers. Mysteries need to plant clues. SF needs to present an unknown world. Historicals and romances have traditions of providing rich, sensual details.

Getting the measurements just right so they fit the story generally comes from rewriting, not drafting. Since it’s easier to cut than to add, overdoing it in a draft may be best. But if the words are flowing, with dialogue and action coming to mind at a speed almost too fast to write down, do what script writers do. Use headers before each scene.

The first three scenes from The Shawshank Redemption are set up like this:
INT. - CABIN - NIGHT (1946)
EXT. - CABIN - NIGHT (1946)
INT. - PLYMOUTH - NIGHT (1946)

While action lines develop these, scene headings provide the essentials — place and time — with economy.

Unless you skip the scene headings, it’s hard to get lost in a screenplay. But that’s just the start of making sure readers don’t get lost. In a story, other information is needed. Setting includes the people present in the scene. It’s irritating and distracting to come across action or dialogue from a character you didn’t know was there. Essential information needs to be included well before it becomes important. If someone is going to fall off a cliff, that bit of dangerous landscape can’t become an “oh, yeah.”

“As Marilyn backed up to avoid his embrace, her foot came within inches of the (oh, yeah) forty-foot cliff.”

Mastery of Story Setting 1: Orient your reader.
Practice: Go to a beloved contemporary story in a genre you know. Chances are, the first page or two will provide much of what is needed to orient a reader to the story. Check to see if you can pick out the following:

What’s the period, season, and time of day?
Whether the scene occurs inside or outside and at least three descriptive ideas related to place.
Who is present in the scene at the opening of the scene?
What’s the point of view? Usually, the setting is experienced through the senses and memories of one character.

Now consider how the author might have selected the details. To take this practice further, you might rewrite the scene to orient with different details. Or do this a few times with good stories and then look at your own first pages.

Note: In the 1800s, lots of novels begin with an omniscient point of view. This is less common today (except in literary fiction) because it tends to work against immersing readers in the scene. There’s nothing wrong with it and it can be fun to explore, but using omniscience may limit your audience.

A messy workspace. A collection of action figures. A cupboard under the stairs that serves as a bedroom. Often the settings we remember most clearly are those that connect to the values and circumstances of a character. It’s not just a place. It’s a special place. It’s not just a time. It’s a special time (birthday, exam day, the last day of freedom or exile). We experience stories through what they mean to characters, so it’s not surprising that memorable settings are intertwined with characters. This doesn’t mean they need to be congruent. Fish out of water stories depend on settings that become vivid because they are at odds with characters.

Mastery of Story Setting 2: Create a connection between the setting and a character.
Practice: Look at the work of fiction you admire or explore one of your own, and consider what about the setting matters to the character. A night owl might be grumpy in the morning light. A fancy ballroom might make a character feel underdressed. Machine gun turrets might dissuade a character who wants to rescue his or her beloved. See if there are missed opportunities to connect with the task at hand or goal. Find the element in the setting that is most emotionally engaging (fear, envy, anger, curiosity) to the viewpoint character. Depending on the story, there may be opportunities for irony. A character may be lured in by bait or act foolishly because he or she misconstrues what something is.

In addition to connecting to the plot and the character, a setting can engage readers because of its details. One reason people come to stories is to learn something new. Sometimes, it’s just fun facts to know and tell your friends. But it can be more basic, often arising from research. I find that the tools set out for a profession, the irritations of a workplace, the surprise (a Monet print hung in auto repair shop) can keep readers reading.

When all else fails, dazzle them. An apt, poetic description can hold readers even when it brings a story to a complete stop. But it has to be special. It has to become a set piece that enthralls readers so thoroughly that it will entertain despite interrupting the story.

Mastery of Story Setting 3: Make your setting engaging.
Practice: A great starting point is to turn to the work of a writer whose voice captures you every time, perhaps because the language is poetic (George R.R .Martin) or distinctive (Hunter S. Thompson) or full of personality (Austen). Focus on how setting (time, place, items and people present) is handled, and how the language adds to engagement rather than distracts. Once you’ve noticed alls this, put what you’ve learned to work. (f you have the facility to imitate a writer’s voice in a scene you create, that can be a great way to internalize high-level skills. Otherwise, just jump from your analysis to writing a setting for your own story.

For those with well-developed styles, a good exercise is to move beyond voice to details noticed. If you can write about the room you are in (and time and people present), no matter how mundane, and make is interesting and distinctive by picking out something new, that’s powerful.

One more thing: see if in a setting you can surprise readers (fairly). Surprises delight and raise questions that can keep pages turning.

These three elements of setting are unavoidable. They must be done well. Next time, we’ll level up with a few more focus areas that can help settings bring more to storytelling.

Mastering the Actions/Reactions of Story Characters

We pay attention to what characters do. Sometimes their actions border on being contextual, when when their actions come with their roles or jobs. A waiter takes orders for food. A soccer goalie protects her goal and launches balls downfield. A father is expected to care for his children. A sniper shoots people. While, at times, these dimensions of a character may be incidental, most stories have characters doing things related to their jobs and roles. (Or, going against expectations, failing to live up to commitments.)

For most stories, there are tasks related to the story question. Often, these are apart from jobs and roles. In fact, a lot of the fun of stories is seeing people called to do unfamiliar task. Dorothy has nothing in her initial description that indicates she’ll have to kill wicked witches, but getting home from Oz requires it. Luke forms friendships and loyalties that lead him to take on the responsibility of destroying the Death Star.

And the jobs, roles, and tasks both describe the character and shape him or her, building the capabilities required to reach the story goal (or fail, in the case of a tragedy).

Mastery of Story Characters 7 - Put characters in motion.

Practice: Come up with jobs or roles that would make a character more or less ready for a goal. A Navy Seal might be better at killing wicked witches. A schoolyard bully probably would be worse. Now think of skills and attitudes required for jobs and roles and how those might be related to the ultimate goal. Luke is a farmer, but he also has piloting skills. And he doesn’t really want to get involved with the social conflict, which is something he has to get over. Somewhere, there probably is a connection to the flaw that must be overcome.

As another practice, come up with tasks that must be successfully done to achieve the main goal. Make a list of at least ten, more if your story is already drafted. Make sure some seem impossible. Also, connect them with flaws if you can.

How do we do the impossible? Sometimes, through training and growth. But most stories don’t have the space to really on that. Which is a good thing because it forces the protagonist to work with others. While not every story needs an Ocean’s Eleven team, most include allies with skills the protagonist lacks. Since  he  or she can’t do it alone, success requires cooperation and compromise.  

This helps the story in two ways. First, it broadens the range of characters, forcing together those in conflict and creating odd couples. Comedies often rely on this. And romances would be five pages long if the lovers did not have a reason to be apart and a reason to be together. Danny Simon said Sgt. Bilko worked because everyone on the diverse team had been drafted into the Army and they couldn’t just walk away. (When a follow-up series put them all at the same company, audiences had in the backs of their minds, “why doesn’t he just quit?”)

Beyond the bond, there is working though the differences. Characters need to bargain. They make tough trade-offs that both show their values and force them to change. (And often help them to appreciate the other characters.) In real life, I’d say the way I came to have deeper friendships most often was by working with other people. Including some I initially didn’t want to work with. For the inner conflicts, alliances show who the character is through sacrifice, loyalty, and commitment (or their opposites).

This is not to say that everything is win-win. Power disparities can be interesting, especially if they are dynamic. Often, in a love story, the one who is in control shifts from chapter to chapter (or even scene to scene). Lose (learn), lose (learn), win is a nice formula for empathy and delight.

Mastery of Story Characters 8 - Make characters dependent on alliances.

Practice: Write down the skills and capabilities your character needs but does not have. (This may mean taking strengths away from a too-perfect protagonist. Superman, without kryptonite, is boring.) Now give these to other characters in this story. (Expected characters, of course. But see if a few unexpected characters can be included.) Then, give these sidekicks or lovers or frenemies reasons to NOT share what they could offer. They could hold a grudge, be too busy, not see self-interest, want the other character to become self sufficient, or not clearly understand how they can help. There are a lot of reasons. Finding ones that add to the fun may be looking at alternatives or (my approach) interviewing characters.

Where there are limits, dependencies and vulnerabilities, it’s valuable to look at things going wrong. Very often, the stories we love most include a time when a friendship goes bad. So consider how the protagonist might be betrayed (or betray), how that relates to the story theme, and what happens next (healing or loss).

With all this action, reaction is inevitable. Actions are usually the results of decisions that are considered and weighed. Reactions tend to be in the moment, and are revealing in a different way. Part of actions is creating and supporting the persona — who we want to appear to be to witnesses. But reactions show the real person underneath. Whether a raised eyebrow or a punch in the face, creating a scene that elicits a reaction provides a marker for readers and audiences of how far the character has come in the story. A character who would have lashed out at someone else in Act 1 may very well have the skills to calm a situation or walk away by the end of the story.

Mastery of Story Characters 9 - Make characters react to challenges and surprises.

Practice: Think of a good, effective choice your protagonist might make to achieve the story goal (or complete a task). Now, put yourself in your antagonist’s shoes and counter that in the most calamitous way (even if it hurts the antagonist, too). How does the protagonist react? Think of both the internal response and the external response. Think of good responses and horrible ones.

Come up with surprises and revelations to hit your protagonist with (especially after an action). I used to listen to the Life of Riley radio show, and I always knew the best stuff would come after he said, “What a revolting development this is.” Make sure whatever is discovered or how badly things work out, that it really matters to the protagonist AND creates doubt s about success. (Usually, this will shatter self-confidence, if only for a moment.)

By the way, surprises and revelations are difficult to master. They can’t be arbitrary. They must make sense to readers and audiences, at least enough so they don’t feel cheated. And often, they need to be set up and hinted at earlier in the story. That could be by planning, luck (thanks to a generous subconscious), or careful rewriting. But for practice, it’s less necessary to implement these than to be able to come up with good ones.

There are more than nine things writers need to master regarding characters, but I’ll leave this here for now. Storytelling requires more elements, and it’s too easy to get lost down this rabbit hole. Besides, the other elements, in their own ways, relate to and expand on the above, potentially deepening the lessons. So, next week, I’ll have a new focus.

Mastering Discovering Your Characters in the Company of Others

Context is everything. In fiction, the heroism of a character is only clear if choices and actions are understood in the larger context of the risks in telling the truth, the attachments to others, and the dominance of the culture (especially the power dynamics.

An example: Though  Huck Finn is a trickster and a mischief maker, he only reveals himself to be deeply moral in relation to a prevailing culture. Slavery is accepted. Some people are the property of other people. Helping an enslaved person escape is morally wrong.

As readers, we find slavery appalling, but Huck does not question his culture. Yet, he makes the right decision. He chooses not to betray his friend, Jim. And it costs him.

“It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. 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. And I let them stay said; and never thought no more about reforming.” 

Seeing him break with his own code is cheering.  Seeing him condemn himself is heartbreaking and makes him heroic and memorable. But only because we understand the morality, law, and assumptions of Huck’s time and place.

We are social creatures, so our characters need to be. To go further into mastering characters, which is vital to engaging audiences, the cultural milieu (including power dynamics), interpersonal relationships, and the secrets kept from others, all are needed for the comprehending the story. This is especially true in terms of just how difficult the plot match-up is.

Plot-driven fiction often has cardboard characters, and it can even be successful. James Bond does not need to have much in the way of an inner life. He doesn’t need to be motivated by the wounds of his past or to struggle against a complicated moral code. This provides a good reminder that this Mastery Series does not claim that all writers need to master all these elements. But the more that are mastered, the more options for success are available, and this includes commercial fiction that may not even aspire to deep characters.

Personally, I look for compromise points. Even if I could get away with flat characters, I find it adds something to have go-tos that round them somewhat. I’m a big fan of flaws for all characters, not just the bad guys. When in doubt, I prefer the Seven Deadly Sins over the Minor Irritations (retelling bad jokes, not using turn signals, talking in theaters, snapping gum, standing too close, name-calling, and cutting the line). But I’ll take a minor flaw over perfection.

And even a minor flaw can be improved if it’s tied to a juicy secret. When a character keeps a secret, it says something about them, their values, and what the people around them care about. Also, the secret itself is a not-true-to-self element that sets up an inner conflict. And inner conflicts are the stuff of interesting characters.

Secrets need to be kept. Hiding information takes energy and forces bad decisions. And best of all, when secrets are revealed, things happen.

Mastery of Story Characters 4 - Create characters with secrets (and flaws).

Practice: Find five taboos in the world you’ve created and have one character violate one of them and keep that secret. (The violation can occur before story time begins.) Then give a character that matters the means to discover the secret. (In both cases, the more consequential the character, the better. For  romance, these characters are often the two lovers.)

Give a characters with a secret a reason to share it, but vulnerabilities that make such honesty difficult or apparently impossible.

Create a scene where a secret comes out.

(For any of these, noting where these occur in favorite stories is valuable and provides models.)

Having a good antagonists is one of the easiest ways to show who the protagonist is. In general, this means creating a villain and personalizing the relationship. Don’t resist the forces of evil. Resist one person in particular, like Darth Vader. And make the antagonist powerful and able. Make who the character is important. (Luke, I’m your dad.)

It’s also great to have friends who are alike but go too far. These point to limits on the protagonist. Or have characters who are opposites, which creates conflicts. Minions for antagonists can be valuable beyond plot. Their choices (and often their mistakes) reveal the limits and qualities of the antagonists. Making them distinct from one another (as is done in Die Hard) makes everything more intriguing.

Two more things to consider:

One is the utility of other characters. This is obvious in capers like Ocean’s Eleven, where each person on the team has a different, needed skill. They are all essential and need to deliver in that case, but it can be fun when they don’t deliver or almost don’t deliver.  

The second is building the personal relationships. Caring and disliking qualify. They complicate things. They make the protagonist’s task more difficult and reflect who he or she is.

Mastery of Story Characters 5 - Present characters in relation other characters.

Practice: Find a reason why it isn’t a satisfying ending if the antagonist having an aneurism and dying suddenly. Even if the story problem goes away. In other words, see what does not get tested or healed by the confrontation at the heart of the story if the problem is miraculously resolved.

Explore how a confidant reveals the protagonist. Holmes is less interesting and accessible without Watson. Or the confidant may be a sounding board for ideas (even pulling down the protagonist at times, as in Working Girl). Or a mentor (who usually has to disappear so the protagonist can succeed without all that help (see Obi Wan and Gandalf).

So much of who we are is determined by individuals around us and the society in which we’re embedded. (This topic bleeds into setting, which I’ll deal with later, but it’s worth a full examination here under character.) Values, framing, what we pay attention to, what we care about. what triggers us, rights, hierarchy, and power. These may be accepted, rejected, or modified inside us, but they cannot be avoided. The same is true for characters, which is why Huck Finn’s decision about Jim is so poignant.

What power does your character have or think he or she has, and how is the use of power modulated by others? What mob would your character join or avoid? What’s easy to say or do, and what takes real courage? How is non-conformity punished? Can your character get a pass for misbehavior by privilege, wealth, supporters, or a favor that’s owed?

Mastery of Story Characters 6 - Put characters in a social context.

Practice: Delineate five things related to your story that your protagonist can do easily and five that can’t be done easily. Think about how the easy ones might become difficult socially. Think through work arounds for the difficult ones. Find one possibility for courage. Then do the same exercise for the antagonist.

Write down a moral code for your world (even if it’s the one you live in) with regard to freedom, responsibilities, care for nature, charity, and authority. Are any of these challenges for you character? Can you illustrate the code being broken in your story or in your own experience?

One of the key decisions a writer must make is who the protagonist is. And an essential element of that, from the point of view of storytelling, is identifying or shaping the main character to fit the story problem. Usually, this means the character is deeply affected by the challenge, unable to avoid it, and forced to change in the confrontation. And, in general, the protagonist is not in the power position. Of all the possible characters in The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien chose a hobbit. In the Bible, the fate of Israel as it faced Goliath rested on the shoulders of David.

Between this post and the last one,  the elements of Mastery provide the information about characters that can allow you to size them to the story problem. Sometimes, this may lead to tweaking a character from history or one who elbowed his or her way into an early draft. Sometimes, doing the work ahead of time can cast the role before the story is written. But, one way or another, this work needs to be done.

(Even More) Mastering Story Concept Development

I can appreciate stillness. I can appreciate quiet. In a world of distractions and disruptions, the unchanging and peaceful is refreshing. Stories may draw from the deep wells of meditation and calm, but they depend upon the dynamic for expression. Difficult choices. Conflict. Action.

Very often, stories are prompted by that which is intriguing, but inanimate. Imagining an oversized pearl may be interesting just because we are startled by the unusually large and the usually small. But it’s not enough. In "The Pearl," John Steinbeck chose to put such a pearl into the hands of a poor man beset by greedy people to create his classic tale.

An unchanging person may also inspire a story. Dickens heard about and extremely stingy and avaricious man (John Elwes) who never reformed, but it was his genius that created Scrooge, a man who learned to be generous.

Too many writers are mesmerized by what essentially are story prompts. I have nothing against having a focus for meditation or a subject for a still life painting, but stories are different. Exploring change (the bigger the better) is a good starting point for moving from prompt to story. Setting two well-matched characters against each other or having a character face an impossible dilemma or creating a society in turmoil with unpredictable power shifts can grow the seed of an idea into an epic.

Analyses, a slice of life fiction, and poems that create moods have value. But readers of stories bring expectations. They want to journey, not just a setting. They are looking for characters to change things or be changed. So, as fascinating as an idea might be, stories require action.

Master of Story Concept Development 6 - Formulate true dilemmas for characters and put characters in competition and power struggles. Don’t make the playing field level.

Practice:  If you don’t already have an idea, start with a prompt. You can find one online. (I’ll take the bell that my family used to call the children in from play.) Take the prompt and find two horrible choices to explore.

It’s dinner time. A parent holds the bell, but doesn’t ring it right away. His daughter is facing off with a girl who bullies her. Standing up to her. But is she out of control? Or in danger? A ring of the bell can end the situation, but may destroy the one chance to end the bullying with a life lesson learned. Or it may allow violence and real injury.

Find a point of competition for the prompt.

Two siblings, now grown, are cleaning out the house after mom has moved into assisted living. They both treasure the days of hearing that bell. One wants to have it to ring her own children home. The other has no children and sees the bell as her only touch point to that phase of life. Those reasons seem vital to them, and make them deserve the bell. Each believes she were promised the bell by their dad. Checking with mom could create distress, even a family rift. Flip a coin? Just grab the bell and make off with it? Destroy the bell so the sibling can’t have it? Create a challenge, and may the best daughter win?

Invent a larger power struggle.

When Mrs. Ackers rang the bell all the kids on the block went home for the evening. It became the symbol of respect and power in the community. A whole generation responded to her, the bell ringer, as the mom of moms. She was consulted for decades regarding everything: meals, dating, parties, and even the settling of disagreements. A generation grew up, and Mrs Ackers became the grandma of grandmas. The bell did not lose its power. The kids of the kids on the block responded to it. Now it has gone silent. Mrs. Ackers has passed and the bell has been left for the local minister, who didn’t grow up in the neighborhood, to dispose of. Every neighbor wants that bell. The hierarchy of the block and, in many ways, its future, depend on who gets the bell.

Any of these conflicts could (and should) be pushed further. Learning to play with prompts to discover action can open up fresh stories and move past the obvious. (It can also be a lot of fun.)

Often, a goal, especially a worthy goal (one that demands sacrifice), suggests obstacles, and its loss alone creates a tragic ending. For a love story, not getting the object of affection is so wrong, it’s essentially forbidden in the genre. But why is the goal vital? Often, in an ambitious love story, more than a fantasy man or woman is at stake. Something within the protagonist is revealed to be important. A need to throw off pride and be vulnerable to another person. A need to go risk expulsion by going against society norms (like wealth) or culture (like religion) to become the person he or she is destined to be. Or a need to admit a deception and face the truth (which is the basis of romantic comedies). Raising stakes so that more strength, more courage, is required adds to a story.

But sometimes the initial goal sets up for something bigger. With bigger stakes. Luke Skywalker just wants to get off Tatooine and become a pilot at first. He’s not really after the Death Star until further into the story. And that catapults the stakes into new territory. More interesting territory. And it puts everyone he loves in jeopardy.

Master of Story Concept Development 7 - Raise the stakes and make the consequences more dire.

Practice: The starting point is actually writing down what the protagonist has at risk. A great place to start is to look at Maslow’s hierarchy. Where do current stakes fit? In one class, I have students classify which levels reflect story risks. Then I have them explore which other needs (closer to survival) might be put in jeopardy. (In general, the lower the level, the more visceral the need, the more readers worry. Though any risk can be deepened. And risks associated with identity can trump life and death with the right presentation.)

Once stakes are delineated, exaggeration comes in handy. Make them worse to a ridiculous extent. Get operatic. Make the consequences uncomfortable, for your characters and to you. Then see if you can go even further. I like to score stakes on a scale of one to WTF? Some great stuff may be on the other side of the absurd.

Or not.

Comedy often depends on silly goals with minor stakes. We stand in a superior position and marvel at the lengths characters will go to because they are obsessed or have distorted views. (Couldn’t Wile E. Coyote find another meal? Or spend his Acme money at a nice restaurant? Would it have mattered if Pee-wee never got his bicycle back in Pee-wee’s Big Adventure?)

There is also merit in the small and the simple when they are handled with care. A dying woman I knew asked her husband to get her watermelon in the middle of winter. This was in the 1980s, and it was an almost impossible task. But it meant everything to her husband that he fulfill her last wish. Was it a proof of love? Was it her, reaching out, giving him a way to manage his heartbreak? Both, I think. The watermelon was a simple goal. It was not life-saving serum, so the actual consequences of failure, from a physical standpoint, were minimal. Emotion -- and that life moment -- were everything. (He got the watermelon. She thanked him for it. She didn’t eat it.)

Mastering the Vital Elements of Writing - Why it matters

Writers get stuck. Writers are beset by doubts. Writers feel like imposters. Or…

Writers always have ways around the obstacles they hit. Writers have confidence. Writers own their skills, talents, and accomplishments.

One of the greatest gifts writers can give themselves is mastering the essential aspects of writing. The best writers have the tools to create great dialogue or ways to test a story concept or examples at hand that demonstrate ways to solve story problems. To be sure, bad habits (dithering, looping, procrastinating, and more) can undercut the most capable and proficient writers. They need to be guarded against (as do distractions, addictions, and inattention to health). But becoming a master writer is a powerful way to avoid getting stuck or lost in doubts or losing your earned identity as a real writer.

Consider mastery in golf as an example. Like writing, it’s more about the course and you than about any opponents. There’s a poetry to the sport that players own. Choosing the right club. Testing the wind. Reading the lie. Managing pressure and disappointment and doubt.

But there also is a discipline of regular tasks. Driving off the tee. Chipping. Putting. A good golfer defaults to the muscle memory of thousands of strokes to hit the ball just right over and over again. He or she masters dozens of simple jobs by observing, listening, analyzing, testing, and practicing.

Writing is a lot more complex, with more jobs that need to be mastered. Often, what looked like one task turns out to be several. The choices writers make depend on the course — the genre, the audience, where they are in the story, and which way the wind is blowing. Writers also have to face pressure and disappointment and doubts.

Golfers and writers can have good days thanks to luck, but regular success, and much of the confidence and joy that makes engagement worthwhile, is built on a foundation of mastery. Moving easily into writing dialogue or editing for language or developing ideas that resonate — being able to take on jobs like these knowing you can do them can change your frame of mind as a writer.

No one masters everything. Which is probably a good thing. If a golfer hit a hole-in-one every time, it would get boring. (And the golf course would be redesigned.) Similarly mastery in writing is never complete or a deep as it could be. Which is good because otherwise it would get boring. But, more importantly, room for growth does not mean mastery is not achievable. Philip K. Dick never really mastered language, but his insights, odd logic, and clever plotting made him a leading SF writer. Charles Dickens easily slipped into sentimentality and cheap characterizations, but his amazing honesty and pacing turned his works into classics. No writer is perfect. But the ones you return to again and again have become experts with enough of the vital tools of writing to be considered masters.

You can, too.

It means being patient with yourself. It means studying the work of others (dissecting, questioning, exploring, expressing what you learned in full sentences, testing the concepts). It means deliberately writing work that will never be published, just to practice a technique until if comes naturally. It means noticing your own responses to writing and being curious about them. It means attending to the responses of peers and beta readers with humility, judgment, and discernment.

It also means knowing what jobs need to be mastered and having starting points for each. You can just jump in and learn from the writing of others, and, with processes that work for you, amplify your strengths or improve where you are weak. That’s fine. But, for those who may need a little guidance, I’ll begin a series on mastery here in this blog. It will be incomplete and, at times, not right for you. Inevitably, I’ll have times when I do a poor job because I have my own weaknesses and I have strengths I don’t understand.

I hope some of what I post is valuable anyway.

My current list of topics:

• Story concepts
• Scenes
• Characters
• Descriptions and settings
• Dialogue
• Language
• Plot
• Storytelling
• Audience
  

I’ll strive to include basic concepts, clearly stated. I’ll mention benefits (to help with motivation). There will be examples and exercises.

Reading the blog posts won’t make you a master. Neither will doing an exercise each week. It’s also likely that you’ll have clearer ideas and a better approach on some subjects. (That’s good.) Mostly, what is involved in achieving mastery is interest, honest self-assessment, and dedication. I can provide a map. I can’t carry you along the journey. Even if I could, it wouldn’t be much fun for either of us.

Bodies in Motion - Put your story’s characters to work performing tasks

One summer, I earned tuition money by hammering gables and trusses together. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. I just banged away until the nail was flush. But that’s not how the veterans worked. Three hits — wham, wham, wham — and the nail goes in. I tried that, hit my thumb a few times. Hit nothing but wood for a good part of a day. And then I had it mastered. Because I worked quickly, I paid with a sore arm the few days. After that, I learned to switch off between hands. Left for ten nails. Right for ten nails. Much to the delight of the veterans.

Movement told a story. A silent film would have shown my progress and probably how I learned. How I fit in and then found my own way. And my movements contrasted with others. First, with the veterans, and later with the “college boys” who never went past “tap, tap, tap.”

As part of revision, I’ve often thought of scripted scenes as silent movies. What could I tell without dialogue? I’ve done it in an intuitive way, but lately, I’ve tried to be more methodical. And just as I’ve tried to discover who my characters are by interviewing them, I’ve now imagined them doing tasks. Not every task is revealing or appropriate to a character, but I’ve always learned something by going through the list.

Note: This is a diverse list, but you may have better actions to explore, given your knowledge and your story worlds. Also, it’s often worthwhile to consider whether the character doing the task is enthusiastic or reluctant, energized or sleepy, ignored or witnessed, calm or agitated, confident or concerned, and healthy or fighting pain.

    1.    Using a tool. This doesn’t need to be a hammer. It could be a scalpel or a soldering iron or a coffee grinder.
    2.    Weaving through a crowd. Make it dense. Make it the opposite sex. Make the destination urgent.
    3.    Opening a gift. Or is it a bomb?
    4.    Assembling flat-packed furniture. Who needs instructions?
    5.    Lining up a putt in golf. Or serving match point. Or playing catch.
    6.    Arm wrestling. Or boxing. Or trying to catch a toddler who doesn’t want a bath.
    7.    Bandaging a wound. Or cutting hair. Or tickling someone.
    8.    Cradling a child. Or calming an angry dog.
    9.    Waiting in line.
    10.    Spotting someone who matters from afar.

Imagining how your character walks down a sidewalk alone, with a friend, or next to a clown can be revealing. Doing different dances. Or, though it may get close to dialogue, singing or giving a eulogy (just keep the sound off). Have your character shake hands. Watch his or her face in reaction to joyful or tragic news. Also watch the hands, the posture, how the feet shift.

Don’t gravitate toward watching characters when they are sitting down. The whole body matters. Do observe them in longer processes like making a meal or digging a garden. Find moments when they are intrigued or bored, and see how that shows up from head to toe. Complicate things by having two or more characters who need to cooperate to complete a task. Explore failure as well as success. Take characters out of their comfort zone with action they aren’t prepared for.

I like to have characters play a game of frisbee. Do they waft the disc into the air or fire it? Toss level or flick from vertical to horizontal? Aim right at the opponent or make them run?

Do they dive for the frisbee or just let it hit the ground? When do they move their feet? At the last minute? Or before the disc has left the opponents hand?

These exercises (and ones you can develop) can tell a lot about a character, and it’s important to write down what you learn. When movements come up in your story, even if they aren’t ones you’ve explored, you’ll find you’ll be able to see, distinctly, how your characters will move. As a bonus, you’re likely to have more movements that aren’t cliche. Something fresh is more likely to emerge because you spent time in the world of motion.