The Dignity of Stories - Ten rules to avoid trivialization

I love stories that dig deeply into issues of individual experience and social importance. So many stories that I reread - To Kill a Mockingbird, Huckleberry Finn, The Grapes of Wrath, Oliver Twist, and more - grapple with what makes us human and what makes up communities. They both respect and personalize large issues.

On the other hand, I’m frustrated by stories that glue relevance to mundane stories to make them seem bigger, toss in diverse characters without making them distinct, or use traumas as unexplored plot points or unexamined explanations for why antagonists behave badly. The things that matter to who we are and the challenges that most gravely threaten our culture should not be trivialized.

That’s the moral issue, which some may disagree with. Especially those who are creating entertainments with no pretensions of seriousness. But, even if you write to provide amusement and escape (which is worthy), this is worth a closer look for two reasons:

First, including important issues can cause harm unintentionally. I’ll take a chance here by using blackface as an  example. (And I apologize if I offend anyone. If I unintentionally cause harm.) The minstrel show was the most popular style of entertainment in the late 1800s in the US, and this genre persisted into the 20th century. It was cruel, mocking, and harmful. Often, the adoption of blackface was intentional (DW Griffith) cruel and inexcusable. But I wonder how much it might have been the result of a lack of reflection (Fred Astaire). When could/should people have know better?

It isn’t always clear. When Buster Keaton brought his version of blackface into his short film, Neighbors, I suspect he was thoughtful and intended it as a critique. His character had a left side black and right side white, and he showed police attack him when he showed the black side and leave him alone when he showed the right side. Did he prick consciences or exploit race? From the distance of 100 years, it’s hard to make a judgement. Star Trek famously used a similar device in Let That Be Your Last Battlefield to explicitly attack racism. Was that episode, in itself, racist? Or justified?

Second, including something big creates opportunities for better storytelling. Matters of importance reveal character. Good characters reveal new dimensions in big issues that too often are presented with cliches instead of insights. Not giving race, sexism, bullying, abuse, trauma, bigotry, and a host of other issues that separate us from others and ourselves their full due, diminishes stories by eliminating fresh understandings and authentic, specific imagery.

Note 1: Even honest, careful attempts at dealing with deep issues can be unsuccessful. This can be because of a lack of skill or insight, or it can be because sensitive issues can been seen by different audiences in different ways. Birth of a Nation, once consider essential cinema, is horrendous. Gone with the Wind is still beloved, but it makes me (and others) squirm. Othello sits on the knife edge, but I think we’re passed the time where we’ll see the protagonist played by a white person.  

Note 2: Humor complicates this. It can elevate the trivial to something more profound because the protagonists usually are obsessed and become their own worst enemies. It can also slip past our defenses to smuggle in insights (Slaughterhouse Five).

So, both in terms of responsibility and in terms of being a better storyteller, it is good to avoid trivialization. But how? Here’s an incomplete list of suggestions:

    1.    Challenge your assumptions. This obviously goes for forays into cultures, ethnicities, and sexual orientations that are not your own. But it also applies to the familiar that is too familiar. It’s notable that both Norman Mailer and John Updike won the Bad Sex in Fiction Award.
    2.    Punch up. It’s usually a bad idea to mock or villainize those who have less privilege than you do. Even peers may be too vulnerable. Those with a lot of privilege fall into the category of those who can defend themselves and are less likely to be unjustly hurt. As Finley Dunne said, “comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.” But be wary of cliche villains. Make them individual. And know they are the heroes of their own stories.
    3.    Never discount suffering and sacrifice. For example, childhood abuse pops up as a reason for stoic heroes and cruel villains, but such experiences (shared by many readers/audience members) are complicated and don’t result in one-note character traits. They are pervasive and dealt with by various strategies and adaptations. They don’t need to take over the story, but they can’t just provide simple explanations.
    4.    Courage should be honored. We are all wounded. It defeats some. If your character has been deeply traumatized and hangs on to still be functional and positive (or even rises to become more empathetic and caring), that should show up and be celebrated.
    5.    Dig deep. You do not need to become the world expert on every issue, hardship, and heartache. But it’s good to set as a goal to research long enough to discover something unexpected and important.
    6.    Collect anecdotes. Find individual reflections, those statements from people who know that are embedded in real-world contexts. If you really know three by heart, you have guides to test your choices.
    7.    Understand and appreciate the barriers and obstacles. People struggle to be included or to make themselves whole face challenges. Some of these are cultural. Some are difficult because of the characteristics (shyness, intelligence, temperament) of the individual. All need to be recognized and explored in terms of specifics, not generalities.
    8.    Moments matter. Reflect on your own responses to important life challenges. What overwhelmed you as a teen might not challenge you today. Bringing your opinions and principles back to a time decades ago could be wrenching. Most importantly, think in terms of sequence. The order and pace of events and understandings that marked you probably matter. As an exercise to engage with this idea, it might be good to write a page about a time you were embarrassed or betrayed.
    9.    Admit limitations. If you have a deep understanding of something that should not be trivialized, you can present it through the eyes of an experienced character. If you don’t, consider presenting social and psychological issues through the eyes of someone who is naive. And make the limitations of the character obvious. This helps to alert the reader and prevent over-claiming expertise.
    10.    Truth test. When in doubt, check it out. I’m not a big fan of sensitivity reads. I worry that individuals tasked with representing their demographics prioritize being offended over entering stories. Does anything provocative survive such a test? But I do believe in showing work to people who have different, relevant experiences and seriously considering their comments. In my opinion, this may be best if the people you show the work to are those you know and trust. People who want you to succeed instead of wanting you to stop.

Daring to include what is sensitive, vulnerable to criticism, and larger than yourself is essential to good work (and good writing), so I hope this post does not discourage or dissuade anyone from taking on anything your muse suggests. What I hope is that I’ve provided some ways to check or repair stories that don’t give issues the dignity they deserve.

Finding Themes You Can Be Passionate About

What do you really want to write? What do you want to dedicate a year of your life to exploring, understanding, and sharing? Even though you may have a focus on entertaining (or think you could write anything), commitment shows through for readers and passion will keep you going through all the rewrites and disappointments.

So what do you want to write? What story would you stand in line for and shell out twenty or thirty dollars to experience (in a film or a book)?

If it is truly your story, heavily based on personal experience and seasoned through years of reflection, meditation, and (possibly) therapy, you probably know what you should be writing. Dickens may never have gotten over his stint in a work house, and that comes across in his realistic novels, like Oliver Twist, that so often include facing poverty. I’d argue the truth of The Lord of the Rings emerged from Tolkein’s participation in the Battle of the Somme in WWI.

But your personal story may not be so specific or tied to a singular trauma. And, even if you have awareness of what has shaped you, finding the stories and their themes might be a challenge. So try this:

0 Start by clearing your head of what’s popular or commercial. Don’t write with a paycheck in mind. Also, beware of writing someone else’s trauma — no matter how affecting — if there is no real personal connection. It is alarmingly easy to write someone else’s story to avoid writing your own.

1 List at least 20 stories you find yourself referencing or returning to. Don’t create a “best” list. This is for you, not posterity. Maybe think about a desert island list, where these would be the only stories available to you for the rest of your life.

2 Strike out those stories that are not helpful because you are not in love with the tales as much as what comes with them. The songs in a musical, the spectacle in SF or fantasy, the laughs in a comedy, the gore in a horror movie, the love scenes in a romance. All of these may bring you back over and over again, but the job now is to find the themes that touch you deeply.

Note: I am not implying that you can’t have a great theme in a musical (West Side Story), a fantasy (most of Henson’s Storyteller shows), a comedy (Some Like It Hot) or a horror story (Poe’s The Masque of the Red Death). Every genre has the potential to be meaningful and touch us deeply. But style and charm can hide a multitude of sins. I love musicals, but I can count those I’ve seen with strong endings on one hand. (Weak endings are a strong indicator something is missing.)

3 Put question marks next to those that may be too far from your own experience or may lure you in with language or wit. The former may distract or take too much mining to find the shared human experience (for me, stories of the Holocaust and slavery) or attract because of novelty. The latter may dazzle (for me, the monologues of Sorkin, Mamet, and Tennessee Williams). Save these for a closer look after you have a better idea of what your stories are. Then poke at them for answers.

4 A Explore the remaining (10 or fewer?) separately by free-writing about each for at least ten minutes. (You probably don’t want to do all of them in one sitting. Once you have let yourself respond without editing, mark the strong verbs, virtues, and vices you’ve written down.

4 B You may just want to explore characters from the stories. Those who provoke the strongest emotions.

5 For each story, in one or two sentences, write what happens in 1-3 memorable scenes for each.

6 For each story, in one or two sentences, write why the story matters to you. You may want to express this by stating the theme of the story, but only if that’s something that would be helpful to you. This is not an academic paper.

7 Look at what you’ve written in 4, 5, and 6, and see if anything is common. Do you see the same terms, challenges, concerns, and fascinations coming up repeatedly? Chances are, you’ve found what draws you to these stories and makes them important to you. (If there is no pattern, that’s fine. Humans are complex. Just force rank terms or ideas that resonate with you.)

8 Use what you’ve learned to see if you discover anything about the stories you’ve written. Chances are, you’ll see some that were great choices for you that you can make better. You’ll also see some that, though workmanlike, probably weren’t your best choices. (It’s good to have both.)

9 Dedicate yourself to making the ones that you’re passionate about as good as they can be. These belong in your portfolio.

Follow up work:

10 Forget what you’ve learned when you are writing first drafts. Don’t try to impose your themes (which may change with time) on unformed stories. Instead, you might use them on completed drafts to determine whether a) a revision is merited and b) the full value of the theme has been explored.

11 Look at the flashy stuff you struck out in step 2. Maybe you should be mastering these genres to add something extra to your meaningful works.

12 Once you have enough of your own stories that reflect what you are meant to write, you can go back to the stories with the question marks and see if they connect with you in a way you didn’t recognize earlier.

The point of all of this is to make good choices. Writers who have mastered their craft can competently respond to prompts that are provided by life. Real life anecdotes, genres that promise opportunities, requests to collaborate, and family folklore suggest stories that can be written well, will please others, may pay bills, and/or promise a little fun. I can’t argue against these, especially the paying bills one. But it would be good to become aware of the kinds of stories you were meant to tell and that are sure to make the best use of the gifts you have.

500 Posts! Writing productivity, punch, and polish

This is the 500th How to Write Fast post. Explore, and you'll find hundreds of thousands of words here aimed at breaking bad writing habits, forming good ones, and delivering stories (even non-fiction ones on occasion) that will deliver great experiences. 

My fondest hope is that some readers have been able to write more and create better stories. I've been proud to see a few cases where authors have thanked me in their books.

I've been at this over eight years, and I'm not done. I still have more topics cued up in my head. For me, this has been useful because I understand what I've learned more clearly once I articulate it. And a good number of the subjects, especially those that led to series, became courses. 

I have over 200 thousand visits from almost every country despite keeping the blog small and simple (little promotion and no search terms or pictures for the most part). There's no book or podcast, and I haven't made any attempts to go after people who harvest hundreds of posts at at time from unlikely or unknown regions. (I suspect there are bootleg collections being sold, but I haven't checked.)

This work has made my own writing more joyful. When I hit a writing problem, I have a new topic I can develop. When I stumble upon something successful, I get an extra thrill knowing I can offer a tip or share my journey toward finding something new.

If you need even more blog posts, and you've read everything here, you can find some over at Savvy Authors.

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.

Dare to Make Your Prose More Poetic -- Elevated language in storytelling

We live in plain-speaking times. We are suspicious of eloquence. Few people memorize, recite, or even read poetry nowadays. Big words bother us.

I think there is a justifiable rejection of pretense and a desire for authenticity. At the same time, deep within us, we yearn for elevated language. We want words worth quoting. Imagery, rhythm, and language beyond the mundane still move us.

Writers should dare to use the tools of poetry. Which means finding ways around the defenses put up by contemporary readers and audiences. But consider this:

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time... like tears in rain... Time to die.

That’s the often quoted monologue from Bladerunner’s climax. It’s not exactly what you expect from a noirish science-fiction action film. But it’s essential. Everyday language would not have captured the change in the villain and made that tense scene believable.

The character, the situation, and the specific moment in the story can conspire to create an opening for poetry. And one more thing, which is evident in work as diverse as Serling’s Twilight Zone, Paddy Chayefsky’s Network, and The Shawshank Redemption — the story has a narrator. I suspect narrators cue people to expect something special and more meaningful, within the right context. I’ve spent a lot of years as a speech writer, and I know that there is more latitude for a speaker who holds the stage than for someone in a casual conversation. There is still magic to oratory. Now, the context matters. I have written speeches that have brought audiences to tears for occasions like commencements. But I would never even attempt using that sort of language for congressional testimony.

By the way, it’s worth noting that a narrators don’t just gain permission for themselves. They allow occasional poetry to emerge within the dialogue. Of course, the language needs to be correct for the character or it will all fall apart. But even a character who lacks sophistication can be poetic:

You don't understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am.

On the Waterfront’s Terry Malloy, a boxer, was a character who spoke simply, but eloquently. The moment was, again, critical—his confrontation with his brother. Note: though this film had no narrator, it did have the music of Leonard Bernstein and Marlon Brando playing the lead role.

Music and style can open the door for elevated language. So can a story that has mythic dimensions. For example:

America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good and it could be again.

Field of Dreams is a fairy tale. Even though it isn’t a fantasy like The Lord of the Rings, it invites us to immerse ourselves in the world of metaphors, raised above our daily lives. That gives permission to slip in monologues that are memorable throughout the story.

Network takes a different direction. The movie is a revival meeting. It is filled with sermons that touch upon the dangers of our times and our need to be vigilant and engaged. It often goes right up to the line of becoming a screed, but it saves itself with humor.

Elevated language usually is placed into stories at relatively quiet moments. Jaws is chock full of action, but the Indianapolis monologue takes place in a quiet, relaxed moment. It also comes from a character who has authority, who has power.

Deadwood seems to me to be an anomaly. I can’t easily explain how Milch gets away with language that is Shakespearean in a gritty Western TV series. It might be argued that his including legendary characters, such as Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok, primes for a mythical story, but it feels like it breaks all the rules. And still works.

I think the Coen Brothers have been the most successful in working around the barriers audiences have to poetry. They use narration (Raising Arizona) and myth (O Brother, Where Art Thou?). They deftly insert humor. And they find moments where elevated language is called for. They have a true appreciation of the power of words and seem to be forever exploring the possibilities of poetry in contemporary work.

Overall, I think our society is poorer because of our skepticism. Slick language does present dangers. Sales people, propagandists, and politicians have missed directed and taking advantage of people through the use of elevated language. The same is true for anthems and images and slogans that get past our defenses and close off critical thinking. But, used correctly, elevated language can help us find the best in ourselves and others. And even create stories that are truly inspiring.

A Checklist to Ensure Your Story’s Scenes are Clear and Complete

Some writers aren’t as clear as they should be about what a story or a sequence or a scene is about, so readers get lost in the murk. Other writers have problems with order, logic, or extra prose that hides their stories or creates too many distractions. My biggest problem is not including enough description, pointers, and reminders. So I’m using a new approach to help solve that problem.

Recently, I got an expert analysis of one of my fiction podcasts scripts. It had an emphasis on clarity with specific critiques that inspired me (with reference to recent post on orienting readers) to create the checklist below. I’ve been putting it to work, and I think it’s a useful addendum to the recent posts, so here it is. Note: While I created it for audio-only scripts, some of it seems to provide guidance for other works of fiction. It will get some tweaks, but I hope it provides valuable pointers.

Podcast Clarity Checklist

    1.    Mark scenes (——) and French scenes* (…..); list dramatic personae.
    2.    Describe the essence of the scene or sequence (e.g.,”In which Harold kills Maximillian”).
    3.    Where it makes sense, write the goal of each character.
    4.    Make sure each new location is presented (space, light, texture).
    5.    Identify the time, according to what the readers (or audience) needs to be oriented.
    6.    Check for cues to transition from one scene to the next.
    7.    Make sure all the characters in the scene are presented at the beginning.
    8.    Mark character descriptions and tentatively add at least one word of description for each.
    9.    Review dialogue, one character at a time, and tentatively add words to reflect intentions and situations.
    10.    Review dialogue to include character-specific phrasing.
    11.    Mark visuals and tentatively add at least one word of description for each.
    12.    Reflect on the story situation (important predicates, facts, risks and relative powers of characters) and remind or inform readers of each, tentatively adding at least one point.
    13.    Explore each scene to see if there are opportunities to present characters in motion.
    14.    Explore each scene to see if there are opportunities to make the locale active (engines running, rain falling, animals crying out, temperature dropping).
    15.    Mark location descriptions and tentatively add at least one word of description for each.
    16.    Review dialogue to include reactions to changes (new location, changes to location, changes to situation, changes in relationships to other characters).
    17.    Comb through this clarity draft to challenge added words, but lean toward keeping them.

Among the things I’m finding most useful are brainstorming additional words (where they don’t initially feel necessary), presenting more information though reactions and impact, and using a fresh approach to ensuring that the purpose of each scene or sequence isn’t missed by readers.

The order may be different for you or your specific work or may vary with your audience.

As said above, I’m still developing this list, but it is showing promise. That’s why I’m sharing it. I welcome any comments, including additions and your own experiences.  

*French scenes occur within scenes when a new character enters or leaves.

Cues Readers Need to Stay Oriented - Markers for location, character, situations, and time

 Half the fun of stories is getting immersed in them. But when we say we are “lost in a story,” it doesn’t mean we are disoriented. In fact, living in a well-crafted story makes the imagined world the only reality we know (for a time).

The catch is, unlike the real world, story worlds can fall to pieces in a moment. It’s up to writers to make them vivid, consistent, and memorable. This is done with descriptions, cues, and suggested space for our imaginations. Without them, we truly are lost… and thrown out of the story world.

Let’s look at these in terms of locations, characters, situations, and time.

Locations - Sometimes places are never built (scenes the seem to take place in a white, windowless room), and sometimes they are too busy (providing so many details they become confusing. Most good locations begin with selective description. This is obviously true for fantasies. Where anything is possible, descriptions provide a window into newly discovered places. But even a familiar place, a place we’ve seen a hundred times in movies, pictures, and TV commercials like the Eiffel Tower, deserve to be presented in a complete enough way. There are many ways to do this. Heinlein famously suggested a new world with the words, “the door dilated.” But, if the muse doesn’t strike, I suggest following Max Adams’s advice (in her wonderful course on Visual Writing), presenting (in this order) space, light, and texture.

Ideally, locations are as much a part of the story as the characters. They reflect mood. They create challenges. They hint at social structure and hierarchy. Grey Gardens would be diminished without the mansion’s decay and the raccoons in the walls.

I have a fondness for locations that change in important ways each time they come up. Shown in different seasons or undergoing renovation, missing an important object. I love it when they are dynamic, filled with mischievous cats (or raccoons) or ringing phones or lights that flicker. One of my favorite story locations in the one in His Girl Friday. It supports choreographed chaos that highlights the story’s theme.

Characters - The classic way to help keep characters straight is through tics and other identifiers. Dickens’s Uriah Heep (who is so ‘umble) wrings his hands. Potter, the villain in It’s a Wonderful Life, is pushed around in his wheelchair. All of the Marx Brothers (well, at least Groucho, Chico, Harpo) have signature clothes, ways of speaking (or not, in Harpo’s case) and musical specialties.

Metaphors work, too. Both Potter and Professor Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes’s nemesis, are described as spiders. Juliet is the sun. And, as Cole Porter (an American treasure) said,

You're the top! You're the Colosseum,
You're the top! You're the Louvre Museum,
You're a melody from a symphony by Strauss,
You're a Bendel bonnet, a Shakespeare sonnet,
You're Mickey Mouse.

For me, dialogue is the great and memorable tell for characters. While every story has functional lines, I read every line a character has in isolation to make sure it sounds like them and it’s something they’d say. Character, education, perspective, and voice should be there often enough so that each would describe, say the Eiffel Tower, in ways so distinctive, you could tell characters apart. I interview my characters so I know them so well, readers will recognize them right away.

As with locations, descriptions play a part. Choosing one physical feature to obsess over in different ways is better than cataloging. And I use a hint someone gave me when I lamented that I could not remember what my late aunt looked like. I could tell stories about her, but I could not picture her. He said, imagine her in motion. So I thought of her planting zinnias and her face appeared immediately. I try to give readers at least one image in motion to hang onto.

Situations - This may feel too obvious to a writer. How can readers forget that Izzie has a secret and all hell will break loose if it’s revealed? But it’s your job to remind them so they don’t forget. Characters reacting emotionally to a situation can help. I love to cook, but I’ll notice and sympathize with a character who grouses about being sent into the kitchen. When the spaghetti escapes the colander and ends up on the floor, I’ll be appalled. If the character comes back with a bandage because the knife slipped, I’ll remember. If, later on, the character is dragooned into creating a dinner for his boss, that will resonate.

I notice. I react. Characters react. Stakes are increased. And the situation becomes a compass for the story.

Time - I just read a story where the ages of characters, the time invested in their enterprise, and diminishing fortunes were all critical. It also had flashbacks, and I got totally disoriented about when things were happening. How long after? How long before?

I had a similar lapse myself. Pitching a script, I didn’t get the year (1860s, not 1960s) across, and the producer was disoriented. So much so, that he got distracted and missed a lot of the story.

People need markers for time. Year. Season. Morning. Evening. Once upon a time. Duration matters. Six days in prison or six weeks? When someone showed me a story about a man who’s main lament about incarceration was missing the cherry blossoms, character, empathy, and the passage of time were achieved in a single line.

Whether you are orienting readers to locations, characters, situations, or time you can suggest, using indirect elements, like the cherry blossoms, to make a marker memorable. You can have them reflect the mood or the tone. You can use contrasts, whether it’s a bull in a china shop or wealth and poverty or differences in ages or odd couples (Oscar & Felix, Mutt & Jeff, Laurel & Hardy).

A warning: Once you have readers oriented, they hang onto bits you’ve offered with both hands. They embed themselves deeply into the narrative as each is reinforced. Which means, if you slip up and put into something that doesn’t fit the story world they’ve accepted, it will toss them out as surely as if they had missed information. Anything that could be inconsistent needs to be fixed. Your protagonist cannot show up with green eyes after we know they are cornflower blue.

If you can do more than orient, that’s the way to go. Link markers with something meaningful. Use them to remind readers. Show what has changed. Plant information that’s critical.

And when it’s all done, see how it fits together to reinforce theme, set the tone, provide unity, and, most of all, maintain clarity.