A Writer’s Resolutions

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

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

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

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

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

Thirty Questions to Help Storytellers Make Scenes More Emotional

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eleven Questions to Ask About Your Story Premise

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

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

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

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

No. (Probably not.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Character Relationship Arcs

While story arcs and character arcs get the most attention from writers, character relationship arcs may be the most important in creating emotional appeal. For this, romances can be praised. Everything in the story, from “meet cute” to “happily ever after,” turns on how the characters grow to become lovers.

Some of the best romances illustrate how difficult trust, vulnerability, respect, and mutual appreciation can be. They show true relationships being built and tested by different values, interests, needs,  and outside forces. And we don’t just listen as the characters talk through issues, we see them act, often sacrificing and acting with courage to demonstrate what they learned, or haven’t.

Consequences for behaviors that support or threaten deep and lasting connections aren’t just imagined and discussed. They are shown, providing agonizing moments and those worthy of celebration. Romance climaxes often include the person needing to change the most making a “grand gesture” in public at great risk, followed (usually after a tense moment of doubt) by the affirmation of true love.

Character relationships arcs are vital to other genres, too. In a rags to riches story, the expectations of the old gang will often test the resolve of the protagonist. In Working Girl, no one—from the slimy boyfriend to the caring girlfriend—wants Tess to reach her ambitions or fulfill her promise. In some ways, they represent more of a threat to growth and achievement than the villain. In most rags to riches stories, the protagonist has to make a sacrifice and break bonds with family and friends.

Genres like mysteries and thrillers may put relationship arcs off to the side or give them one moment (a betrayal or reward). Die Hard is an exception. It skillfully intertwines the hero’s reconciliation with his wife throughout the story and never is far from the minds of audiences. And I’d argue that there’s a real arc for the relationship between the hero and the villain.

But whatever your genre is, there’s a potential for small moments that show that the nature of the attachment (for the good or ill) has changed. It can be quiet or loud, but most people will react to that change. We know how it feels. We all have grown and changed and seen how our opinions, ideas, behaviors, and values have deepened or eroded friendships and romances and even the ability to work with colleagues. Finding the opportunities to reflect changes in relationships (whether a full arc or one moment) can set your story apart and resonate with readers or audiences.

The first step is recognizing when characters begin to change, gain knowledge, and transform. These moments of growth can be viewed through other characters eyes, and their reactions will point to potential arcs. What’s lost and gained? What about the relationship is revealed? When Luke Skywalker loses his aunt and uncle, he loses an attachment, but gains the freedom to go from farm boy to hero. When Darth Vader cuts down Obi-Wan before his eyes, he (mostly) loses a friend. It’s agonizing (much more so that the loss of his aunt and uncle), but he gains the responsibility that forces him to truly mature and grow up.

Game of Thrones is a torture chamber of relationship arcs. It’s what makes it so emotional and engaging. The story significance of a new bond or a loss (usually by death or betrayal) is often less important than how the change in the bond impacts the mood and emotions of character we empathize with.

The more you see, understand ,and feel the relationship arcs in stories you love, the more you’ll have examples to create your own. So I invite you to look for them in the stories you read or watch. If it all seems too difficult at first, grab a good romance where the arc is center stage. Keep at it until you spot an arc between a main character and a secondary character that matters enough to touch your heart. Such small moments, once recognized, will provide examples that will be invaluable to your storytelling.

Engaging Readers More Deeply by Making Your Storytelling Moment to Moment

 This post came from a question is a recent course. I've covered the immersion experience in the past. This supplements it with a "how-to" for the most important aspect, presenting the story in a moment-to-moment fashion. Here's my method:

Making your scenes “in the moment” improves the ability of readers to immerse themselves in the story and identify with the viewpoint character. Making a scene truly moment-to-moment can be a challenge for writers because the early drafts often involve writing what we need to understand (and the reader doesn’t). This leads to scenes that are heavy on exposition, reflection about the past, and even flashbacks and flashforwards. (Robert Cormier, author of The Chocolate War, said, though needed to write them, he always needed to cut the first three chapters of his books.)

So it’s just fine (probably necessary) to drop out of moment-to-moment in drafts, but this needs to get cleaned up in rewriting. Especially in the beginning of the story. (Later scenes have more latitude.)

1. Print out the first pages (up to ten to start, more as needed).
2. Highlight
•     any exposition
•     any flashbacks or flashforwards
•     any reflection that includes information that is not in the moment (including reflection that occurs in the scene time but includes the past)
•     any dialogue that references the past
3. Make an electronic copy of the pages you’ve marked up so you can work with them without losing your original ideas.
4. Cut everything that is highlighted on your printed pages. This will be heartbreaking, but do it.
5.  Rework so the remaining prose makes sense through what is seen, what is sensed, what is said, what is done, and (carefully) what is thought in the moment. It is not necessary for all reader questions to be answered. It will be tempting to put a lot of out of the moment material in the thoughts. Don’t do that.
6. Read the pages out loud to get a sense of how they flow and if they stay sequential in the moment. Often, important pieces are left out or presented in the wrong order. After the fixes, see if YOU feel immersed.
7. Go back and look at the highlighted prose on the printed copy. Some of it can be revealed LATER (almost always to good effect). Circle that. Some, THE READER DOESN’T REALLY NEED, although you may. Strike that. Some (probably a small amount) is NEEDED in your first ten pages. (When in doubt, leave it out.)
8. Work the NEEDED bits into the first ten pages with care. Smooth the prose.

In the end, you should have a more immersive beginning (or full story, for flash fiction). I’ve found that it encourages me to include more action and make the pages more question-raising (removing unnecessary explanations). Readers find moment-to-moment addictive and will keep reading. And you can use more exposition, etc., later on, after they are fully engaged with the story.

This process is (purposely) overdoing things. With practice, you may be able to achieve moment-to-moment by just reviewing the pages and deleting what’s not needed in them.

Which Story Structure Should You Use?

Our brains naturally seek order. We want to put together instances, images, actions, evidence, imagination, and more to understand, satisfy our curiosities, assess safety and danger, learn lessons, connect, and have emotional experiences.

As a storyteller, structure is your main tool for bringing order. Clarity is a primary responsibility because many people will lose confidence in the tale and abandonment if they can't make sense of it. Or if there's not, at the very least, the promise of making sense. So linear storytelling, which is the primary way most people explain the world to themselves, is the most common structure. There is often a rigorous logic: this happened, so this happened, so this happened, but then this happened. As the chain is built, more is revealed to the reader/audience.

But every moment isn't linear. We reference past experiences throughout our days. We anticipate, project, and imagine possible futures. We dream and daydream to edit, sort, and play with our realities. So many linear stories are interrupted by flashbacks, flashforwards, considerations, memories, evaluations, and distortions.

When enough of these interruptions to the linear narrative find their ways into a story, that story becomes nonlinear. A movie like Pulp Fiction has multiple threads that are presented without concern about chronology. A movie like Memento works backwards. There are circular structures and many other variations, as well.

So, how does this fit with the idea clarity? The answer is that stories are not mathematical equations. Often, part of the fun is engaging with the story by putting the pieces together and making discoveries and finding new meanings along the way. We enjoy surprises, revelations, and finding answers for ourselves. And we’re willing to put in the work and deal with a certain amount of uncertainty to experience that fun. Writers who have content that can pay off in this way (and audiences who enjoy it) will push beyond the linear as far as they can.

But thrilling and inviting participation and providing aha! experiences don't explain everything. Many subtle works which would never be considered mysteries or adventures or surrealistic stories play with story structure to enhance understanding and intensify emotions.

A simple example is comic relief. When things get tense or disturbing, a writer will often insert a funny moment. Why? Because we naturally protect ourselves against big emotions. The moment of comic relief distracts us from the emotions (often dark) that are building so that when the payoff comes we are unguarded.

There are many ways that structure contributes to emotions. Repeated sequences can become rituals to unlock feelings. And they can become even richer when the sequence is turned or broken after it’s learned. Sometimes parallel stories are placed so that comparison is invited (as I mentioned recently in my analysis of Catch Me If You Can). Even characters returning to a place can invite comparison with their last visit there, causing us to reflect on how things changed.

Exposition is often provided out of sequence because its natural placement lacks a context that demonstrates its value. Where information is placed, as every mystery writer knows, can make it memorable or allow it to hide in plain sight.

Storytellers also use another trick, choosing the point of view. For instance, a law story may shift point of view so that the character who is most vulnerable during interaction (say, a love scene) becomes the point of view character — enhancing the emotional impact for readers/audiences. This also can be used for ironic effect. Information presented from another character's point of view may tell us that something observed, missed, or experienced by a different character is more important than he or she realizes.

Very few stories play out in real time. Most have the dull parts cut out. Often this deviation from strict adherence to time is used for pacing. But it's not just editing. The placement of certain events can be used to manage pacing as well, disregarding the actual order of events. This is one of the uses of flashbacks.

The concept of pride of place is important, too. Where things show up – the beginning, the end, in association with a highly emotional scene – provides clues to how much they matter in the narrative. Some moments set up in support, while others are the jewels we came for. And we've learned there are times special things happen, and we lean in when stories reach those times.

Structure may also serve a purpose beyond the main story – spectacle. This can be as obvious as the insertion of car chases, explosions, and sex scenes, added to spice things up. But, especially in movies, the disruption in the story may have the purpose of including evocative images. Often these are wonderful in and of themselves, but more sophisticated storytellers will include them to suggest themes.

Images and dialogue and story logic and all the other parts of experiencing the story can be shifted around in delightful and novel ways, as long as they don't lose the attention of readers/audiences. Now, nothing satisfies everyone. Some people were delighted by the apparent chaos of Inception. Others found it tedious and unrewarding.

I should mention that sometimes the audience is the writer. A structure can provide the scaffolding some writers need and help them to focus in on what will work. I often use stories I love or that feel related to my topics as models to get me started or bring order to the ideas, characters, and moments that are rattling around in my brain. Usually (but not always), those structures survive the revision. But whether they persist or not, they raise questions, provide ways to challenge my ideas, and point me in directions worth exploring.

Another use of structure is to get attention. If you can present a satisfying story in a new or unexpected way, you have a powerful tool making your story stand out. Because people notice anything that is unusual. That’s a good practical reason for playing with structure, but notice the proviso:  present a satisfying story.

Which story structure should you use? Look through the options above (and what they provide), play with them, and make your choice based on what fits your purpose and your story (juxtaposition is almost always worth considering). Be open to make a strange choice, but return to the basics before you put your story out into the world: clarity, attention, and emotion.

Building, Twisting, and Deepening How Readers/Audiences View Character Reputations

I’m studying a TV series now, and the instructor pointed out that different characters become “go-to” for highlighting story/protagonist themes. It rang bells because my course with Danny Simon, many years ago, demonstrated how this works in comedy. Take a situation/comment and imagine responses for each character in the story. One will resonate. And that reflects what we expect of the characters.

Reputations are what drive our expectations. You know some characters can’t be trusted. Other will sacrifice themselves for others. Some will bring a laugh when it’s needed and others will point out what goes wrong. Last time, I used Catch Me if You Can (CMIFC) to present the evidence writers can use to shape reputation. This time I’ll talk about a few tools that can make the reputation memorable.

Building and Deepening

The reactions of other characters. In CMIFC, characters surprise us by accepting even slight evidence to continue trusting a character after that character has been proven untrustworthy. This ironic response reinforces our contrary point of view because it forces us (audience, reader) to defend the truth we’ve come to believe.

Repetition. This can be as simple as catch phrases that make sense, but it is more often a pattern of behavior. In CMIFC we know Frank will dig in and do research. In fact, he studies more and more intensely as time goes on. He similar builds on his other tactics, like distraction, often taking them to a new level (as when he surrounds himself with “stewardesses” to get past police and escape on a jet.

Seeing consequences. We naturally tend to observe choices and actions that lead to big results. Part of the fun of CMIFC is seeing what tricks might be used or might fail in a confidence game. The bigger the consequence (making piles of money, landing in a French prison), the more we attach specific attributes to a character. As always, if some of the results are surprising, they become more memorable.

Contrasts. CMIFC continuously plays Hanratty against Frank, usually in consecutive scenes. But one of the tricks for drama, and especially comedy, is creating situation that trap very different people together. Odd couples make it easy to assign characteristics.

Twisting

Losses, falls from grace. This is big in plot building, but it also reveals character, usually by showing that a characteristic that is assumed to be true is hollow. (It also make force the character to explore a latent talent or value and raise it to the top.)

Injustice. When a character is blamed unfairly or talents and values are unappreciated, it’s usually an emotional moment. And nothing makes information stick like emotions. This also might lead to a moment of courage, when the character stands up to the person who knocks them down (often even though it makes things worse for them). Betrayal is the flashing neon sign of this kind of a twist because it reverses expectations and shatters a personal connection.

Crushing cliches. There are a lot of stock character in fiction. They come with ready-made reputations (like the prostitute with the heart of gold). Often, writers will take advantage of that assumption long enough to lull audiences and readers in, then subvert it with unexpected behavior. A moment of grace from a villain or cruelty from a hero can deepen a story and become a vital, provocative moment.

Characters may double down when it’s ridiculous to do so. They may break away from their patterns and be misunderstood. They may make a late entrance that nullifies all the stories and rumors about them. They may behave differently in private than they do in public.

One of my favorite twists in CMIFC comes from Hanratty. A big contrast between him and Frank is his honesty. When he talks Frank into surrender, claiming the place is surrounded by angry police eager to kill him, we know he’s highly motivated to lie. And his statement seems ridiculous. But it turns out to be true. The one time he lies to Frank is when he says he can meet his dad when they get home. My interpretation is that he does this out of compassion, so Frank won’t have grief tearing him apart on the long flight home.

Exceptions and surprises, when they are tied to important turns, are memorable and always impact reputations.