Evidence is building that fiction can build empathy and give people the tools to be kinder and more understanding. By connecting with characters, we can become better able to connect with each other.
My two previous posts inevitably led me to exploring this further, so I’ll provide a list that follows their pattern of analysis:
Novels as research has shown, get you into the head of another person. You are connecting with what another person cares about, how they think, how they suffer, how they are moved, and their world views. It is a connection between the reader and the character that can be intimate, immediate, and surprising. Characters lead us to conclude that other people think like us (theory of mind)… and that they may think very differently from us.
In addition, because of the storytelling of a novel, the thoughts and feelings come within a context. With a good story, we are worried about the character and partner with them in pursuit of a goal. We can reflect on what characters do and what goes on in their heads in relation to a narrative that may parallel narratives in our own lives. We get more than data and facts. We get experience endowed with meaning.
One more thing: When we read a novel we become co-creators. We have skin in the game, and every image, every sound, and every gesture is personalized by our imaginations.
What novels have trouble with is presenting both sides of the story. Even something as simple as alternating chapters between the hero and the heroine in a love story runs into the problem of loss of intimacy. Our brains need to switch perspectives, breaking connections. This is most obvious when authors dare to switch points of view within scenes. Such “head hopping” is a sure way to distance readers and destroy intimacy.
Theater works relationships from the outside. We become witnesses, and it’s often the case that, even if we takes sides in a conflict, we see both points of view. The interaction emulates the action and dialogue of real life, so we can be comfortable in being drawn into wooing, arguments, caresses, and fistfights. They happen right in front of us, and it can feel as authentic as overheard conversations and street brawls.
Theater can also shift to scenes to feature different characters. When these are done elegantly, it’s less abrupt than transitions in novels because the work of shifting gears is done by the actors (and the direction). And, of course, it’s less of a challenge to be a witness than it is to be a co-creator who has all the responsibilities of the reader of a novel.
There is even the opportunity for deliberation that parallels that in novels. Asides and full-fledge monologues can allow characters to share their most intimate thoughts. I’m not sure it reaches the level of intimacy of reading the thoughts of a character in a novel. But a good actor can make it feel as genuine and affecting as a heart-to-heart with a close friend or a lover.
A note on the actors craft. The best actors inhabit the characters with immediacy, intonation, body language, pacing, and action. That in itself is compelling. But they also add listening. Obviously, they pay attention to all that their fellow actors offer, but they also are present to audiences. Can art be intimate and communal at the same time? I think so. In a theater, you can feel as if the play is being performed just for you at the same time as you are aware of and responding to the audience around you. This s most obvious with humor, but it can also be just as powerful during the most delicate and personal moments of a scene in a drama.
TV does not put real people in front of you. A phone call requires more of us in terms of presence. But, like theater, it allows us to witness dialogue, action and (more limited) body language. It also can slice time, change perspective, and give us locales that are impossible for theater. What it gives us more powerfully than any other medium is faces. Close-ups were invented in film, but TV allows us to see human expressions as clearly and directly as we do when we talk with friends. It’s why, despite the many disadvantages TV has compared to novels and theater, Paddy Chayefsky’s Marty is such an amazing work of art. TV may not have the co-creation of a novel or the presence of theater, but it allows a level of realism no other medium can match.
As with theater, this can mean both sides of a relationship can be treated fairly. We can get to know and struggle with all the characters in The Wire, and experience their personal justifications for choice that reveal their values in a compressed way, without it feeling artificial.
Film has close-ups, of course, but they are huge and nothing like people across the dinner table. But, like theater, we can see bodies in relation to each other. The nonverbal communication that can touch us so deeply is available on the screen. Though there’s an artificiality to our being small by comparison, we are, in a way, forced the the size of the images and the intensity of the sound to be present. Not it the same way as theater, but in a valid, involving way.
There is another aspect to witnessing relationships in film. It is, perhaps, the best medium for irony. See anything by Hitchcock. See especially silent film comedies. What is going on around key characters, including things they don’t notice can be obvious to us. While irony can be used in any medium, film makes it easiest to present the protagonist’s view and the larger, more objective view simultaneously.
For both TV and film, voice-over and monologues can be put to use, but it’s rare that these are as engaging as reflection in a novel or the equivalents in theater.
Fiction podcasts encourage co-creation. Arguably, they have the potential to reach nearly the same levels of building empathy and giving people the tools to be kinder and more understanding as novels. We have a lot of skin in the game. This is especially true in longer stories in which people can become immersed. A forty-minute episode might not compare to a novel, but binge-listening to a fiction podcast series, investing in imagining the world and its characters, can provide a powerful, intimate experience.
Good voice acting, sound design, and music can direct and prompt our imaginations in ways that are unique to this medium. So there is an odd hybrid of limited intimacy (without much reflection) with witnessing (with nothing to see).
Poems are wonderful at providing insights and experiences, but has a difficult time with presenting relationships. However, poems provide powerful triggers that can recall and recast our own experiences. I think this is how stories about relationships in songs have the kind of impact they do. They provide enchanting cues that reveal our lives and what we’ve learned.
Understanding the strengths and weaknesses of each form of storytelling broadens your choices as author. But what about moving from one form to another? Adaptation can be a disaster (the book was better) or a delight. Next time, I’ll offer some thoughts and advice on telling stories in more than one way.
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query connecting. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query connecting. Sort by date Show all posts
Thursday, August 20, 2020
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Fast Selling: Online opportunities
As a writer, I date back to the age of ink, paper, and stamps. That time isn't quite done. I've had a request from an agent for a query sitting around, unattended to for weeks, because her's is an agency that requires hard copy.
But the primary way to submit queries and partial or full manuscripts to agents (and those publishers providing access without agents) is through email. They do have their own guidelines as far as what they expect. Some want samples in the body of the note. Others will accept attached files. A growing number use online applications for submissions. But everything can be done from your laptop. No trips to the Post Office.
And when can you expect a response? Maybe never. One thing that hasn't changed is these people are so overwhelmed. So, today, many reject writers en passant. Typically, this means you, as the writer, are expected to mark your calendar for a date six of eight weeks after submission. My calendar is crowded with little boxes that say things like, "Angela B., Last Chance Agency, The Olive Orangutan, NO." When that date comes up, my submissions spreadsheet collects another negative (-). Well and good. I can handle it. I'm a big boy.
Some add insult to injury by insisting -- with waits that can extend far beyond a couple of months to most of a year -- that they, and only they, see your manuscript. This seems pretty one-way to me. A successful author said recently, "My advice is, ignore it."
Face-to-face is another option for the stout of heart. At conferences, you can make an appointment to sit down (for five minutes) with one of these gatekeepers and breathlessly make your case. Most ask for partials or full manuscripts, plus queries. In fact, it's rather rare that a writer is told, straight out, "No thanks." (In one case, an agent had "I am eager to reject you" written all over her face before I even sat down. And she followed through.) I've heard more than one agent admit that these were "pity" requests. Safer for them, but, perhaps, crueler in the long run to the writers.
A new option for connecting with agents and editors has emerged, and, to a "fast" guy like me, it's wonderful. At the end of last year, I stumbled upon online pitching. These occur mostly in blogs and tweets.
For blogs, you usually need a few hundred words of your "finished and polished" manuscript, but the key is a very brief pitch. Somehow, you need to provide a sense of your premise, your character, and your voice in 35 words. Your copy must be impeccable, sensitive to the audience you intend to reach, and fresh. It's a bit like writing poetry.
Oh, one more requirement: above your pitch and query, you need to list your audience (YA, Adult, MG, NA), your genre (SF, Rom, UF, etc.), and your word count. The last can kill you. Too few or too many words for the audience/genre you select can get you rejected out of hand.
If you think that sounds difficult, try tweeting your pitch. You have 140 characters to garner a gatekeeper's interest. And these editors and agents flash in and out of the "pitch party" and may miss you in the feed, so be prepared to pitch (slightly different) tweets twice an hour for 12 to 24 hours. It is marketing haiku or a full-contact sport, depending on your point of view.
Actually, you don't have 140 characters. You need to use some up identifying the party - something like #PitchBlack - and the audience/genre -- e.g., #YA #SF. Oops, now we're down to 120, including the blank spaces.
Here's an actual pitch I've had success with: It's Bud or the cats as he fights chaos to bring peace to a wounded household coping w/their dying aunt
Not as good as it might be, but it worked. As have my 35 word pitches. I've had over twenty requests for queries, partials, and fulls working this way. I've found five contracts from publishers in my in-box in the past 60 days. None of these came to me because of pity. They came to me because these folks are interested in my work. Cloaked by online anonymity the editors and agents self-selected with no social pressure to be nice.
I'll add that I've gotten access to "closed" agencies and publishers through these online opportunities. And everything is happening very quickly.
But the primary way to submit queries and partial or full manuscripts to agents (and those publishers providing access without agents) is through email. They do have their own guidelines as far as what they expect. Some want samples in the body of the note. Others will accept attached files. A growing number use online applications for submissions. But everything can be done from your laptop. No trips to the Post Office.
And when can you expect a response? Maybe never. One thing that hasn't changed is these people are so overwhelmed. So, today, many reject writers en passant. Typically, this means you, as the writer, are expected to mark your calendar for a date six of eight weeks after submission. My calendar is crowded with little boxes that say things like, "Angela B., Last Chance Agency, The Olive Orangutan, NO." When that date comes up, my submissions spreadsheet collects another negative (-). Well and good. I can handle it. I'm a big boy.
Some add insult to injury by insisting -- with waits that can extend far beyond a couple of months to most of a year -- that they, and only they, see your manuscript. This seems pretty one-way to me. A successful author said recently, "My advice is, ignore it."
Face-to-face is another option for the stout of heart. At conferences, you can make an appointment to sit down (for five minutes) with one of these gatekeepers and breathlessly make your case. Most ask for partials or full manuscripts, plus queries. In fact, it's rather rare that a writer is told, straight out, "No thanks." (In one case, an agent had "I am eager to reject you" written all over her face before I even sat down. And she followed through.) I've heard more than one agent admit that these were "pity" requests. Safer for them, but, perhaps, crueler in the long run to the writers.
A new option for connecting with agents and editors has emerged, and, to a "fast" guy like me, it's wonderful. At the end of last year, I stumbled upon online pitching. These occur mostly in blogs and tweets.
For blogs, you usually need a few hundred words of your "finished and polished" manuscript, but the key is a very brief pitch. Somehow, you need to provide a sense of your premise, your character, and your voice in 35 words. Your copy must be impeccable, sensitive to the audience you intend to reach, and fresh. It's a bit like writing poetry.
Oh, one more requirement: above your pitch and query, you need to list your audience (YA, Adult, MG, NA), your genre (SF, Rom, UF, etc.), and your word count. The last can kill you. Too few or too many words for the audience/genre you select can get you rejected out of hand.
If you think that sounds difficult, try tweeting your pitch. You have 140 characters to garner a gatekeeper's interest. And these editors and agents flash in and out of the "pitch party" and may miss you in the feed, so be prepared to pitch (slightly different) tweets twice an hour for 12 to 24 hours. It is marketing haiku or a full-contact sport, depending on your point of view.
Actually, you don't have 140 characters. You need to use some up identifying the party - something like #PitchBlack - and the audience/genre -- e.g., #YA #SF. Oops, now we're down to 120, including the blank spaces.
Here's an actual pitch I've had success with: It's Bud or the cats as he fights chaos to bring peace to a wounded household coping w/their dying aunt
Not as good as it might be, but it worked. As have my 35 word pitches. I've had over twenty requests for queries, partials, and fulls working this way. I've found five contracts from publishers in my in-box in the past 60 days. None of these came to me because of pity. They came to me because these folks are interested in my work. Cloaked by online anonymity the editors and agents self-selected with no social pressure to be nice.
I'll add that I've gotten access to "closed" agencies and publishers through these online opportunities. And everything is happening very quickly.
Wednesday, January 16, 2019
Why Writing Humor Is Hard - You’re funny, but…
I’ve always been able to get people to laugh (or at least groan). I think most people can do this, even people who can’t tell a joke. Some people can be funny without even knowing they are, like Teddy in Stand by Me (and delivering the joke as if you don’t know it’s funny often adds to the laughter).
Some people have humor as part of their identity. Class clowns are obvious, but most of us, sitting down with a few friends, know who reliably will provide the comedy. Or you know a pair that tend to compete with jokes, even if it’s no more than a pun competition.
I could fend off bullies by getting them laugh, which is a fairly good test of having the DNA for comedy. But sitting down to write humor — something people often suggested to me — was difficult for me for years. When it happened, it was almost by accident. I think a lot of writers who could be making us laugh hit the obstacles I did, so I’ll list a few. My hope is this will help you release your inner Mark Twain or Mel Brooks or Erma Bombeck.
Permission. - Claiming the mantle of humorist is difficult. You’re funny? Okay, make me laugh. So being funny on demand (which is part of sitting down to write humor) immediately introduces conflict and guilt. You feel vulnerable. And you never hear laughter when you write a joke (except maybe from yourself — how arrogant does that sound?). Other than a few short stories (tested by reading aloud to a writers’ group), my first paid humor writing was a series of radio PSAs I’d been asked to create. I had explicit permission. Someone believed I could do it and was backing it up with an investment (salaried hours). I was saved by three things.
Audience. — Note that I had a definite audience for my humor in the above example. When you sit down to write a novel or a short story or a script, that isn’t naturally the case. Who is on the other side of your page laughing? Often, it’s just you, but that limits your readers to those who share your tastes, sensibilities, knowledge, culture (including class), interests, etc. One answer is to choose someone you know well as your target audience. For instance, Vonnegut wrote for his sister. That is a highly effective approach, but I learned something writing speeches that I rely on — let the characters talk.
My first speechwriting gig was for two executives with very different sensibilities who often had to talk one after the other, providing different perspectives on a similar subject. Oh, and I usually had to open each speech with a joke. Imagine having to write for both Stephen Wright and Will Ferrell. There was a lot of pressure to get this right. I’d moved my family two hundred miles to take the job. And I’d never written a speech before. And I didn’t know I’d have to write jokes. So I listened to each man until I had their voices in my head and I let a lot of jokes come out for each and I chose those that worked. The jokes came from who they were, so they were able to appreciate them and deliver them. (I never pulled a joke from one and gave it to the other, no matter how funny. It wouldn’t have worked.)
This gets applied to my stories today by my taking the time to interview my characters until I know them as well as I did the executives. When my characters say funny things they aren’t what Danny Simon called “joke jokes.” They come from the character.
Half-life. — Another problem is jokes are less funny every time you read them. It is very easy to cut funny bits because they’ve become dull to you. I heard that sitcom writers often mark the parts that make them laugh out loud at the first reading so they don’t get cut. That’s what I do, too. Still have doubts? Test with other people.
Cut. Cut Cut. — I mentioned the hundred PSAs above. Like nothing else I know of, comedy writing benefits from creating a lot of material. Write long. Write alternative versions. Allow yourself to create work you’d never use (or never dare to show anyone). Then ruthlessly delete. And, as with all humor, look to see if you need every word to create something clear and funny. Brevity is the soul of wit, according to Shakespeare.
Timing. — Humor often needs to be set up. The surprise must come at the right time. I think spoken humor develops timing through feedback (laugh/no laugh). Written humor is a little like written poetry. It only really comes alive when read aloud. (Not just heard vividly in your head. Actually spoken.) So read to friend, a cat, a dog, or the wallpaper if necessary. Get the wording right. Delay for effect. Build toward bigger jokes. One surprising benefit I’ve found when I read humorous pieces aloud is I naturally tend to add something that tops or gets another laugh. So I recommend making this part of your routine.
Fallbacks. — How often have you done this (or seen it done)? The wit is missing, the jokes are dying, and the funny person snorts or makes a face or adds an incongruous quip. Performance humor can access go-to, sure laughs to recover the audience. It’s difficult to diagnose failed jokes in print and a lot of the fallbacks of performance can’t be used in prose. Danny Simon (speaking of sitcoms) recommended regularly throwing lines to the laugh-getters. Think Ted Baxter in The Mary Tyler Moore Show or Jim "Iggy" Ignatowski in Taxi. Or Shakespeare’s clowns. Including weird or foolish characters in your stories can pay off, especially when exposition is needed. (In work that is more dramatic, these characters can be used for comic relief.)
Human experience. — The absurd and the silly have their place in comedy. But the stories that really pay off are those that have familiar touchstones and fresh insights. Often humor is processed anger and despair, which I’d wish on no one. Since a surprising point of view is vital to much of experienced-based humor, neuroses often play a part (maybe use neurotic characters rather than amplify your own neuroses). The sure (and healthy) bets for including this kind of humor are observation and curiosity. Pay attention to what is going on around you (especially to the stories of people around you and whatever touches you personally). Explore your world, digging deeply into what catches your attention.
If you think you have the knack, I hope you take a chance at writing humor. I think we need more fun in this world, and I hope a lot of it, rather than bitter truths with a twist, will be giving, loving. gentle, insightful, and connecting. The things that divide us seem less horrible and terrifying when we laugh together. Sharing moments we find funny and amusing and expressing our joy, surprise, and understanding with a good laugh can revive us and help us to recognize the humanity in each other.
Some people have humor as part of their identity. Class clowns are obvious, but most of us, sitting down with a few friends, know who reliably will provide the comedy. Or you know a pair that tend to compete with jokes, even if it’s no more than a pun competition.
I could fend off bullies by getting them laugh, which is a fairly good test of having the DNA for comedy. But sitting down to write humor — something people often suggested to me — was difficult for me for years. When it happened, it was almost by accident. I think a lot of writers who could be making us laugh hit the obstacles I did, so I’ll list a few. My hope is this will help you release your inner Mark Twain or Mel Brooks or Erma Bombeck.
Permission. - Claiming the mantle of humorist is difficult. You’re funny? Okay, make me laugh. So being funny on demand (which is part of sitting down to write humor) immediately introduces conflict and guilt. You feel vulnerable. And you never hear laughter when you write a joke (except maybe from yourself — how arrogant does that sound?). Other than a few short stories (tested by reading aloud to a writers’ group), my first paid humor writing was a series of radio PSAs I’d been asked to create. I had explicit permission. Someone believed I could do it and was backing it up with an investment (salaried hours). I was saved by three things.
- It sounded like fun, so I approached it as play.
- It wasn’t my real job, so I wasn’t under any real pressure.
- I knew exactly who had to laugh (my boss).
Audience. — Note that I had a definite audience for my humor in the above example. When you sit down to write a novel or a short story or a script, that isn’t naturally the case. Who is on the other side of your page laughing? Often, it’s just you, but that limits your readers to those who share your tastes, sensibilities, knowledge, culture (including class), interests, etc. One answer is to choose someone you know well as your target audience. For instance, Vonnegut wrote for his sister. That is a highly effective approach, but I learned something writing speeches that I rely on — let the characters talk.
My first speechwriting gig was for two executives with very different sensibilities who often had to talk one after the other, providing different perspectives on a similar subject. Oh, and I usually had to open each speech with a joke. Imagine having to write for both Stephen Wright and Will Ferrell. There was a lot of pressure to get this right. I’d moved my family two hundred miles to take the job. And I’d never written a speech before. And I didn’t know I’d have to write jokes. So I listened to each man until I had their voices in my head and I let a lot of jokes come out for each and I chose those that worked. The jokes came from who they were, so they were able to appreciate them and deliver them. (I never pulled a joke from one and gave it to the other, no matter how funny. It wouldn’t have worked.)
This gets applied to my stories today by my taking the time to interview my characters until I know them as well as I did the executives. When my characters say funny things they aren’t what Danny Simon called “joke jokes.” They come from the character.
Half-life. — Another problem is jokes are less funny every time you read them. It is very easy to cut funny bits because they’ve become dull to you. I heard that sitcom writers often mark the parts that make them laugh out loud at the first reading so they don’t get cut. That’s what I do, too. Still have doubts? Test with other people.
Cut. Cut Cut. — I mentioned the hundred PSAs above. Like nothing else I know of, comedy writing benefits from creating a lot of material. Write long. Write alternative versions. Allow yourself to create work you’d never use (or never dare to show anyone). Then ruthlessly delete. And, as with all humor, look to see if you need every word to create something clear and funny. Brevity is the soul of wit, according to Shakespeare.
Timing. — Humor often needs to be set up. The surprise must come at the right time. I think spoken humor develops timing through feedback (laugh/no laugh). Written humor is a little like written poetry. It only really comes alive when read aloud. (Not just heard vividly in your head. Actually spoken.) So read to friend, a cat, a dog, or the wallpaper if necessary. Get the wording right. Delay for effect. Build toward bigger jokes. One surprising benefit I’ve found when I read humorous pieces aloud is I naturally tend to add something that tops or gets another laugh. So I recommend making this part of your routine.
Fallbacks. — How often have you done this (or seen it done)? The wit is missing, the jokes are dying, and the funny person snorts or makes a face or adds an incongruous quip. Performance humor can access go-to, sure laughs to recover the audience. It’s difficult to diagnose failed jokes in print and a lot of the fallbacks of performance can’t be used in prose. Danny Simon (speaking of sitcoms) recommended regularly throwing lines to the laugh-getters. Think Ted Baxter in The Mary Tyler Moore Show or Jim "Iggy" Ignatowski in Taxi. Or Shakespeare’s clowns. Including weird or foolish characters in your stories can pay off, especially when exposition is needed. (In work that is more dramatic, these characters can be used for comic relief.)
Human experience. — The absurd and the silly have their place in comedy. But the stories that really pay off are those that have familiar touchstones and fresh insights. Often humor is processed anger and despair, which I’d wish on no one. Since a surprising point of view is vital to much of experienced-based humor, neuroses often play a part (maybe use neurotic characters rather than amplify your own neuroses). The sure (and healthy) bets for including this kind of humor are observation and curiosity. Pay attention to what is going on around you (especially to the stories of people around you and whatever touches you personally). Explore your world, digging deeply into what catches your attention.
If you think you have the knack, I hope you take a chance at writing humor. I think we need more fun in this world, and I hope a lot of it, rather than bitter truths with a twist, will be giving, loving. gentle, insightful, and connecting. The things that divide us seem less horrible and terrifying when we laugh together. Sharing moments we find funny and amusing and expressing our joy, surprise, and understanding with a good laugh can revive us and help us to recognize the humanity in each other.
Tuesday, May 2, 2017
Bonding with Your Story's Characters 2 - Probing your hero until it hurts
Connecting with your characters can deepen your stories and keep you writing. Last time, I posted nine dimensions to consider, and here we'll go into the details with the protagonist in mind.
The biggest problem with building a connection with your protagonist is really getting to know him or her. Often, the protagonist has a lot in common with the writer, but even well-developed and individuated heroes and heroines are likely to feel familiar. After all, the writer wants readers to identify with protagonists, so sympathy as well as empathy is probably existed before the opening lines with written. And the protagonist gets a pass on probing analysis.
Often, it gets worse. The identification is so strong that the kind of test (good writers torture characters) that might reveal characters are avoided or mitigated.
Familiarity and identification mean that writers need to be deliberate and determined before they can truly know protagonists well enough to bond with them. Nick Lowe got it right (for stories, not friendships): "You've gotta be cruel to be kind." So prepare to go through hell with your protagonist.
Next week, the villains -- which should be less painful.
The biggest problem with building a connection with your protagonist is really getting to know him or her. Often, the protagonist has a lot in common with the writer, but even well-developed and individuated heroes and heroines are likely to feel familiar. After all, the writer wants readers to identify with protagonists, so sympathy as well as empathy is probably existed before the opening lines with written. And the protagonist gets a pass on probing analysis.
Often, it gets worse. The identification is so strong that the kind of test (good writers torture characters) that might reveal characters are avoided or mitigated.
Familiarity and identification mean that writers need to be deliberate and determined before they can truly know protagonists well enough to bond with them. Nick Lowe got it right (for stories, not friendships): "You've gotta be cruel to be kind." So prepare to go through hell with your protagonist.
- Investment - I recommend taking a visual approach to this. Consider a series of still photographs or a silent movie of your protagonist doing something (preferably physical) with a beginning, middle, and end. If you can imagine yourself participating, even better. So perhaps, you'll arm wrestle with your hero or cut in at a dance with your heroine. Then push this, by making the action unpleasant. A trip to the dentist would work. Or terrifying -- getting mugged. Three of these shared experiences will tell you a lot about your main character.
- Communication - Now they can open their mouths. Warm your protagonist up. Get his or her confidence. Then say, "Tell me about your most embarrassing moment." Whatever they respond, follow up with a probing question. Make it open-ended, so they can't get away with a simple yes or no.
- Commonality - This one is probably easy with the protagonist, and that's fine. You both went to the same college? Are baseball fans? Good. But see if you also share less admirable experiences in your own life (getting arrested? bullying a sibling?). Or list out your guilty pleasures and see if these appeal to your protagonist, too.
- Concern - Yes. You already care about your character. Note that. Then imagine the worst thing that might happen to him or her (either in or beyond the current story) and spend some time worrying about these happening and imagining the feelings that would result.
- Tolerance - By now, darker aspects of your hero or heroine (or maybe yourself) should be evident. Don't be afraid. Don't be judgmental. Forgive. Respect. Things will all turn out okay in the end.
- Reliability - Has the core of your character changed? Is the reason he or she was chosen as the story's protagonist no longer valid? Take another look. Sit with it a while. See if you need to tweak. And remember you can always create a new protagonist, use this one in a different story, or turn the character who was supposed to be the hero into a villain. (This last could be a great move that takes your story to a higher level.)
- Surprise/Mystery - This usually comes out in the writing. And the best way I know to evoke it with a protagonist -- the character you are most likely to believe you know in and out -- is to make a list of ten to twenty possible responses to a story challenge. The one that is the most shocking, that you never would have guessed your character would have done, may be your best choice. Be open to the possibility. (And, of course, if surprising options pop up spontaneously, don't dismiss them. Even when they seem crazy.)
- Mutual dependence - This is the part that often falls away for plotters. The main character just goes through the motions. But it's the emotions that count. Your protagonist owes you more than this. Make sure he or she pays back your diligence in providing the best story you can with true responses. If you and your characters avoid being vulnerable and counting on each other, your readers will be cheated.
- Shared work/risk - Doubt can be a killer for a writer. Or a wonderful tool. It is when things could go wrong (or seem to be going wrong) in the story that you and the characters need to work together. The scenes you struggle with are the ones that force you and your main character to explore more deeply and take chances on. These are the scenes that make or break your story and establish the strongest relationships with your heroes and heroines. Strive together. Be unflinching in the face of disaster.
Next week, the villains -- which should be less painful.
Tuesday, May 16, 2017
Bonding with Your Story's Characters 4 - Sidekicks, best friends, and minions
A special word this time for the best friends, minions, and spear carriers who fill out your casts or populate the imaginary spaces of your novels. These are the valued ones who are held for ransom… or callously disposed of by villains.
Why should you worry, as a writer, about connecting with your secondary characters?
It all comes down to creating the best experiences for readers and audiences. While it is a mistake to have a secondary character who overshadow your protagonist (and probably your antagonist), if you don't know them well enough to allow them to credibly play their roles, your story will be diminished.
A wise old man or crone can point out the path the hero or heroine must take. The confidant becomes the proxy for readers anxious to know what's on the protagonist's mind. The princess must be saved. The sidekick must carry the message. The femme fatale must lure the main character into danger.
Secondary characters can turn the story. They can intensify the stakes. It is usually not the main characters, but they who state the theme . Secondary characters illustrate the existence of a larger world. They also help the writer, through techniques like comic relief, to manage the emotional pacing of the story.
As I did with protagonists and villains, I will go through each of the nine dimensions with the secondary characters, but not with all of them. That could be a series of articles in and of itself. I’ll just sample the list as I need to so I can make my points. The rest will be left to you.
So here's the list:
Investment – If you get too involved with your secondary characters, you'll burn a lot of writing time. That's your choice, but the danger is you’ll become too attached. It's easy to unintentionally shift the spotlight away from your main characters if you fill a notebook with interviews and observations on the heroine’s best friend.
You should, however, invest enough so your secondary character is slightly more vivid in your mind that might be appropriate. Everything in a story is seen “as through a glass darkly,” so a little exaggeration is warranted. But, when the waiter delivering a glass of water to your hero explodes off the page, it distorts your plot and sets up inappropriate reader expectations.
One big exception here is what you write in a series. If your next book will focus in on this secondary character – a very popular approach for sequels of romance novels — getting the reader interested is part of marketing your next book.
Communication – I like to explore secondary characters within the contexts of their roles — both their official tasks and their relationships with protagonists and antagonists. This means I often do very limited interviews with these characters. I explore how they themselves feel and think about these two roles.
Commonality – Here, I'm mostly interested in giving myself touch points. To avoid too closely identifying with these characters, that often means grabbing aspects of people I know casually. People I meet once or know through others work best because, in these cases, I will have noticed something that clicks with me, but I don't have the full picture. Roger Zelazny created a secondary character in one of the Amber books who was clearly himself. What resulted was an amusing and memorable scene, but it pulled me out of the story. So be careful about taking a star turn yourself.
Concern — For children in jeopardy, damsels in distress, and other characters who motivate the acceptance of difficult missions, character change, and sacrifice on the part of your protagonists, it is essential that you, as a writer, have as much concern for them as your main characters do. Too often, I find in movies and television shows that the "prizes" who motivate heroes and heroines didn't seem worth it. For me, it makes all the anxiety and action come off as over-the-top and foolish.
Tolerance – What I love about secondary characters is that the more fleeting they are, the more obnoxious and ridiculous they can be. Annoyance is a powerful spice, especially when readers can put down books and viewers can change the channel or pop out the DVD. But in small amounts, especially in longer works, they can create zesty moments.
Reliability – The traits of a secondary character are limited. Be very careful about making them variable. Still, it can be done. For instance, it's very effective to have a minor rival congratulate the main character once the objective is achieved. It helps to underline and amplify the success by showing that even an enemy recognizes the victory. But generally we depend upon secondary characters to provide, sounding boards, unchanging perspectives that respond in understandable ways to the actions, ideas, and comments of main characters.
Surprise/Mystery – See reliability above, with one additional idea: It is wonderful for your plot to be complicated, for obstacles to be made tougher, and for stakes to be raised because a friendly secondary character makes a mistake. Usually, though they may be helpful within their roles, they should not surprise the hero with something that makes life easier.
Mutual dependence – Yes, minions are disposable. But, you as a writer, should feel a little pain when they make their final departures. And it's even more true with characters who fill larger roles, but don't rise to the level of main characters. In every case, a secondary character should be there for a reason, and, as their creator, you can't be uncommitted. Be present, at least a little bit, even for the poor spear carriers.
Shared work/risk – While you can't let them take over, it can be good to give your secondary characters some latitude. Trust them (even if they are minions or femme fatales).
One more thing to think about. Casting is one of the most important factors in the success of a movie or television show. An important point of advice for scriptwriters, therefore, is to make sure that the roles that will make or break the production are written so that good actors will want to play the parts.
When you think about this in terms of either script or a novel, it means you as a writer are required to think beyond the plot value of most of your characters. No one wants to play device. Or read about a character who only serves a function. So don't shortchange your secondary characters because you're afraid they'll steal the show (or you don't think it's worth the bother).
Keep it interesting. Keep it fresh. Create stories that are bigger than the page or the screen.
Why should you worry, as a writer, about connecting with your secondary characters?
It all comes down to creating the best experiences for readers and audiences. While it is a mistake to have a secondary character who overshadow your protagonist (and probably your antagonist), if you don't know them well enough to allow them to credibly play their roles, your story will be diminished.
A wise old man or crone can point out the path the hero or heroine must take. The confidant becomes the proxy for readers anxious to know what's on the protagonist's mind. The princess must be saved. The sidekick must carry the message. The femme fatale must lure the main character into danger.
Secondary characters can turn the story. They can intensify the stakes. It is usually not the main characters, but they who state the theme . Secondary characters illustrate the existence of a larger world. They also help the writer, through techniques like comic relief, to manage the emotional pacing of the story.
As I did with protagonists and villains, I will go through each of the nine dimensions with the secondary characters, but not with all of them. That could be a series of articles in and of itself. I’ll just sample the list as I need to so I can make my points. The rest will be left to you.
So here's the list:
Investment – If you get too involved with your secondary characters, you'll burn a lot of writing time. That's your choice, but the danger is you’ll become too attached. It's easy to unintentionally shift the spotlight away from your main characters if you fill a notebook with interviews and observations on the heroine’s best friend.
You should, however, invest enough so your secondary character is slightly more vivid in your mind that might be appropriate. Everything in a story is seen “as through a glass darkly,” so a little exaggeration is warranted. But, when the waiter delivering a glass of water to your hero explodes off the page, it distorts your plot and sets up inappropriate reader expectations.
One big exception here is what you write in a series. If your next book will focus in on this secondary character – a very popular approach for sequels of romance novels — getting the reader interested is part of marketing your next book.
Communication – I like to explore secondary characters within the contexts of their roles — both their official tasks and their relationships with protagonists and antagonists. This means I often do very limited interviews with these characters. I explore how they themselves feel and think about these two roles.
Commonality – Here, I'm mostly interested in giving myself touch points. To avoid too closely identifying with these characters, that often means grabbing aspects of people I know casually. People I meet once or know through others work best because, in these cases, I will have noticed something that clicks with me, but I don't have the full picture. Roger Zelazny created a secondary character in one of the Amber books who was clearly himself. What resulted was an amusing and memorable scene, but it pulled me out of the story. So be careful about taking a star turn yourself.
Concern — For children in jeopardy, damsels in distress, and other characters who motivate the acceptance of difficult missions, character change, and sacrifice on the part of your protagonists, it is essential that you, as a writer, have as much concern for them as your main characters do. Too often, I find in movies and television shows that the "prizes" who motivate heroes and heroines didn't seem worth it. For me, it makes all the anxiety and action come off as over-the-top and foolish.
Tolerance – What I love about secondary characters is that the more fleeting they are, the more obnoxious and ridiculous they can be. Annoyance is a powerful spice, especially when readers can put down books and viewers can change the channel or pop out the DVD. But in small amounts, especially in longer works, they can create zesty moments.
Reliability – The traits of a secondary character are limited. Be very careful about making them variable. Still, it can be done. For instance, it's very effective to have a minor rival congratulate the main character once the objective is achieved. It helps to underline and amplify the success by showing that even an enemy recognizes the victory. But generally we depend upon secondary characters to provide, sounding boards, unchanging perspectives that respond in understandable ways to the actions, ideas, and comments of main characters.
Surprise/Mystery – See reliability above, with one additional idea: It is wonderful for your plot to be complicated, for obstacles to be made tougher, and for stakes to be raised because a friendly secondary character makes a mistake. Usually, though they may be helpful within their roles, they should not surprise the hero with something that makes life easier.
Mutual dependence – Yes, minions are disposable. But, you as a writer, should feel a little pain when they make their final departures. And it's even more true with characters who fill larger roles, but don't rise to the level of main characters. In every case, a secondary character should be there for a reason, and, as their creator, you can't be uncommitted. Be present, at least a little bit, even for the poor spear carriers.
Shared work/risk – While you can't let them take over, it can be good to give your secondary characters some latitude. Trust them (even if they are minions or femme fatales).
One more thing to think about. Casting is one of the most important factors in the success of a movie or television show. An important point of advice for scriptwriters, therefore, is to make sure that the roles that will make or break the production are written so that good actors will want to play the parts.
When you think about this in terms of either script or a novel, it means you as a writer are required to think beyond the plot value of most of your characters. No one wants to play device. Or read about a character who only serves a function. So don't shortchange your secondary characters because you're afraid they'll steal the show (or you don't think it's worth the bother).
Keep it interesting. Keep it fresh. Create stories that are bigger than the page or the screen.
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
Story Excitement 2 — Holding onto the thrill
Excitement can fuel the enthusiasm you need to get your story done. The beginning of Romancing the Stone provides a pretty good depiction of what can happen when a novelist is finishing the work. The words may pour out. Along with laughter and tears. I've known some writers who have said that there were large sections of writing where they were so physically and emotionally involved that they had no memory of the actual creation of the scenes.
On the other hand… commitment can wane as the writing continues for weeks, months, or years. Almost every novelists I've asked has said that the work feels so rotten at the one half to three quarters completion point that they are tempted to abandon it. (In fact, ask around and you'll find out there are a lot of partially finished novels in drawers and on hard disks.)
So, excitement from beginning to end is not guaranteed. How can it be maintained?
The primary tool I use, which also has been useful for some of my students, is to write a list of 10 to 20 reasons why the manuscript must be completed. These are written in full sentences, intended to communicate convincingly to the future self who is discouraged. They can range from the very practical (I have a contract, there's a market for this, an agent is waiting) to the aesthetic (the concept here presents beauty or raises questions) to a sense of justice (this reveals corruption in our society).
Another way to keep the enthusiasm is to take a deep breath and delve more deeply into one of the characters in the story. Often this means seeing the dark side of a character you love – not easy, but irresistible. The best way to do this, in my opinion, is to put one of the characters into an intolerable situation. The more excruciating, the more compelling the story will become. Note: this situation does not need to be included in the final work. Its value comes from what it's does to help the writer connect more profoundly with his or her creation.
Raymond Chandler wrote, "When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand." Certainly, if you can find a way to surprise yourself, if you can disrupt the story or depart from your outline, it's likely to engage you. Discomfort may be the first feeling, but if you stick it out, you're likely to feel the adrenaline. Taking a risk is always acceptable.
If you respond well to other stimuli – pictures, music, a cold shower, or a hot tub — go for it. I have a friend who picks up magazines when she gets stuck. As long as she sticks to the pictures, quirky, attention-grabbing photography will get her going again.
Connecting with an obsession in some way can also keep the fire going. Think of the elements that cause you to watch movies over and over again, games that you lose yourself in, even those thoughts that keep you up at night. Find a way – and it may involve more stream of consciousness than traditional writing – to feature something that obsesses you in your work in progress.
Finally, if you have a long-term relationship with someone, think about how you have been able to maintain that. Gifts? Finding common interests? Resisting temptations and distractions? Paying attention to needs and emotions? Each of these provides models for holding onto the thrill you feel for your work in progress. In other words, nothing beats persistence, imagination, and commitment for finding your way to a happy ending.
All this excitement is great for you as a writer working to get your manuscript finished. Often, what you feel as your writing is translated to readers without much effort. But sometimes, conveying that excitement is not automatic. And that's will talk about in the next entry in this series.
On the other hand… commitment can wane as the writing continues for weeks, months, or years. Almost every novelists I've asked has said that the work feels so rotten at the one half to three quarters completion point that they are tempted to abandon it. (In fact, ask around and you'll find out there are a lot of partially finished novels in drawers and on hard disks.)
So, excitement from beginning to end is not guaranteed. How can it be maintained?
The primary tool I use, which also has been useful for some of my students, is to write a list of 10 to 20 reasons why the manuscript must be completed. These are written in full sentences, intended to communicate convincingly to the future self who is discouraged. They can range from the very practical (I have a contract, there's a market for this, an agent is waiting) to the aesthetic (the concept here presents beauty or raises questions) to a sense of justice (this reveals corruption in our society).
Another way to keep the enthusiasm is to take a deep breath and delve more deeply into one of the characters in the story. Often this means seeing the dark side of a character you love – not easy, but irresistible. The best way to do this, in my opinion, is to put one of the characters into an intolerable situation. The more excruciating, the more compelling the story will become. Note: this situation does not need to be included in the final work. Its value comes from what it's does to help the writer connect more profoundly with his or her creation.
Raymond Chandler wrote, "When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand." Certainly, if you can find a way to surprise yourself, if you can disrupt the story or depart from your outline, it's likely to engage you. Discomfort may be the first feeling, but if you stick it out, you're likely to feel the adrenaline. Taking a risk is always acceptable.
If you respond well to other stimuli – pictures, music, a cold shower, or a hot tub — go for it. I have a friend who picks up magazines when she gets stuck. As long as she sticks to the pictures, quirky, attention-grabbing photography will get her going again.
Connecting with an obsession in some way can also keep the fire going. Think of the elements that cause you to watch movies over and over again, games that you lose yourself in, even those thoughts that keep you up at night. Find a way – and it may involve more stream of consciousness than traditional writing – to feature something that obsesses you in your work in progress.
Finally, if you have a long-term relationship with someone, think about how you have been able to maintain that. Gifts? Finding common interests? Resisting temptations and distractions? Paying attention to needs and emotions? Each of these provides models for holding onto the thrill you feel for your work in progress. In other words, nothing beats persistence, imagination, and commitment for finding your way to a happy ending.
All this excitement is great for you as a writer working to get your manuscript finished. Often, what you feel as your writing is translated to readers without much effort. But sometimes, conveying that excitement is not automatic. And that's will talk about in the next entry in this series.
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
A Story Premise You Can Love and Cherish: 10 questions
Few things are more important to getting attention for and selling your story than the premise. But, as mentioned in the last post, your premise, whether it is a phrase or a paragraph, is a foundation for productive writing. I recommend taking two weeks to formulate a premise for a book or screenplay, and that's if you are someone who is tuned to noting down ideas and connecting key concepts in interesting ways.
Getting the premise right is essential, so I've put together ten questions you can use to test yours:
Getting the premise right is essential, so I've put together ten questions you can use to test yours:
- Are you passionate about the premise? Is the concept one you want to delve into? Will it lead to answers that will matter to you?
- Do you know who you want to share your story, findings, or thesis with? Who is the audience for this and what compels you to bring this material to them? Do they share your passion or will they need to be lured in?
- Are you the right person to write this? Stretching and getting into areas that make you uncomfortable is fine (perhaps essential for the most valuable work), but can you gain the knowledge, perspectives, insights, and emotional connections that will make your version distinct, essential, and true?
- Is your premise clear? Does it include all the elements (e.g., for a logline), and are these specific, evocative, logical, and accessible? Is it complete enough?
- Is it the right time for you to write this? Has the idea fermented long enough? Have the ideas been pushed to the limit? Do you have enough information and understanding to start? Have you developed background and a few focus areas (theme, character, plot points, arguments, questions)?
- Do you have good reasons to write this? Have you put together a list of 10-20 arguments to present to yourself when you enthusiasm and confidence wane?
- Is the premise rich enough? Does it support a book-length investigation without padding or adding adjunct material?
- Have you investigated comparables? Are there similar books, movies, or other media around? Do you have something new or under-explored to add? Could one of these provide a good model for your work?
- Is it marketable? Does it fit a particular genre? Does it catch the zeitgeist? Does it have appeal? Does it exploit your platform?
- Have you chosen the best medium? Why a novel or a script or a nonfiction book or a play or graphic novel or a speech?
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Organic Approaches to Fiction Writing
Apparently, you can get away with anything-- rigid plotting, reckless brainstorming, even inspiration from random marriages of unrelated terms--can lead to good fiction provided you approach it organically. This is what I've run into as I've surveyed articles on writing.
What is this magical organic writing of which they speak? Searching the whole of the Web via Google for "organic approaches to fiction," I get exactly nothing. I've decided that writing without the use of synthetic herbicides is not the answer. From the contexts of the remarks, I've attempted to derive my own answer.
First, as the articles imply, a good story can come from almost anywhere, even random term matching. One of my favorite short stories, "Of Mist, and Grass, and Sand," emerged from a match (or mismatch) of terms in a class writing assignment. And many of the things I've written myself have come from mishearing or misreading what people say. The title Catcher in the Rye is a twist on the song "Coming Through the Rye."
But, whatever you start with, whether it is a mistake or an assignment or something that begins in experience, I think the first step in an organic approach is owning it. Whatever the themes ideas or terms are, you need to understand them in a deep way and commit to sharing what they mean to you.
It's fine (encouraged in fact) to take your own slant. Alternate meanings and personal connotations work fine.
Connecting terms, especially those artificially thrown together, seems to be another part of writing organically. It may take some experimentation to find the proper glue. But determining the relationships between terms or images or diverse characters and ideas is worth the effort. Thing of it as a koan that, on reflection, may never provide a "right" answer, but has the power to unlock wisdom and insight you already possess.
Finally, there's the matter of growing your story or characters organically. This, I think, means letting things develop in their own time and in their own way. Writers may be tempted to push characters around, provide lessons based on their own values, or be clever. When the work is based on real life, it is extremely difficult not to shape the fiction to reflect what really happened. An organic approach a different path, giving the characters and the story the freedom to become what it is intended to be and favoring authenticity over convenience, convention, or pleasing the crowd.
I find my conclusion ironic. Most of the articles focus on making aspects of story creation easier, but all these constructs, once the focus shifts to doing things organically, exacts a cost in terms of risk, discipline, and investment.
What is this magical organic writing of which they speak? Searching the whole of the Web via Google for "organic approaches to fiction," I get exactly nothing. I've decided that writing without the use of synthetic herbicides is not the answer. From the contexts of the remarks, I've attempted to derive my own answer.
First, as the articles imply, a good story can come from almost anywhere, even random term matching. One of my favorite short stories, "Of Mist, and Grass, and Sand," emerged from a match (or mismatch) of terms in a class writing assignment. And many of the things I've written myself have come from mishearing or misreading what people say. The title Catcher in the Rye is a twist on the song "Coming Through the Rye."
But, whatever you start with, whether it is a mistake or an assignment or something that begins in experience, I think the first step in an organic approach is owning it. Whatever the themes ideas or terms are, you need to understand them in a deep way and commit to sharing what they mean to you.
It's fine (encouraged in fact) to take your own slant. Alternate meanings and personal connotations work fine.
Connecting terms, especially those artificially thrown together, seems to be another part of writing organically. It may take some experimentation to find the proper glue. But determining the relationships between terms or images or diverse characters and ideas is worth the effort. Thing of it as a koan that, on reflection, may never provide a "right" answer, but has the power to unlock wisdom and insight you already possess.
Finally, there's the matter of growing your story or characters organically. This, I think, means letting things develop in their own time and in their own way. Writers may be tempted to push characters around, provide lessons based on their own values, or be clever. When the work is based on real life, it is extremely difficult not to shape the fiction to reflect what really happened. An organic approach a different path, giving the characters and the story the freedom to become what it is intended to be and favoring authenticity over convenience, convention, or pleasing the crowd.
I find my conclusion ironic. Most of the articles focus on making aspects of story creation easier, but all these constructs, once the focus shifts to doing things organically, exacts a cost in terms of risk, discipline, and investment.
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
A Closer Look at Your Story's Topic 2 -- The story essay shortcut
Last time, I introduced the idea of identifying and exploring your story topic as a way to deepen your connection with your work, find interesting development options, and make the experience more coherent for readers and audiences.
After having done this in a shoot from the hip way, I've reworked my process to interrogate the work and create a clear statement I can use as a guide. I ask questions, and then I write a brief essay (usually about 100 words) about the story's topic.
I've found this so useful that it has become a standard practice for me (most often after a draft is complete, but it could be done as part of development beforehand). To illustrate it, I'll work through the questions with a well-known (and wonderful) story, that of the film Casablanca. If you don't know the movie, watch it right away. It is one of the classics for good reasons.
What does the story explore? Though I could (and have) come up with other topics, the main one here seems to be connection and responsibility.
What does the character explore? Initially, Rick, the protagonist has no connections and is not interested in developing them.
“What is your nationality?” “…I’m a drunkard.”
“I’m the only cause I’m interested in.”
"I stick my neck out for nobody."
But Rick has loved before, and the possibility of love causes him to look at that connection, friendships, empathy for those in trouble, his hunger for justice, and, ultimately, the pivotal issue of his time.
"I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you’ll understand that.”
Rick also experiences the benefits of connection. Again, the change is dramatic, from
“Go ahead and shoot. You’ll be doing me a favor.”
to
“We’ll always have Paris. We didn’t have, we, we lost it until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night.”
Who is the audience? Upon it's release, I think most people saw Casablance as a propaganda piece (Variety called it, "splendid anti-Axis propaganda") aimed rousing an American audience to fight the Nazis. One pointed remark:
“I’d bet they’re asleep in New York. I’d bet they’re asleep all over America…”
But the story reaches far beyond its own time into ours. The audience is not just reluctant Americans looking for an adventure story. It is one of the great works of art, inspiring generations, worldwide.
At this point in my analysis, I take a fresh look at the theme. To me topics are subsidiary to themes, so this provides a check. My own take on Casablanca's theme is that sacrifice humanizes us (which seems to fit my stated topic).
So...
What is the story about? If the pain and loss we suffer has meaning to us, it opens us to experiencing the miracle of living.
Why does it matter? Viktor Frankl introduced the idea of Logotherapy, with the premise humans "are motivated by a will to meaning, an inner pull to find a meaning in life." With meaning, "people will be willing to sacrifice and people will find strengths they did not know they had when they think there is something more important than their comfort." According the the Victor Frankl Institute, "we can help those who are suffering by turning their attention away from themselves and on to something they care for enough to want to do it for its own sake, not for any personal gain."
How does this relate to me? My life has not been free from discomforts and suffering. I also am deeply empathetic when faced with the suffering of others. Making sense of suffering, finding ways to come to grips with suffering, to find and express, and to create and maintain routes to positive values leads to more happiness, acceptance, and social connection in my life.
What are my touch points? I'm not going to get overly personal here, but I do not set limits as I work through the questions and the essays for my own works. In private notes for this work, I would undoubtedly reflect on particular losses, injustices, frustrations, and grieving in my own experience and the experiences of those I know well.
Evidence for the topic (connection and responsibility).
Note: This is not about proving this topic is a good choice for Casablanca. It is about identifying instances that explore the stated topic. For a work that is not mine, the list may be set, but I always try to go further with any story I've written, even if the draft is "complete." Without being comprehensive, in Casablanca:
1 Rick sacrifices love for a higher cause.
2 Rick rescues a woman from Louie's clutches by rigging the roulette wheel.
3 Rick risks the wrath of the Nazis (via the Vichy government) by allowing the Marseilles to be sung.
Etc.
Emotional element.
I like to call this out specifically. People go to fictional books and movies for the emotional experience. Finding that within the topic and stating it gives it prominence.
Casablanca is rich in emotion. Most obviously, with the love story, which includes deceit, betrayal, reconciliation, passion, and caring. But connection also shows up in terms of righting injustices that easily might be ignored, small kindnesses, friendship, loyalty, respect, honor, and more.
What the ending needs (to accomplish). The joy of Casablanca is Rick, who had become a loner, connecting with others, from the individual level to people in community (at an historic level). I love the way this is expressed not just with sacrificing love for the higher cause of defeating the Nazi, but with something more immediate:
“Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
You may want to shuffle the questions around and even revisit your answers as your understanding of your story deepens. Your next step is to write the essay. I always write as if I am sharing my insights with a specific person I think would be interested. I'm not trying to convince them my topic is the only key or even the best choice for illuminating and exploring the work. The only qualification is that it resonates with me personally and I have the urge to share it.
This, to me, seems reasonable. I want whatever story I'm writing to reach me on a emotional level and to be something I have a passion to share with at least one other person. Often, when I write, the essence is known, if not articulated, in the first draft. But the essay challenges my understanding and ensures that it is clear enough to communicate well, without my missing major elements.
In practice, this enhances my enjoyment of the work, especially as I enter the revision process. I hope you find it useful as well.
After having done this in a shoot from the hip way, I've reworked my process to interrogate the work and create a clear statement I can use as a guide. I ask questions, and then I write a brief essay (usually about 100 words) about the story's topic.
I've found this so useful that it has become a standard practice for me (most often after a draft is complete, but it could be done as part of development beforehand). To illustrate it, I'll work through the questions with a well-known (and wonderful) story, that of the film Casablanca. If you don't know the movie, watch it right away. It is one of the classics for good reasons.
What does the story explore? Though I could (and have) come up with other topics, the main one here seems to be connection and responsibility.
What does the character explore? Initially, Rick, the protagonist has no connections and is not interested in developing them.
“What is your nationality?” “…I’m a drunkard.”
“I’m the only cause I’m interested in.”
"I stick my neck out for nobody."
But Rick has loved before, and the possibility of love causes him to look at that connection, friendships, empathy for those in trouble, his hunger for justice, and, ultimately, the pivotal issue of his time.
"I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you’ll understand that.”
Rick also experiences the benefits of connection. Again, the change is dramatic, from
“Go ahead and shoot. You’ll be doing me a favor.”
to
“We’ll always have Paris. We didn’t have, we, we lost it until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night.”
Who is the audience? Upon it's release, I think most people saw Casablance as a propaganda piece (Variety called it, "splendid anti-Axis propaganda") aimed rousing an American audience to fight the Nazis. One pointed remark:
“I’d bet they’re asleep in New York. I’d bet they’re asleep all over America…”
But the story reaches far beyond its own time into ours. The audience is not just reluctant Americans looking for an adventure story. It is one of the great works of art, inspiring generations, worldwide.
At this point in my analysis, I take a fresh look at the theme. To me topics are subsidiary to themes, so this provides a check. My own take on Casablanca's theme is that sacrifice humanizes us (which seems to fit my stated topic).
So...
What is the story about? If the pain and loss we suffer has meaning to us, it opens us to experiencing the miracle of living.
Why does it matter? Viktor Frankl introduced the idea of Logotherapy, with the premise humans "are motivated by a will to meaning, an inner pull to find a meaning in life." With meaning, "people will be willing to sacrifice and people will find strengths they did not know they had when they think there is something more important than their comfort." According the the Victor Frankl Institute, "we can help those who are suffering by turning their attention away from themselves and on to something they care for enough to want to do it for its own sake, not for any personal gain."
How does this relate to me? My life has not been free from discomforts and suffering. I also am deeply empathetic when faced with the suffering of others. Making sense of suffering, finding ways to come to grips with suffering, to find and express, and to create and maintain routes to positive values leads to more happiness, acceptance, and social connection in my life.
What are my touch points? I'm not going to get overly personal here, but I do not set limits as I work through the questions and the essays for my own works. In private notes for this work, I would undoubtedly reflect on particular losses, injustices, frustrations, and grieving in my own experience and the experiences of those I know well.
Evidence for the topic (connection and responsibility).
Note: This is not about proving this topic is a good choice for Casablanca. It is about identifying instances that explore the stated topic. For a work that is not mine, the list may be set, but I always try to go further with any story I've written, even if the draft is "complete." Without being comprehensive, in Casablanca:
1 Rick sacrifices love for a higher cause.
2 Rick rescues a woman from Louie's clutches by rigging the roulette wheel.
3 Rick risks the wrath of the Nazis (via the Vichy government) by allowing the Marseilles to be sung.
Etc.
Emotional element.
I like to call this out specifically. People go to fictional books and movies for the emotional experience. Finding that within the topic and stating it gives it prominence.
Casablanca is rich in emotion. Most obviously, with the love story, which includes deceit, betrayal, reconciliation, passion, and caring. But connection also shows up in terms of righting injustices that easily might be ignored, small kindnesses, friendship, loyalty, respect, honor, and more.
What the ending needs (to accomplish). The joy of Casablanca is Rick, who had become a loner, connecting with others, from the individual level to people in community (at an historic level). I love the way this is expressed not just with sacrificing love for the higher cause of defeating the Nazi, but with something more immediate:
“Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
You may want to shuffle the questions around and even revisit your answers as your understanding of your story deepens. Your next step is to write the essay. I always write as if I am sharing my insights with a specific person I think would be interested. I'm not trying to convince them my topic is the only key or even the best choice for illuminating and exploring the work. The only qualification is that it resonates with me personally and I have the urge to share it.
This, to me, seems reasonable. I want whatever story I'm writing to reach me on a emotional level and to be something I have a passion to share with at least one other person. Often, when I write, the essence is known, if not articulated, in the first draft. But the essay challenges my understanding and ensures that it is clear enough to communicate well, without my missing major elements.
In practice, this enhances my enjoyment of the work, especially as I enter the revision process. I hope you find it useful as well.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Unexpected in Fiction 3 – Reader anticipation
Having looked at how surprise might be used in storytelling and the approaches writers can take to creating the unexpected, let's take a look at it from the reader's point of view.
Most readers don't want to be confused, but they don't want to be bored either. Familiar details and predictable sequences can build verisimilitude and help readers to orient themselves and feel at home in a story, but they are always hoping something strange will happen. And, once they've observed a pattern and been engaged enough to use it to predict what will happen next, they hope the writer will change things up.
The way the reader participates in surprise is through anticipation. Working out puzzles, looking for answers, and wanting to know what happens next require an investment on the part of the reader.
That depends upon five things:
First the reader must be engaged in the story. Titles, hooks, and genre tropes can all be used to draw a reader in.
Second, they need to be presented with what is normal. H.G. Wells said, “As soon as the magic trick has been done the whole business of the fantasy writer is to keep everything else human and real. Touches of prosaic detail are imperative and a rigorous adherence to the hypothesis. Any extra fantasy outside the cardinal assumption immediately gives a touch of irresponsible silliness to the invention.” I think this has relevance to all types of fiction. If there are no limits and oddity and change are constant, nothing is unexpected.
Third, the reader must be kept immersed in the story. Language, empathetic characters, and questions all keep them involved and participating.
Fourth is trust. Readers will only invest enough to speculate on answers if they have confidence in the writer. They must believe that the writer is competence and will not cheat them with, say, a deus ex machina.
Fifth, based on the set up, something should be missing. The reader should feel an urge to complete an idea or formulate theories about how questions might be answered. And these can't be just any questions. They must be questions where readers believe the answers will matter, either because they will reveal something or because they will be entertaining or both.
Putting in apparent answers in fine. As much as fairness is a part of anticipation, readers usually want to be misled. Red herrings and distractions that misdirect without being ham-handed are welcome.
One more thing to keep in mind: Engagement requires that the reader will not be repelled by the qualities or the content of the work (although it is possible to push the envelope for readers occasionally). For instance, some people will never watch black-and-white movies. Others have this or reactions against fiction, such as fantasy, that is not mimetic. This is fine. No writer can appeal to everyone. But knowing the audience has these limits and requirements can be a useful guide for a writer.
When answers are delivered, they must be satisfying. They must feel worthy of the investments the readers have made and they must be fair. That is, the answers must be better than what the reader hope for while staying within the boundaries of the information (clues) that have been presented.
So, consider this when you're writing: a surprise only works if readers are actively involved, gathering information, forming their own hypotheses, connecting logic chains, worrying about the fates of characters, and hoping for insights on matters of concern.
Most readers don't want to be confused, but they don't want to be bored either. Familiar details and predictable sequences can build verisimilitude and help readers to orient themselves and feel at home in a story, but they are always hoping something strange will happen. And, once they've observed a pattern and been engaged enough to use it to predict what will happen next, they hope the writer will change things up.
The way the reader participates in surprise is through anticipation. Working out puzzles, looking for answers, and wanting to know what happens next require an investment on the part of the reader.
That depends upon five things:
First the reader must be engaged in the story. Titles, hooks, and genre tropes can all be used to draw a reader in.
Second, they need to be presented with what is normal. H.G. Wells said, “As soon as the magic trick has been done the whole business of the fantasy writer is to keep everything else human and real. Touches of prosaic detail are imperative and a rigorous adherence to the hypothesis. Any extra fantasy outside the cardinal assumption immediately gives a touch of irresponsible silliness to the invention.” I think this has relevance to all types of fiction. If there are no limits and oddity and change are constant, nothing is unexpected.
Third, the reader must be kept immersed in the story. Language, empathetic characters, and questions all keep them involved and participating.
Fourth is trust. Readers will only invest enough to speculate on answers if they have confidence in the writer. They must believe that the writer is competence and will not cheat them with, say, a deus ex machina.
Fifth, based on the set up, something should be missing. The reader should feel an urge to complete an idea or formulate theories about how questions might be answered. And these can't be just any questions. They must be questions where readers believe the answers will matter, either because they will reveal something or because they will be entertaining or both.
Putting in apparent answers in fine. As much as fairness is a part of anticipation, readers usually want to be misled. Red herrings and distractions that misdirect without being ham-handed are welcome.
One more thing to keep in mind: Engagement requires that the reader will not be repelled by the qualities or the content of the work (although it is possible to push the envelope for readers occasionally). For instance, some people will never watch black-and-white movies. Others have this or reactions against fiction, such as fantasy, that is not mimetic. This is fine. No writer can appeal to everyone. But knowing the audience has these limits and requirements can be a useful guide for a writer.
When answers are delivered, they must be satisfying. They must feel worthy of the investments the readers have made and they must be fair. That is, the answers must be better than what the reader hope for while staying within the boundaries of the information (clues) that have been presented.
So, consider this when you're writing: a surprise only works if readers are actively involved, gathering information, forming their own hypotheses, connecting logic chains, worrying about the fates of characters, and hoping for insights on matters of concern.
Thursday, February 11, 2021
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:
- It orients readers (and audiences). It’s difficult to connect with characters floating in a void, unstuck in time.
- 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.
- 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.
- It provides context. We connect periods of history with assumptions of danger, etiquette, rank, and ignorance.
- 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.
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