Mastering the Story Scene

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NaNoWriMo Success 4 - Time to Stretch and Warm Up

If you are participating in NaNoWriMo, you are about to step into a writing marathon. It would be a good idea to take the remaining days to stretch your writing muscles and warm up. Here are a few exercises to get you going.

Word count warm up - Whatever your normal word count is, it needs to average 1,667 a day to meet NaNoWriMo goals. If you normally write 200 words a day, you need to edge your output upward by 166 words each day starting tomorrow to be up to speed. Your warm up does not need to be on a work that resembles your NaNoWriMo project (although that would be good). Writing letters to people you know can work. Even automatic writing can help here. What this warm up is about is getting the feel of putting 1,667 words onto the screen each day, along with a sense of how much time you'll need to dedicate to the task.

Idea prodding - Some writers overflow with ideas. Some struggle to get them to emerge. If you are among the latter, don't expect the tap to flow just because you've turned the calendar to November. The simplest thing to try is a brainstorm list. Come up with ten (or twenty) answers to a tangible question. Without searching the Web, what gifts under US$100 might you give to a specific loved one? How would you set a trap to catch someone who is stealing your newspaper from your doorstep? How would you get onto the roof of your bank without using stairs? The first answer may be easy. The last will require you to stretch.

If you want to push yourself, put together a series of actions connected by "therefore" or "but," the South Park advice for creating causation between beats. For example: I was hungry, therefore I went to my refrigerator to find food, but my spouse had eaten everything worth eating, therefore I drove to the deli to buy a sandwich, but I'd left my wallet at home. And so on. Again, try for 10-20 instances. (For 1,667 words, you will need about 8-12 connected things happening.)

Door closing - Practice using your fortress of solitude. Build up to the time you will need to be uninterrupted each day. Build patience. Dodge distractions. Learn how to defend your fortress from needy spouses, demanding children, and garrulous friends.

Practice your ritual - Before writing, I have already had my coffee. I turn on my music. I review my task for the day. I open the file to the right place. I set my timer, and jump in. (I also have an exit ritual that includes writing down my task for the next day.) There is utility to my ritual, but it is okay to include wearing a lucky hat, chanting a mantra, lighting a candle, spinning your swivel chair around three times, or whatever else cues you to get going. If it works, do it. If you don't have a ritual, consider developing one. Habits can be powerful things.

There are other exercises you can try, based on skills you want to build up before NaNoWriMo. Have difficulty with emotion? Try some acting techniques, such as using sense memory. Uncertain about characters? Interview them as if they were guests on your talk show. If they come off as stiff, get them drunk first. Trouble with distractions? Taper them off in the remaining days. (For instance, you might whittle away at time you spend watching TV or reading Twitter posts.)

Thanks to Jennifer Fusco, who asked for exercises in her interview in this blog. Let me know if you find these useful, or let me know if you have your own exercises that help.

First Draft Questions - Insights as a story takes its first breaths

If I can, I wait a month to six weeks before reviewing a completed first draft. As tempting as it is to get right back to work and fix things up, I benefit from the distance I get from the story. It makes me notice things I’d never notice without fresh eyes.

So, the calendar is marked, my schedule is arranged, and I move on to a short story are start a longer work while the completed manuscript ages. Once I hit the date on the calendar for review, I print the whole thing out and let the computer (via text-to-speech) read it to me. I may pause every fifteen to twenty pages or I may let it go through from beginning to end, but I never back up. My purpose it to make quick notes on the manuscript of where I get distracted or confused. I also may mark down an idea for a scene that seems to belong or add a question mark in bold red pen next to a scene that does not seem essential. I’m looking at the story, not the spelling or prose.

In the past, I’ve marched through a multi-step rewriting process that moves from big problems (missing beats) to the smallest (spelling and grammar). Because I was doing an exercise while my current manuscript was cooling, I needed to generate a series of questions. These helped me to respond to some feedback, and made a big difference in developing a new story.

Then because of an accident of timing, I went back immediately to the completed draft of my Work-in-Progress… with those questions still in my head. Once the text-to-speech read through was done, I took on those questions before my usual next steps. I like what happened, so I thought I’d share those questions here. They may be of use to you somewhere in your process, perhaps soon after you return to a first draft.

How can I simplify this story? Here I focused especially on parts where my attention strayed. Often, I’ve noticed, the plot can become a Rube Goldberg device with cheap fixes that complicate the concept unnecessarily. Wherever the list of “what readers need to know” becomes too long, there is apt to be a problem. After reading a piece on how Paddy Chayefsky would cut down characters to the fewest required to tell the story, I decided that was a good step to include in simplification.

Is the premise (often evident in the logline) clearly featured? Can I point to a scene where it takes precedence? There are so many tasks the protagonist must accomplish, the main task can get lost. Or it can be overwhelmed by tasks for subplots. There should be an irreversible decision by the protagonist that stands out and fully engages the reader in the main story. If not, that’s important to fix.

What are the protagonist’s tasks? Do they get more difficult and more consequential as the story proceeds? The protagonist must accomplish things to succeed, and, in a draft, these might not build properly. Any leveling off risks losing the reader’s attention. Explicitly listing and ranking the tasks can help avoid this problem. (Thanks to writing guru Max Adams for directing my attention to  Tony Rossio’s excellent article on The Task.)

What are the obstacles? This actually needs a close look in relation to the task, since the degree of difficulty is a factor. One thing this always forces me to take a closer look at is the goals, motivations, and resources of any adversaries. The more clever and powerful the opposition is, the better the story. And it’s all too easy to create one-note villains. Know the plans and options of the adversaries.

Does the protagonist prepare and take reasonable precautions? What are these? Are they taken at the right time in the story? Getting the balance right between a protagonist with flaws and one who is too stupid too live is harder than it looks.

What goes wrong? As I look back in my stories, there isn’t enough failure. My protagonists tend to succeed too often. Even when the achievements come after struggles and sacrifices, that can be boring… which leads to something I value more and more…

What are the secrets and revelations? What the protagonist doesn’t know can create powerful turns in a story. Surprises and unintended consequences can fiercely (and fairly) challenge the hero/heroine and make him/her change in more dramatic ways.

Is the protagonist betrayed? If not, why not? There are few things more heartbreaking than betrayal. A protagonist who can rise above faithless acts that make trust in other seem foolish is one readers are likely to remember and love.

How does the protagonist need to change? I always think I know the answer to this before I begin writing. I rarely have a clear understanding. Asking the question after a first draft can be revelatory.

Why am I writing this story? Why do I NEED to write this story? I routinely write a note to myself early on (about 30 pages in, usually) that includes reasons for writing the story. These are intended to argue my future self into finishing when the urge to quit at about 3/4 of the way comes (as it always does). But there is a real value to asking these questions before major revision begins — both in terms of focus and in terms of personal commitment.

None of these questions were new to me. In one way or another, I’ve used them to analyze every novel or screenplay I’ve written. But I’m not sure they always have come at that right time, and I found real value in repeating them at this stage, right after fully reviewing the first draft. And, though I may tweak the order, this is not a bad to run through as listed. To me, it feels like the answers build and create a perspective on the work that deepens my understanding and appreciation of what I have, and what I COULD have if I stick with it.

How to Stop Dithering

Dithering - I have a positive talent for it that only became obvious when I started writing seriously. In school, I plunged into homework assignments without hesitation. On the job, I worked my way through the day's to-do list without hesitation. With my writing?

• I had a great dream. Maybe I should get that on paper.
• Should I go back to that suspense story? Maybe I've let that character problem sit long enough.
• Ooh! That reminds me. I've got notes for a great new SF premise.
• etc.

It's great to have a lot of ideas and to be eager to get to work on something. But no one I know has mastered typing on more story at once (though there is an apocryphal story of Napoleon writing a letter with each hand while engaging in a conversation). A writing career caught between two or more projects will starve.

Making a decision is the answer. My practice is to decide the day before, and I usually like to do this at the end of the day, when my body is reminding me of how much work writing is. I am much too ambitious in the morning. If I can't decide, I go to my criteria - due dates, my passion for a project, how clear the job is, whether I have a breakthrough idea, and so on. I have even been known to score out or force rank the next day's work. I'll do anything to get a specific writing task at the top of the next day's to-do list. Because otherwise I know that I am at risk of dithering.

And, if I had any doubts about my talent for dithering, they were resolved a few years ago when I discovered the phenomenon of micro-dithering. Here's what happened:

I was well into writing a novel, so there was no question of which novel I'd work on. I had a big scene coming up, so I dutifully wrote down my task, finishing that scene, for the next day. I even knew how the scene was supposed to end. But the next day when I sat down to write, my brain started generating questions. About the character, about the setting, and about what I'd already written three chapters before. Notes were made. Web searches were done. Minutes ticked by. The day was -- unproductive.

This happened several times before I realized what was going on. The cure for me was to schedule the next day even more tightly and to turn off the wi-fi before I even started my writing. On reflection, the reason I fell into micro-dithering that first time was because of fear. I was drafting a scene that was painful and emotional for my character -- and for me. Inside, I knew that the experience would be unpleasant and the execution would be difficult and liable to fail. No wonder I couldn't commit. Dithering can be a "kid in a candy store"phenomenon, where it is difficult to choose between attractive alternatives, but it is more likely to happen because you don't want to put your hand on a hot stove.

How do you stop dithering (and micro-dithering)? I commit to the task, specifically, the day before. I don't want my brain to have any wiggle room. Another good practice is to enable yourself by anticipating what you will need the next day -- in terms of research, review of a previously written chapter, character descriptions, etc. -- and have it all prepared and at hand. But the most important way to avoid dithering may be understanding its root cause for you and countering that cause. You may need to write down what you fear and put it into perspective. You may need to talk yourself into torturing a character you love. You may need to gird your loins for a battle with your personal demons. 

“Whatever you do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius and power and magic in it.”
-  Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Does your work suffer because of dithering? How do you fight back?

Revise for Readers 2 - Tough but vital fixes

Last time, I offered suggestions on possible story fixes based on audience needs and expectations. My aim was to provide a toolbox for easy repairs to stories that were, essentially, in good working order. "Almost there" stories may be the result of careful preparation or blind luck. I've had it turn out both ways.

In most cases, upon the completion of the first draft, there are likely to be bigger problems that can't be fixed quickly. Note: This is not the result of the story being bad. Some of the absolute best stories emerge from the first draft process as shambling monsters. So, love your baby, however it turns out – and get to work.

Returning to a reader-centered guide…

Diversion. That great premise you started with? You may have recognized a concept that had something more promising within it than came out in the telling. A fresh look might show that the full value of the concept didn't come through because of laziness (settling for clichés) or the terrifying nature of the full expression of your connection with the concept.

In the former case, it's a matter of raising the bar for yourself and finding fresher ideas and challenges for your characters. In the latter case, it may mean a full (but amazing and delightful) page one rewrite. What can push you into taking on such an enormous task? Knowing it's worth it. Having the couraged to take the risk. And sharing the astonishment of a high-wire act with your audience.

Knowledge/perspective/humor. Stale information is usually the results of someone thinking they know the answers (because they've seen that world in news reports and movies) or chasing a topic that has people excited but doesn't have the writer engaged and committed.

On a fundamental level, that means digging in and doing enough research to unearth surprising facts. (I even do this for worlds that are familiar to me.) Beyond interviews, library research, visiting locales, and such, knowledge enters a new space when received wisdom falls away and new pictures emerge. If you can, for instance, imagine a compelling alternate history without changing any established facts, that's intrinsically valuable.

I have, on occasion, totally transformed stories by changing the point-of-view character. Often, this involves a deeper understanding of the risks each character faces. But it also can be a simple recognition that one of the characters has a truly distinct perspective on life and on the events that transpire in the tale.

On humor, I had the good fortune of taking a course with Danny Simon, who worked on a lot of television programs and with golden age luminaries. One point advice he had was to get rid of the "joke jokes." These were the funny bits that did not fit the characters or the story.

The best humor — which comes out of who the characters are – is undercut by these jokes. Humor is tied to insights, quirky perspectives, and obsessions (especially blind obsessions). It's also frequently daring and antisocial. So, looking toward truth, authentic characters, and a recognition of human frailty will naturally improve the humor in your writing – provided you're funny.

Lessons/rehearsal for life. I think what gums up this part more than anything is not having anything to say. My assumption is that any story worth telling touches the writer in some way. It includes specifics that add dimensions to themes about life. It illustrates, often through candid disclosures, the struggle for wisdom. It respects the structure and tone of the myths that live in our bones. And it strips away those elements, no matter how entertaining, that obscure meaningful models for making difficult choices.

Understanding what you have to say often only emerges with a full draft and a discovery of the theme. And it's a big deal for revisions because, minimally, cutting, reordering of scenes and reconceiving situations in the story will be necessary. Just going through bit by bit looking for alignment is a major task -- but the payoff is a story that works on a higher level. 

Promises. One thing I try to do is keep genre commitments to readers in unexpected ways. Nothing is staler than a first kiss you seeing 20 times before. Sex scenes? Most writers hate committing them to paper and mocking the failed attempts of well-considered authors has become an annual sport.

Those scenes that the genre promises require special attention because it's so easy to fall back on the familiar or to slip when trying something new. Of course, the answer is to look at each one closely, respond honestly to what is written, and rework the whole thing (including scenes that lead in or follow) when necessary. How do you know you need to do this? If you didn't tell the truth. If you didn't find what makes you connect with the scene. If you fail to find something that's valid and that you never saw in a genre scene before.

It's demanding, but it should be. You have promises to keep.

What all this comes down to is having a level of openness to major revisions – to the attention they require, the exploration they demand, the daring and management of fear with which they must be approached, and the work. Sometimes, when your head is full of other stories to tell, that last – the work, the page one rewrite – can overwhelm you. Think of the time. Think of the possibility of putting in all those hours and still failing. Then forget about all that.

I probably can't prove this, but my strong suspicion is that most great works challenged writers to go into places that went beyond uncomfortable to the limits of intolerable. I certainly have found that with some of the things I written about which I'm proudest this was the case. So keep this in mind:

If you pull off facing the toughest challenges that come up in writing, you have a good chance of creating the best work you can do. If you do not succeed and end up creating something that doesn't quite come together, you will certainly become a stronger, more insightful, more interesting, and more competent writer than you ever imagined you could.

I see that as a win-win, and I think it's a good argument for taking on the biggest challenges.

Eat the Elephant

Since I hang around writers, I regularly hear these laments:

"I still have to write my synopsis."

"I haven't been able to write chapter 3."

""My article is due, and I haven't started it yet."

            Etc.

This is heady, frustrating stuff. I always feel pain, the same kind of pain I feel when it is my synopsis or chapter or article.  How can anyone take on such a frightful task, composing elegant, engaging sentences suffused with meaning that magically come together in a lyrical whole that amuses people and rouses them to action? How do you get the damned thing done?

Because you read the title, you know how. Just as you can't swallow an elephant whole, some tasks can't be done in one action. You need to break them up into manageable bits. 

So a few dozen milliseconds after my stomach wrenches at the prospect of, say, writing a commencement speech in three days, I begin to think about how the task can be broken up into smaller bits. What are my key questions. Which people should I talk to? Which Web sites should I visit. How do I dig into the history? What are the possible themes?

You don't have to get the whole job done in creative sweep. You can do a little work on this, and then on this, and… then it's done.

I once got an editing assignment for a book that was half written and stalled. The deadline for a draft was six weeks out. The publication date could not be moved. I had no expertise in the subject area.  

I immediately put aside all concerns post-draft work (proofing, editing, illustrations, etc.). I'd get to those later. Focusing on the draft, the number one thing was an accessible structure. (This is true for almost all nonfiction.) My first jobs became:

• reading through existing material
• talking with the author about his intent
• investigating structures that achieve the intent

Each of these jobs is specific and limited. I was lucky to get great cooperation from the author, including his agreement to my doing rewriting and adding a considerable amount of new material. Looking for smaller tasks made the assignment -- delivering the draft in six weeks -- possible, and, ultimately, the book was done on time and well-received. When you shrink the work down to size, it gets easier.

What do you do to break up the writing tasks you face?

NaNoWriMo Success 1 - Preparation

Since 1999, November has been National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). Not surprisingly, I'm an enthusiast. Many of the things that are dear to my heart happen for thousands - most recently, hundreds of thousands -- of eager participants. As they strive to complete a 50,000 word novel in just 30 days writers:

• Build the habit of writing regularly - Practice makes perfect.
• Write forward - Avoiding looping, and getting words on paper. As Nora Roberts said, "You can fix anything but a blank page."
• Build confidence - Getting a book written counters all the voices that say you can't do it, including the one in your own head.
• Clarify their commitment to writing - It is possible to start this task on a whim, but difficult to grit it out without a deeper understanding of why you must write.
• Build relationships with other writers - Writing can be a lonely business. NaNoWriMo creates the perfect opportunity to connect with other writers who will acknowledge, encourage, and support you.
• Discover or rediscover the joy of writing - You may have days you struggle, but, over a thirty-day period, it is highly unlikely that you won't have crazy wonderful experiences when the words flow and something new comes to life.

The demands of NaNoWriMo are crazy for most people. Getting almost 2,000 words on paper each day is double the commitment Stephen King asks of writers in his terrific book, On Writing. Even for a professional writer, NaNoWriMo is an Ironman Triathalon. With a few weeks to go before the starting gun goes off, it's time to go into training. I'll present a few suggestions on preparation here. In future articles, I'll write about drafting practices during NaNoWriMo, and what to do when December 1 rolls around, and its over for another year.

• The heart has its reasons - Answer the question of why you write (or intend to write). Multiple answers are great. Saying "for the money" will only get me laughing.
• Place, time, goals - Where will you write? Will you be able to close the door? Can you set aside the minutes or hours you need each day to get this done? Are they marked off on your calendar? Do you have word count goals? Chapter goals? Personal goals for this event?
• Tools - Will you use any special software, like Scrivener? Will the Emotional Thesaurus be ready in your browser? Will you use an application to make the Web inaccessible? Have you set up a way to track your word count? Will you use dictation? Are you fluent with using the tools you intend to use?
• Distractions - Do family members know they need to give you the time? Are you sacrificing FaceBook for the month of November? Have you thought about what can come off your to-do list for the month?
• Rituals and prompts - Have you picked out your lucky socks? Will you chant and burn incense? Play music? Do you have maps of the city where the story will take place? Have you cut a picture of your heroine out of People Magazine?
• Buddies - Do you have a fellow writer at hand to talk with, bounce ideas off of, complain to, and share good news with during the thirty days? Do you know how to find one? Do you know what your criteria are?
• Finger exercises - Are you doing a little bit more actual writing (not planning or character studies) each day, working yourself up to the daily word count you'll need? Are you practicing brainstorming, doing research, and making observations?
• Celebrations - Do you know how you'll celebrate daily success? Do you have confetti ready for the day you write "The End"?

If you get all of these just right, you will be well prepared to take on this challenge. You'll have the process in place, means, opportunity, and motivation. Do one more thing: set your expectations.

Realize that when it gets rolling, you may need to improvise. If your buddy bails on you, resolve now that you won't give up. You'll find someone else to work with (and keep writing in the meantime). Expect that life will get in the way and you'll miss a day. Be ready to shrug it off, and get back on task. Thirty days is a long period of time. Not everything you set up will go as planned, but if you expect hiccups, you'll be better able to have NaNoWriMo success.

Success doesn't necessarily mean finishing the 50,000 words and getting the certificate. It might mean coming out of the month with more capabilities and good writing habits.

Will you participate in NaNoWriMo? Are you getting ready? 
What do you expect to get out of it?

Time to Write 2 - The task for the time

In the last post, I described five different kinds of time. Dedicated time, interstitial time, split attention times, Zen time, and commercial breaks. Each of these vary in terms of quantity, intensity, and possible distractions. They also, depending on your natural rhythms and energy, may fall during periods of the day when they offer you different possibilities.

With the caveat that the following examples are related to how I work and not how you work, here are some tasks to consider for different times of day:

Almost any writing activity benefits from big blocks (15 minutes or more) of dedicated time, but I found it essential to some tasks. For me, drafting is intense, usually making every minute count as a timer runs down. I also need time set aside, with no distractions, when I am preparing to write a deeply emotional scene.

Plotting works better when I can pace, mumble to myself, and scribble down the essence of each turning point in full sentences without being concerned about interruptions. Once a draft is finished, I print it out and use the text-to-speech function on my computer to listen to the manuscript from beginning to end. I need to do that in his few sessions as possible so I can get a sense of the story as a whole. And, for many of the other parts of the revision process, the level of attention required does not permit me to take advantage of small bits of time or work as I'm involved with other activities.

Dedicated time is also important to me whenever I need to take a fresh look at my goals and motivation for writing. This requires deep thinking and careful consideration of where I am in my career and where I want to go. I include in this time used to evaluate and decide upon which projects I'll commit myself to.

There are lots of opportunities for taking advantage of interstitial time. For instance, many of the ideas I come up with result from following my curiosity or allowing myself to respond to prompts, such as pictures and poetry. Development work – especially making lists of possibilities, answering questions I posed myself, or filling out forms that can help me explore characters and themes — can be done effectively in short bursts of time that come up serendipitously. Some of the mechanical work of revision (correcting grammar, ferreting out extra words, and correcting spelling) can also be done during these times. What I have critiques and short notes from readers that I can absorb quickly, I can use these opportunities as well.

When I watch television, especially ballgames, I use commercial breaks to sort through notes I jotted down — observations, questions to myself, bits of dialogue, titles, and so forth. I also can answer simple story questions, especially those that require less than intense research. Some of forms and lists that can be attacked during interstitial times can also be worked on during commercial breaks. I may also come up with war improve preparation sentences to set up my work for the next day. It's also possible for me to highlight text, either from work I've done earlier or from criticism or comments I've received.

What I have an activity that is low intensity, such as making dinner for walking on my treadmill, I can listen to articles, novels, and nonfiction books that are relevant to my work in progress. Sometimes I also take advantage of this time to refresh myself on a manuscript on revising. I've never use this time for listening the first time through, but it works for keeping myself focused on the story that is written as opposed to what I imagine.

Finally there are those Zen periods, when I'm not consciously working on my manuscript at all. It is during these times when the solution to a story problem is apt to pop into my head or I'm likely to hear the voices of my characters – speaking lines from the story, complaining to me, or making suggestions.

All this has to do with how I work, which is likely to be somewhat different from the way you work. In fact, my and approaches aren't set in concrete, and I don't always write in the ways described above.

One more point: make sure you have the tools you need at hand that fit the time in the task. There's nothing more frustrating than having an opportunity and being stopped by something as trivial as not having a pencil nearby.

Thoughts On Plot Twists

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Creating a Revision Punch List for Your Story - Taking action on critiques

Though it can be harrowing, getting expert criticism (from development editors, agents, qualified peers, mentors, and industry people) on your work can be one of the most valuable steps in taking a good story and bringing it to a higher level. Since I want to get the most out of their time, I don’t hand off first drafts to experts. In most cases, what they get has been revised using every step of my process. Basically that means going from big picture to small.

I have a detailed task list (which is constantly updated). Here it is, greatly simplified:

    1.    Print and make general notes on the whole manuscript, listening to it via text-to-speech. In particular, pay attention to how the concept plays out, the pacing and consistency of tone, problems with clarity, and the soundness of the story logic. I also note where my attention lags.
    2.    Analyze to determine if any scenes can be removed or any might need to be added. Make those fixes.
    3.    Look at individual scenes. Check for conflict. See if any need more or fewer beats. Or description. Take a hard look for beginnings that hook and endings that pop.
    4.    Check characters for motivation and consistency. Make sure I worry about the protagonist more and more throughout. Mark all points of decision and make them harder if possible.
    5.    Read the whole thing aloud for language and sound.
    6.    Fix inconsistencies, spelling, grammar, and word choice.

Note that this is a step-by-step process. Though I always have to do some cycling back I don’t bounce around or try to do more than one step in a single pass.

The punch list becomes something different. When I’ve completed handwritten notes during an oral critique, I type everything out as soon as I can, without prejudice. (It can be tempting to skip some criticism because “they didn’t get it.” That may be right, but maybe it’s just me who doesn’t get it. There’s even a chance that the criticism triggered my defense mechanisms. Eliminating certain criticism is a decision for later on. 

For a written critique, I highlight notes in the document and do what ever I need to do to ensure I’ve got them captured for later with no loss.

For each of these, my records must become full sentences, even if that’s not what’s in my initial notes. And I make sure I capture the nuances (bold and asterisks, for their emphases and mine, respectively).

Then I let things marinate. For a month, if I can. This gives me a measure of distance that helps me to get the most out of what the critics meant (vs. what I heard or interpreted).

When I return to the criticism, it’s now time to strike out or modify what I suspect isn’t right. It’s also time to consider whether there are any problems that doom the project. (Yes, that can happen, and it means abandoning the work.)

Concerns about clarity always are kept, even if I think I’ve provided a map with highlights, complete descriptions, and Orson Welles talking in their heads. Questions of plot logic are tested, using more than one tool. Critic “solutions” are almost always challenged, and I have a strong detector for instances where the story the critic sees is clear and valid, but not mine.

I also allow myself to make notes in the moment. Sometimes, this is ideas for fixes. Sometimes, it’s new ideas to make the story better. Sometimes, images, paragraphs, dialogue, story twists, and even whole scenes fall out of my brain and need to be captured immediately.

With every critique go-through, I pull out questions and areas for research.

Except in the case of research, it’s best to get this part done quickly. Get it roughly right. I try to complete the work of capturing the essence of each item in forty-eight hours or fewer.

Then I begin to formulate a draft punch list.

I don’t worry about creating sterling prose or the best possible solutions to story problems at this stage. Why? Because this work is done out of context. It’s likely to change in the face of the needs of the whole work.

Research is different because it helps to build my knowledge base and generate options. Unless I mess up and go down a rabbit hole or slip into creating a different story, research will have a natural end point. There are no natural end points for story solutions and perfectly written scenes.

The next job is to organize the punch list. You can do this according to your needs and preferences. If  an acquisitions editor or a producer waiting, this may force triage in terms of available time and the power of the person who provided notes. If something on the list is calling to be taken care of or acted upon first, I remove the distraction by taking on that task. (At this point, I often will get irritated by misspellings and grammatical errors—which tend to be limited since the submitted manuscript was proofed—so I clean them up.)

Everything else being equal, I combine items from all critics into one list and use the same big picture to small approach I follow when I’m rewriting before submission.

There are a few differences. For instance, inserting a new character or radically changing one has to be be done early, well before step 4 above. The big picture changes probably need to be inserted without polish, with the cleanup being left to step 6.

Since the action items came from other people, there are likely to be a few that don’t neatly fit into my revision model. That’s okay. I drop these in where they may make sense to me, knowing my choice might be less than optimal. Sometimes, this leads to valuable changes in my revision model.

Once the punch list is completed, going through it is efficient and straightforward. Step by step, the manuscript gets fixed, usually without my having to circle back. And the story tends to maintain its integrity, avoiding the revision problem of losing its distinctive voice.

Writing with a Purpose - Putting together next year’s plan

Where do you want to be next year as a writer? That’s the question I asked myself last November, and it led me to the most serious career planning I’ve done. Looking back at the people I’ve connected with, the works completed, and the contests and workshops I’ve participated in, I see strong accomplishments.

I’m back to planning, and I’m going to share my process here. There’s nothing absolute about my approach. Take from it what works for you and leave the rest. And, as you develop your plans, limit the time you’ll invest. It is all too easy to get distracted and take too much time away from actual writing. As a rule of thumb, commit to dedicating no more that 1% of the time set aside to this sort of career planning. Intend to spend 400 hours writing next year? Spend four hours planning.

Brainstorm - Who do you want to be as a writer? A novelist who publishes a book once a year? A showrunner for a TV series? A speechwriter? Someone who writes tentpole features? The family memoirist? You get to decide. And dream big. The impossible may become possible or you may come up with an alternative.  My answer was showrunner, which led to plans to create a fiction podcast series, which led to a search for actors, which led to an invitation to join a Web Series writing team. Reach high and be creative. (It might be useful to review my six-part Write Who You Are series.)

Review Your Projects - Some people never have more than one going. I try to keep to one new project and one dedicated revision. But your projects (completed) can tell you a lot about what you like, what you don’t, where you’re strong, where you’re not, and the themes, genres, and media you connect with. Your review (which can include your work in progress, your unfinished works, your completed works and your concepts of interest) will point directly to the content that you should feature in your work and suggests the form (feature film script, stage play, short story, etc.).

Review Your Opportunities - Assignments, spec work, volunteer work, conferences, workshops, contests, and courses all represent specific investments in your time, often with defined deadlines and budget items.

Evaluate Your Options Strategically - If you know where you want to end up, you can form a strategy that includes current opportunities, opportunities that might be created (through education, achievements, and contacts), possible pathways, and areas of exploration. The last is aimed at creatively learning more so the scope of opportunities can be expanded. For me, strategy is more Zen than setting goals. (Just as the Zen archer seeks to master the elements — stringing the bow, nocking the arrow, drawing the string, aiming, etc. — I look toward mastering project selection and concept development and building a synergistic portfolio.) I find scoring options and force ranking them to be helpful.

Evaluate Your Options Tactically - One thing leads to another. Sometimes a collaboration is less about the project than about the relationships. Providing a peer with feedback sharpens critiquing skills, but it also can build your reputation. My whole career got kicked off with a review written for a give-away newspaper. That credit led to others, making me less of a risk for future editors. Again, you may wish to score these options and force rank them, though here the latter will be more subtle. I think of tactical efforts as the mortar between the bricks of strategic efforts.

Make Your Project Choices - By now, a lot of options will be eliminated based on scores and your ambitions. There will still be some that don’t make obvious sense but are alluring. Put all (well, maybe all but one) of these aside. These can be kept in reserve in case you complete your main tasks or they popped up because your intuition was smarter than your brain. In all probability, none of these will claim spaces on your calendars in the near future. A few may find spots in the coming years.

But… now that your list is much shorter, you need to decide what will claim your time in the coming year. It is valuable to have definite criteria for your choices. (It may be useful to review my four-part series on Decision Making for Writers. I recently found the article How to Make a Big Decision, and I recommend it as well.) If you have no other criteria, here are my big three: Payment, Portfolio, and Passion. Well paying projects tend to edge other things off the list. Projects that enhance my writing Portfolio are also prioritized. And Passion? Well, if you can’t do projects that get your juices flowing, why are you writing?

List Your Tasks - There is some real work here. Break down the projects into specific tasks. This means going beyond, say, “rewriting,” to reach details like articulate content in each scene, identify story beats, correct spelling, read text aloud, etc. Tasks, by the way, include writing up loglines and pitches, researching markets, analyzing comparable works, and more. As you go for a comprehensive list of task (and it’s likely many will not occur to you in your first try), estimate the time required to complete each of them. Estimate high. I like to add 50% to my optimistic times.

Build Your Calendar - Block out already committed time from your calendar. None of that is accessible. Then look toward any deadlines in your top priority project. Get these on the calendar and block out the time you need for each task that must be completed before those deadlines. Move onto the second priority project, and do the same. Third, same. Etc. You may find that some projects are undoable (or don’t fit into the year’s schedule). Be flexible. Adjust. But don’t make things impossible for yourself. Triage is your friend.

Identify Triggers - Sometimes you get a yes. Sometimes you get a “please revise.” Sometimes, a credential or a course or a meeting with an influential person is on the horizon. I keep a list of these and add to it throughout the year. Imagined new opportunities can become real and trigger a plan revision (or the execution of Plan B). The more you can anticipate these, the more you can make of them. I blocked out 2018 days for a conference I never made, but I also blocked out days for one I thought would never happen, but did.

Be Generous with Yourself - Life gets in the way. Sickness, unexpected expenses, family duties, power outages, and more can disrupt your plans. So don’t beat yourself up if you don’t get everything done. Life can be like that. In the midst of demands, commit to keeping some writing time to yourself. (I have recommended 15 minutes a day, five days a week to even the most harried and that seems to be both doable and valuable. It keeps you in the game.)

On the other hand, be ready for good things. Consider a stretch goal. Mine that list of alluring projects if time permits.

In my case, some of my plan went away because I said yes to good things I’d hoped for but saw as unlikely and, in some cases, I hadn’t even imagined. It’s not a bad problem to have.

Don’t expect to have everything, no matter how well-planned, go as expected. As Helmuth van Moltke (more or less) said, “No plan survives first contact with the enemy.” Next year’s plan will be better because of the lessons of this year.

The most fundamental advice? Finish something and submit, even if it’s only 1,000 words long.

Mastering the Actions/Reactions of Story Characters

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

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

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

Mastery of Story Characters 7 - Put characters in motion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getting Your Hero or Heroine into Trouble

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Upcoming Course

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

It provides a methodical approach to getting your writing done.

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

 

 

Finishing the Book (Article, Chapter, Scene)

It is a lot easier for me to get started than it is for me to get finished. Piles and files of bits and pieces testify to this. Some of the work is experimental or done before I got more methodical, but I still find that, when a work is 80-90 percent done, barriers appear. Some of these are physical (hard disk crashes, corrupt files). Some are environmental -- life events and illness. Some are creative or conceptual, such as painting myself into a corner. Most are in my control and could be considered organizational or psychological.

Yesterday's barrier was definitely an organizational problem. I had set myself the task of rethinking the structure of my current novel. This required inserting scenes and mostly complete scenes that were sitting in an auxiliary file, as well as reordering for effectiveness, tension, and stakes. This was an ambitious goal, but I was working against a timer not a word count goal or even a requirement to complete the to-do list. This usually reduces stress, but not yesterday.

The starting point didn't feel right. I had a list of scenes, in full sentences, ready for shuffling. My intent was to cut-and-past until the flow felt right. With over 30 scenes to reorder, the list looked too big. This was especially true since a few remained to be written. I stopped my timer and paced.

Moving around helps me to think. I have another work that exists as an outline of Post-Its. Was that a good option? I looked over a blank Blake Snyder Beat Sheet. Would filling that in get me going? By the time I was finished pacing, I had decided to put all the scenes onto index card. It was a gut decision that forced me to write out each scene sentence, but it worked. Something about the tactile experience of lining up, shuffling, and reshuffling those cards, made a difference for me. Scenes found new places. A few scenes were cut. Some holes were visible, and I created new cards for those.

I did one more thing. I marked each card to indicate the level of completeness. Scenes to be written got empty circles. Scenes partly written got checks. Completed scenes got Xs.

I'm on my way now, with a quick check (and a few changes) after sleeping on the new structure. I've added reminders on emotions, as well as some ideas on what might happen.  Now I'm methodically going through adding text to incomplete scenes and writing the new scenes, all in sequence. 

Usually, I dodge organizational problems by following my processes (collected in my process diary). Common organizational problems include:

• Not knowing what your next step is. When the time dedicating to writing comes up, this can freeze you in your tracks. Which project? Which scene? Compose? Fill a hole? Rewrite? Since I always have too many ideas (especially for new projects), this one was the bane of my existence. That's why I always decide what I will write the day before, not minutes before, my next writing session.
• Not having an approach for the next piece of work. As a writer, I'm always learning. I find new ways to look at my material, and this sometimes demands that I find or develop a new process. For instance, it was years before I had a file of "junk words" I could use to methodically polish my text. (And I am experimenting now with using AutoCrit Editing Wizard to help me with this job.) Right now, the biggest target I have is building a tool box for improving emotional content in my work. I have a few techniques, but I'm trying to develop more.
• Having too many options for the next step. In a way, this was what got me dithering yesterday. I knew there were other options for working on my structure. If I'd only had one technique, I would have pushed forward with it.
• Having the wrong approach or doing it out of sequence. My process diary is a graveyard of approaches that did not work well for me and ended up being rejected (or severely modified). Someone else's favorite approach may not work for you. And some approaches do not work for all material or for you whole writing career. And, at times, material that will ultimately be improved with a process, is not ready for it when you think it is. Often this is because another step was not executed correctly, but sometimes it is just a quirk driven by story, character, or circumstances. I often find jumping back to an earlier process or forward to the next process in my journal can be the answer.
• Having an approach that is not detailed enough or too ambitious. I am a big believer in divide and conquer. In particular, I found that process steps for short stories needed to be looked at more closely and better defined when I began to work on novels. And with more ambitious works, a process step may require more from me than has ever been the case. In those instances, I have had to scale back a day's work so that the step got the attention it needed.

I would have made progress if I had gone with my original plan, but I had time yesterday to reconsider and follow my gut. If I had not had that time, I would have moved forward, but not as productively. Process is a tool, but the writer's instinct is valid. As long as the instinct is not an excuse for procrastination, it can help you work more efficiently.

Psychological barriers are the other main reasons for not finishing a work. I'll discuss them in my next post.

What stops you from finishing a work?

Deadlines and Commitments

Most of us are trained from an early age to work toward delivery deadlines. In early grades, there is homework due the next day. In later grades, term papers are added.

Now, rushing to meet a deadline and working under pressure is a bad idea for most of us, but we can use deadlines and commitments to maintain (or even raise) our productivity. They can help by:

• Encouraging us to plan out our work, with specific task toward delivery done each day.
• Putting a line under a project so we stop tweaking beyond what is reasonable.
• Providing a sense of the arc of our careers, with measured milestones.
• Providing a point for reflection -- we can schedule a real post mortem of a project only when it is done. (More on project post mortems tomorrow.)
• Giving us a date at which we can share a project without dissipating our interest. (Too often, people use up their enthusiasm before a work is finished because they get the elicit praise prematurely.)

Other than spec work, my nonfiction work always has deadlines. For fiction, I've had to find ways to set my own. Here's some of what I've done:

• Estimate the hours left based on my history and individual tasks (rewrite a scene, not write a novel), add 50%, and mark the date on a calendar.
• Work toward a contest deadline. (There are lots of contests out there. Check out Stephie Smith's matrix for examples.)
• Join an online writers group with a regular page requirement.

Of course, you can achieve something similar with commitments. Many writers have time or word requirements for each day. Aimee Bender suggests a contract with a friend. And I've suggested making a commitment to yourself each day for the next day's work.

What transforms these commitments into finished works is getting them working toward an overall goal and making sure that they include all the steps toward creating a final work. I know diligent writers who create nothing but first drafts (often incomplete) or who have been rewriting the same book for years.

Most of us have been pushed by the education apparatus to make deadlines and commitments part of our work process. I have mixed feelings about what that does to us. Do we lose some of our creativity? Does it cause us to spend less time in the moment? Do we miss experiences and mute our responses? Probably all of the above. But, since we have internalized deadlines and commitments, why shouldn't put them to work to make us more productive writers?

Writing Experiments 1 - Four simple exercises to build your skills

Most writers run across challenges in their work all the time. Characters who won't cooperate. Scenes that refuse to resolve. Ideas and situations that require research. Themes that cut too close to the bone.

Nonetheless, to reach your full potential, deliberate experimentation may be needed. It's common to play around with exercises earlier in your writing career, but this can be invaluable to writers at all levels. In fact, it may be more helpful to set aside time to break away from familiar work and take on an exercise after the basics of craft have been learned.

A good place to start, is simply to take a scene you've written and rewrite it from a different point of view. Consider, for instance, a first kiss scene in a romance. If it is written from the perspective of the heroine, redoing it from the hero's point of view will provide insights on the characters and their relationship even if the rewrite never makes its way into the final manuscript.

In addition, that specific example shifts from writing in a female point of view to a male point of view. That sort of experiment can push a writer into an uncomfortable place if he or she has never written from the perspective of the opposite sex. In writing experiments, the degree of difficulty is usually a good measure of how much might be learned.

Another experiment is to write with the voice of a published author. This is generally more difficult than changing points of view. In my case, I was introduced to this exercise while in high school. I had to write out three scenes from Tolkien in longhand. One was the original, and two were created by me in the voice of the author. The next step was to hand pages around and see which ones other students identified as being the original scenes. In my case, my fake pages fooled all the other students. (That's when I began to suspect I was a writer.)

Note: This exercise does not have to be a recasting of a published scene. It can be something of your own, just written in someone else's voice. And, unless it's parody, these pages are for your work notebook, not for publication.

When you write in the voice of another author, you learn techniques and skills and rhythms and you build a sensitivity to vocabulary that can shape your own writing.

Still harder for most people is to create variations. The way to do this is to come up with 3 to 5 approaches to a writing task. I often will move from the logline I've created for a work to distinct ways to begin it. I always discover something unexpected and find my way to a better approach by doing this.

Note: this does not have to be restricted to the beginning of a long work. It's possible to write the equivalent of a logline for a chapter or even the scene. From that, creating variations works the same way.

For instance, your protagonist might need to have a repair done to his or her car while traveling on a long trip. The purpose of a scene might be to prevent the protagonist from leaving right away. This could be accomplished by discovering parts aren't available or the mechanic is antagonistic or their credit card has been canceled. Writing out these scenes where the protagonist must learn about the obstacle and respond to it can push your creative abilities and build your knowledge of the work itself.

I'll end with one of the easier experiments. This is simply to write the next scene in your story either by only using dialogue or by only using description. Essentially, this means creating a radio version or a silent movie version. (I understand this is a standard exercise for some film school classes.) Either approach will force a reassessment of how the purpose of such a scene might be accomplished. These versions (if you choose to do both) will differ in interesting ways. Chances are, each will force the exercise of new writing muscles. And one is likely to be more difficult and provide a better learning experience.

Next time, I'll look at some more challenging experiments and discuss what value they might provide.