A popular post from December 2007
by Annette Lyon
One of the most powerful recurring themes in all of literature is that of death.
I'd go as far as to say that every story is about death, whether that's a literal death or a symbolic one. Quite often the death is followed by a rebirth of some sort.
If we use the 3-act screenplay format to describe a novel, the most dramatic death/rebirth generally occurs near the end of the second act, or with about 1/4 of the story yet to go, but others generally occur along the way as well.
Literal deaths include times when a character is experiencing or is around death, perhaps witnessing a loved one pass away.
Symbolic deaths can include cheating death and coming out the other side with a new perspective on life and the goal for the story, sort of a "NOW I get what it's about" moment. That realization turns the story in a new direction for the final act.
Stories often have a number of death/rebirth moments, because any time a character changes, leaving behind a former self, it's a symbolic death of the old self and rebirth of the new. It can take something dramatic to shake up a character's status quo, to make them change course, and a death/rebirth can do that.
These are powerful moments for the reader, which is why so many classic stories, blockbuster movies, and best-selling books include death and rebirth moments.
As an example, let's look at Disney's movie Beauty and the Beast, and at the Beast's character in particular. (Belle changes and has deaths/rebirths, too. Think how the concept applies to her as well.)
The beast's first brush with death is when he saves Belle from the attacking wolves. After he saves her, he collapses in the snow and even appears to be dead.
Belle decides not to abandon her rescuer and instead nurses him back to health. This prompts their first significant conversation ("Ouch! That hurts!") and provides the first turning point in their relationship from captor/prisoner to being icily tolerant allies.
As their friendship progresses, the Beast moves into the death of his old self. His pride and selfishness peel off like a snake's skin, and he learns to love another person. An outward expression of the birth of his new self is the scene where he bathes, dresses, gets a haircut, and otherwise gets ready for a special night with Belle.
(Side note here: An outward sign of Belle's inner death and rebirth occurs during their dinner that night, when she abandons her expectation that he use a spoon and instead raises her bowl and drinks from it. She's accepting who he is and no longer requiring him to fit her mold.)
Later on, the Beast frees Belle from her obligation, which shows his complete transformation but also sends him into essentially a death of the heart, which he doesn't recover from until Belle's return.
At that point we get the nearest to death the Beast ever comes: he and Gaston have it out, and the latter comes after the Beast from the back. In true villain fashion, such underhandedness is promptly punished, for after he stabs the Beast in the back, Gaston falls to his death. Belle pulls the Beast from a certain physical death (apparently with miraculous strength) onto the castle tower.
It is in that moment we see the final death/rebirth: the spell is broken when Belle declares her love for him, and the Beast melts away and transforms into the prince he's been inside this entire time.
Without such dramatic external and internal shifts between life and death, the story would lack much of its power.
As you read and watch movies in the next little while, pay attention to the deaths and rebirths. It might be Luke Skywalker apparently dying and in the trash compactor and managing to get out alive anyway. Or maybe it's Buzz Lightyear who faces the death of who he has always believed himself to be--a space ranger, not a toy--and in trying to hold onto his former identity, nearly kills himself physically by falling and breaking off his arm.
Look at your latest story and try to identify when your main characters face death, both literally and symbolically. What parts of them die? What parts are reborn? What do they learn from each death and rebirth? Does someone actually die? What is the rebirth that follows? Do you have one final, powerful death/rebirth scene that propels your character into the final act?
Don't start killing off characters for the sake of playing with your reader's emotions, but do take a look at where you can use those moments of change to enhance your characters, their problems, their goals, and their ultimate rewards.
Showing posts with label conflict. Show all posts
Showing posts with label conflict. Show all posts
Monday, June 5, 2017
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Conflict--The Good Fight
A popular post from March 2008
by Heather Moore
Before reading Jack Bickham’s book The 38 Most Common Fiction Writing Mistakes, I assumed that conflict in a novel was anything that stopped the character on his or her path. Anything that went wrong, anything that “conflicted” basically.
According to Bickham, conflict is simply defined as “a struggle between story people with opposing goals.” (25)
Conflict is NOT, he says, “bad luck or adversity. It isn’t fate.” Yes, these may play a part in your book too, but your character doesn’t try to reason with it or confront it.
“Conflict . . . is a fight with another person.” Not necessarily a physical fight, but a fight at some level.
Bickham recommends the following to bring true conflict into your story (26):
1. Make sure two characters are involved.
2. Give them opposing goals.
3. Put them onstage now.
4. Make sure both are motivated to struggle against each other now.
by Heather Moore
Before reading Jack Bickham’s book The 38 Most Common Fiction Writing Mistakes, I assumed that conflict in a novel was anything that stopped the character on his or her path. Anything that went wrong, anything that “conflicted” basically.
According to Bickham, conflict is simply defined as “a struggle between story people with opposing goals.” (25)
Conflict is NOT, he says, “bad luck or adversity. It isn’t fate.” Yes, these may play a part in your book too, but your character doesn’t try to reason with it or confront it.
“Conflict . . . is a fight with another person.” Not necessarily a physical fight, but a fight at some level.
Bickham recommends the following to bring true conflict into your story (26):
1. Make sure two characters are involved.
2. Give them opposing goals.
3. Put them onstage now.
4. Make sure both are motivated to struggle against each other now.
Friday, May 26, 2017
Give the Apple a Worm
A popular post from March 2008
by Julie Wright
There are three main elements to every story regardless of how short or how long. The three elements are:
You need the first . . . the character . . . because people like to read about other people. Even when we read children’s books about animals or bugs, we always give those things human attributes.
We like to read about other’s lives because we like to escape our own lives. We want to become the character so we can sympathize, or at least be able to relate to the character so we can empathize. Without characters you cannot achieve emotional depth.
Jeff Savage has taught me to never solicit unearned emotion. Killing off a character in the beginning of the book and having the widow sobbing at the gravesite is kind of interesting, but we don’t really care. We don’t know the guy in the casket. So make sure your characters are in place. Properly introduce us to them so we want to like them, and root for them, and mourn with them. So we care when things go wrong. If you even give a small scene to that couple before the husband dies, then you come to like them and you’ve earned the emotion of pain when he dies.
Conflict stirs things up and makes things happen. Without conflict your story will be boring. I have found on the occasions where I’ve helped brand new writers with manuscripts that the most common issue their manuscripts have is not enough conflict. Too often people think that conflict is just the: you say tomato and I say tomahto. They consider the odd couple squabbling a good enough conflict
And while this has been used in several successful plots, there are always other subtle conflicts going on as well. There are opposing desires, death, stress, tension with work, tension with school, tension with family members. Every human being alive interacts on many levels with many different people. So you can use the ploy of differing personalities as your conflict, but make sure there is something more. Pride and Prejudice pulled this off expertly.
The whole concept was Elizabeth determined to hate this proud MR Darcy because he said tomato and she said tomahto. But there was so much more going on. You had the nefarious Wickham not only making Elizabeth’s heart race but also stealing the attention of her sister and causing disgrace for the family. You had ridiculous Mr. Collins proposing to sensible Elizabeth. You had Mr. Bingley who loved Jane, but was separated from her by his friends and family. And you had Mr. Bennett, an intelligent man who married an absurd woman for her beauty, and now has to live with the fact that she’s absurd. There are layers and layers of conflict within that novel. That’s how all of us should be writing.
Every day we all come in contact with personal conflict. (Ask someone what their conflict was in the last week.) It's that conflict and the struggle the characters has to undergo that keeps us readers interested and in suspense. Will the character succeed or won't he? And when is this all going to happen? And how is it all going to happen?
Imagine writing a children’s book with me for a moment.
There once was an apple. The apple was red. The apple hung from the tree until it rotted off the branch. The end.
There is not one kid in the world who would think that was an interesting children’s book. I don’t care how good the artist is who illustrates the thing, Harper Collins will never buy it. And no child would ever want to read it.
So make something happen. Give the apple a worm.
Or give the girl a boyfriend.
Or give the coworker that promotion your character worked so hard for.
Resolution
Something that starts has to finish, one way or another.Once you have created great characters, which the reader will come to care about, and you have placed them in conflict, that conflict at the end of your story has to be resolved. The characters will achieve their goals or they won't.
That doesn't matter.
You can end your story as you please and as it suits your story - but you have to end it. Ending the story means resolving the conflict. In the end everyone must be happy. And being happy doesn’t always have to mean that everything is perfect, but loose ends must be tied up and the characters must have reconciled themselves to the imperfect life.
Each layer of conflict has been resolved in a daisy chain of inter-connectedness, one closure bringing the closure of another.
When creating problems for your main characters, think along two lines. A big, external conflict that forms the plot and keeps the story moving, and an internal conflict that forces your character to change, reflecting the theme. This will give your story depth, and give your readers something to think about.
by Julie Wright
There are three main elements to every story regardless of how short or how long. The three elements are:
- Character
- Conflict
- Resolution
You need the first . . . the character . . . because people like to read about other people. Even when we read children’s books about animals or bugs, we always give those things human attributes.
We like to read about other’s lives because we like to escape our own lives. We want to become the character so we can sympathize, or at least be able to relate to the character so we can empathize. Without characters you cannot achieve emotional depth.
Jeff Savage has taught me to never solicit unearned emotion. Killing off a character in the beginning of the book and having the widow sobbing at the gravesite is kind of interesting, but we don’t really care. We don’t know the guy in the casket. So make sure your characters are in place. Properly introduce us to them so we want to like them, and root for them, and mourn with them. So we care when things go wrong. If you even give a small scene to that couple before the husband dies, then you come to like them and you’ve earned the emotion of pain when he dies.
Conflict stirs things up and makes things happen. Without conflict your story will be boring. I have found on the occasions where I’ve helped brand new writers with manuscripts that the most common issue their manuscripts have is not enough conflict. Too often people think that conflict is just the: you say tomato and I say tomahto. They consider the odd couple squabbling a good enough conflict
And while this has been used in several successful plots, there are always other subtle conflicts going on as well. There are opposing desires, death, stress, tension with work, tension with school, tension with family members. Every human being alive interacts on many levels with many different people. So you can use the ploy of differing personalities as your conflict, but make sure there is something more. Pride and Prejudice pulled this off expertly.
The whole concept was Elizabeth determined to hate this proud MR Darcy because he said tomato and she said tomahto. But there was so much more going on. You had the nefarious Wickham not only making Elizabeth’s heart race but also stealing the attention of her sister and causing disgrace for the family. You had ridiculous Mr. Collins proposing to sensible Elizabeth. You had Mr. Bingley who loved Jane, but was separated from her by his friends and family. And you had Mr. Bennett, an intelligent man who married an absurd woman for her beauty, and now has to live with the fact that she’s absurd. There are layers and layers of conflict within that novel. That’s how all of us should be writing.
Every day we all come in contact with personal conflict. (Ask someone what their conflict was in the last week.) It's that conflict and the struggle the characters has to undergo that keeps us readers interested and in suspense. Will the character succeed or won't he? And when is this all going to happen? And how is it all going to happen?
Imagine writing a children’s book with me for a moment.
There once was an apple. The apple was red. The apple hung from the tree until it rotted off the branch. The end.
There is not one kid in the world who would think that was an interesting children’s book. I don’t care how good the artist is who illustrates the thing, Harper Collins will never buy it. And no child would ever want to read it.
So make something happen. Give the apple a worm.
Or give the girl a boyfriend.
Or give the coworker that promotion your character worked so hard for.
Resolution
Something that starts has to finish, one way or another.Once you have created great characters, which the reader will come to care about, and you have placed them in conflict, that conflict at the end of your story has to be resolved. The characters will achieve their goals or they won't.
That doesn't matter.
You can end your story as you please and as it suits your story - but you have to end it. Ending the story means resolving the conflict. In the end everyone must be happy. And being happy doesn’t always have to mean that everything is perfect, but loose ends must be tied up and the characters must have reconciled themselves to the imperfect life.
Each layer of conflict has been resolved in a daisy chain of inter-connectedness, one closure bringing the closure of another.
When creating problems for your main characters, think along two lines. A big, external conflict that forms the plot and keeps the story moving, and an internal conflict that forces your character to change, reflecting the theme. This will give your story depth, and give your readers something to think about.
Monday, February 27, 2017
Unexamined Lives
A popular post from March 2009
By Julie Wright
Plato said, "The unexamined life is not worth living." From that one could also say that the unlived life is not worth examining. And from that one could also say that a character without a life isn't worth reading.
Life is messy if you're bothering to live it well. It's all fine to live safely, but people who lock themselves into their houses and use antibacterial soap aren't usually the most interesting people out there. If your characters are like these people, your book won't make it past page five (and that's if the reader is generous)
We like to hear about people who are doing things. And we are never bored when our friends call us up to tell us their problems.
This is why your characters should have problems. They should be out doing things. Don't open your book with characters looking at a sunset (unless the sun is rocketing towards earth in a cataclysmic event that will burn us all up within the next 24 hours and the hero has to figure out how to harness the sun and put it back in its own orbit). Don't open your book with characters waking up, having a bowl of cereal, and brushing their teeth. The mundane is synonymous with life unlived. We need action!
And the best action comes from characters solving their own problems. David Gerrold said, "the bigger the problem, the bigger the character has to be to solve it." And if you want to justify telling the story you're telling, you'd better be writing that character and his problem absurdly huge.
Some problems come from a challenge. The character accepts a challenge or takes on a challenge and falls into crisis (think Lord of the Rings).
And your character must go through the try-fail cycle. He'd better go through it a few times (three is what they suggest) This means he tries to overcome his problem and fails, tries to overcome his problem and fails. But the real failure is the guy who doesn't get back up when you knock him down. So your character had better not be that guy. Your character had better be the guy hauling his backside up and shouting, "Is that all you've got?" Your character must win.
Give your characters life by letting them dive into the messy complications of REALLY living. And if you're starting to worry about yourself becoming boring, maybe take on a challenge or two for yourself on your off writing days . . . it'll give you more to write about.
By Julie Wright
Plato said, "The unexamined life is not worth living." From that one could also say that the unlived life is not worth examining. And from that one could also say that a character without a life isn't worth reading.
Life is messy if you're bothering to live it well. It's all fine to live safely, but people who lock themselves into their houses and use antibacterial soap aren't usually the most interesting people out there. If your characters are like these people, your book won't make it past page five (and that's if the reader is generous)
We like to hear about people who are doing things. And we are never bored when our friends call us up to tell us their problems.
This is why your characters should have problems. They should be out doing things. Don't open your book with characters looking at a sunset (unless the sun is rocketing towards earth in a cataclysmic event that will burn us all up within the next 24 hours and the hero has to figure out how to harness the sun and put it back in its own orbit). Don't open your book with characters waking up, having a bowl of cereal, and brushing their teeth. The mundane is synonymous with life unlived. We need action!
And the best action comes from characters solving their own problems. David Gerrold said, "the bigger the problem, the bigger the character has to be to solve it." And if you want to justify telling the story you're telling, you'd better be writing that character and his problem absurdly huge.
Some problems come from a challenge. The character accepts a challenge or takes on a challenge and falls into crisis (think Lord of the Rings).
And your character must go through the try-fail cycle. He'd better go through it a few times (three is what they suggest) This means he tries to overcome his problem and fails, tries to overcome his problem and fails. But the real failure is the guy who doesn't get back up when you knock him down. So your character had better not be that guy. Your character had better be the guy hauling his backside up and shouting, "Is that all you've got?" Your character must win.
Give your characters life by letting them dive into the messy complications of REALLY living. And if you're starting to worry about yourself becoming boring, maybe take on a challenge or two for yourself on your off writing days . . . it'll give you more to write about.
Wednesday, February 15, 2017
Nothing But Trouble
A popular post from September 2009
By Julie Wright
I read a book several years ago where the characters did a great job of avoiding trouble. They skirted around it in all sorts of creative ways, but never actually confronted trouble head on. I never finished the book. I gave it a good shot--way more than it deserved and read 200 pages before frustration took over and I gave up.
Nothing was happening. YAWN.
Your characters have to get into trouble because that's what creates conflict. Conflict is interesting. Trouble is interesting. Trouble can also be . . . well . . . trouble.
I don't know about you, but sometimes my characters are great at getting into major trouble, but not so great at getting out again. They can wind up in all sorts of huge calamities, the entire world can be falling to piece around them and I agonize over how to piece that world back together again.
Over time I've learned that if my characters can get into a fine mess, they'd better just get themselves out.
Convenience is a writer's enemy. It's tempting to help your characters out and throw them the olive branch of convenience, but you aren't doing them (or yourself) any favors. Convenience looks just like it is--too convenient. You lose your reader's trust when you start making your characters do things that don't make sense to the character you've developed. You can't betray the persona's you've created simply because you NEED the character to get up in the middle of the night and go downstairs for leftover cheesecake so they can overhear a conversation that will lead them to the murderer when your character is a deep sleeper and they're allergic to cheesecake.
Stay away from convenience.
And your character got into their own trouble . . . make them smart enough and resourceful enough to get out of it. We like characters who can think on their feet. The damsel in distress who always needs to be taken care of by the hunky hero is really not compelling. A butt-kickin' chick who can break out of her own prisons? She's someone we want to read about, even if it is her own fault she landed herself in prison.
Also stay away from false conflicts.
The kind where the character thinks they are in all kinds of life threatening peril but in reality the character's best friend is in control the whole time. It's the difference between the tummy tickle of a roller coaster while you're strapped into the train car and the tummy tickle you get when jumping out of an airplane dependant only on a parachute that you packed yourself. Did you pack it right? Do you know how soon to pull the cord? That is the parachute on your back, right? You didn't grab your backpack by mistake?
That real peril--way more interesting.
At least in books. I don't personally make habits out of jumping out of perfectly good airplanes. I don't care who packed the chute.
By Julie Wright
I read a book several years ago where the characters did a great job of avoiding trouble. They skirted around it in all sorts of creative ways, but never actually confronted trouble head on. I never finished the book. I gave it a good shot--way more than it deserved and read 200 pages before frustration took over and I gave up.
Nothing was happening. YAWN.
Your characters have to get into trouble because that's what creates conflict. Conflict is interesting. Trouble is interesting. Trouble can also be . . . well . . . trouble.
I don't know about you, but sometimes my characters are great at getting into major trouble, but not so great at getting out again. They can wind up in all sorts of huge calamities, the entire world can be falling to piece around them and I agonize over how to piece that world back together again.
Over time I've learned that if my characters can get into a fine mess, they'd better just get themselves out.
Convenience is a writer's enemy. It's tempting to help your characters out and throw them the olive branch of convenience, but you aren't doing them (or yourself) any favors. Convenience looks just like it is--too convenient. You lose your reader's trust when you start making your characters do things that don't make sense to the character you've developed. You can't betray the persona's you've created simply because you NEED the character to get up in the middle of the night and go downstairs for leftover cheesecake so they can overhear a conversation that will lead them to the murderer when your character is a deep sleeper and they're allergic to cheesecake.
Stay away from convenience.
And your character got into their own trouble . . . make them smart enough and resourceful enough to get out of it. We like characters who can think on their feet. The damsel in distress who always needs to be taken care of by the hunky hero is really not compelling. A butt-kickin' chick who can break out of her own prisons? She's someone we want to read about, even if it is her own fault she landed herself in prison.
Also stay away from false conflicts.
The kind where the character thinks they are in all kinds of life threatening peril but in reality the character's best friend is in control the whole time. It's the difference between the tummy tickle of a roller coaster while you're strapped into the train car and the tummy tickle you get when jumping out of an airplane dependant only on a parachute that you packed yourself. Did you pack it right? Do you know how soon to pull the cord? That is the parachute on your back, right? You didn't grab your backpack by mistake?
That real peril--way more interesting.
At least in books. I don't personally make habits out of jumping out of perfectly good airplanes. I don't care who packed the chute.
Monday, January 23, 2017
Starting Your Book
A popular post from August 2009
By Heather Moore
When I meet writers who are looking to get published, they often ask me how I decide where to start my story, who the characters will be, and how I plot.
So as I’m preparing to write my next book, I thought I’d give you some insight into my process.
1. Thinking. Maybe mulling is the more correct word. I have to have the main character pretty well defined in my mind before starting to write. The secondary characters come into the story to support the main character—and sometimes they surprise even me.
2. Creating a schedule. Writing, of course, is not always controlled by that effervescent muse (Annette—I’m probably using effervescent wrong). Writing is part creativity, and part science. Editing definitely falls into the science category, as well as actually completing a book. Like any writer, I’m constantly pulled in different directions. But once I decide on a book, I need to create the schedule to get it completed, and limit any other stories in my head that are trying to derail priority number 1. For example, if I decide to turn in a book on December 1st to my publisher and I start on August 1st, I divide the word count by the number of writing days. And I leave a couple of weeks in for editing. August: 25,000 words (average 1,000 words a day, 5 days/week). September: 25,000 words, October: 25,000 words, November: 10,000 (2 weeks), 2 weeks of edits.
3. Character sketching. This is an evolving process and changes and grows as I get further into the writing process. For instance, when I write my first draft, my character motivations aren’t usually ironed out. I’m writing mostly plot and dialog. About half-way through draft 1, I’ve had to make solid decisions about my characters, so I’m adding information to my character sketches as I go. So during the 2nd draft, I’m inserting more characterization to the beginning of the book.
4. Point of view & tense: I take into consideration who my audience will be and who the most important characters are. Will the story happen in real time (present tense) or past tense? Will my characters speak in first person (ideal for YA), or third person? It’s a lot of work to change this part of the process, so doing your research beforehand will save you a lot of time later.
5. Conflict. This goes hand in hand with character sketching. I have to ask myself what is the main conflict of the book, and of each character.
6. Beginning. Now that I have some basics going and I actually sit down to write, I usually concentrate on where I want the story to begin. Not to say that the first chapter I write will be the actual first chapter of the book, but I start pretty near the beginning. Before I start a chapter/scene, I ask myself: “What is the point of the chapter? What will be accomplished? What will it show that may/may not be relevant to the story as a whole?”
7. Creating a scene. I create scenes in several phases. Phase 1: writing and not caring too much about “fleshing out” the characters or the description, but I am nailing down the direction of the scene. Phase 2: revising the scene and inserting more description, making more concrete decisions about the character. Phase 3: this will happen when the whole book is drafted and maybe new developments have happened along the way. So I now have to go back through each scene to make sure the story is properly directed. As you can see, creativity has just been replaced by careful analysis (science).
Okay, looking over this list makes me wonder why I even start a new book. Every writer has what works for them. My style might be convoluted, but you never know, it might work for you as well.
By Heather Moore
When I meet writers who are looking to get published, they often ask me how I decide where to start my story, who the characters will be, and how I plot.
So as I’m preparing to write my next book, I thought I’d give you some insight into my process.
1. Thinking. Maybe mulling is the more correct word. I have to have the main character pretty well defined in my mind before starting to write. The secondary characters come into the story to support the main character—and sometimes they surprise even me.
2. Creating a schedule. Writing, of course, is not always controlled by that effervescent muse (Annette—I’m probably using effervescent wrong). Writing is part creativity, and part science. Editing definitely falls into the science category, as well as actually completing a book. Like any writer, I’m constantly pulled in different directions. But once I decide on a book, I need to create the schedule to get it completed, and limit any other stories in my head that are trying to derail priority number 1. For example, if I decide to turn in a book on December 1st to my publisher and I start on August 1st, I divide the word count by the number of writing days. And I leave a couple of weeks in for editing. August: 25,000 words (average 1,000 words a day, 5 days/week). September: 25,000 words, October: 25,000 words, November: 10,000 (2 weeks), 2 weeks of edits.
3. Character sketching. This is an evolving process and changes and grows as I get further into the writing process. For instance, when I write my first draft, my character motivations aren’t usually ironed out. I’m writing mostly plot and dialog. About half-way through draft 1, I’ve had to make solid decisions about my characters, so I’m adding information to my character sketches as I go. So during the 2nd draft, I’m inserting more characterization to the beginning of the book.
4. Point of view & tense: I take into consideration who my audience will be and who the most important characters are. Will the story happen in real time (present tense) or past tense? Will my characters speak in first person (ideal for YA), or third person? It’s a lot of work to change this part of the process, so doing your research beforehand will save you a lot of time later.
5. Conflict. This goes hand in hand with character sketching. I have to ask myself what is the main conflict of the book, and of each character.
6. Beginning. Now that I have some basics going and I actually sit down to write, I usually concentrate on where I want the story to begin. Not to say that the first chapter I write will be the actual first chapter of the book, but I start pretty near the beginning. Before I start a chapter/scene, I ask myself: “What is the point of the chapter? What will be accomplished? What will it show that may/may not be relevant to the story as a whole?”
7. Creating a scene. I create scenes in several phases. Phase 1: writing and not caring too much about “fleshing out” the characters or the description, but I am nailing down the direction of the scene. Phase 2: revising the scene and inserting more description, making more concrete decisions about the character. Phase 3: this will happen when the whole book is drafted and maybe new developments have happened along the way. So I now have to go back through each scene to make sure the story is properly directed. As you can see, creativity has just been replaced by careful analysis (science).
Okay, looking over this list makes me wonder why I even start a new book. Every writer has what works for them. My style might be convoluted, but you never know, it might work for you as well.
Monday, December 5, 2016
Paper-Thin Conflicts
A popular post from April 2009
by Annette Lyon
Want to annoy your reader?
One of the best things you can do is to have a story that, structurally speaking, might as well be a sitcom: it's episodic. That means every chapter has its own new (shallow) problem that gets resolved by the end of the chapter (or so).
That kind of weak plot is enough to make this reader want to throw a book across the room.
While it's common to have chapters that have their own sub-conflicts and sub-plots getting resolved, you always need a bigger, over-arching problem that carries the book from beginning to end.
Yes, we want to know if Luke will get out of the trash compactor alive, but we also have that Death Star thing to destroy by the end of the movie.
Yes, we wonder what Harry will do with Norbert the dragon, but if he doesn't save the Sorcerer's Stone and face Voldemort at the end of the book, we have no story.
And sure, it's nice that Belle and the Beast have a beautiful date in the ballroom, but if the spell isn't eventually broken, who really cares?
If you don't have a big conflict, one that's complex and, well, BIG, I'm sorry, but you aren't writing a novel. Or at least you're not writing a good one that readers will care about.
Conflict is the engine that drives the plot. You need enough of it to push the story from page one to the very end. That means the problems must be deeper than, "Dang. We had a misunderstanding."
At a workshop several years ago taught by Janette Rallison, she made a point that's stuck with me: If your conflict could be resolved by a single conversation, it isn't big enough.
Of course, stories with these kinds of paper-thin conflicts never do have the two characters talking it out, even if they could solve the problem in about fifteen seconds by doing so.
A common place for these kinds of thin conflicts is in romance. The basic romance formula requires the boy to get the girl and then lose the girl before getting her back again for good. Too many would-be writers use a thin excuse for getting the hero and heroine apart: a simple misunderstanding.
So the story has a series of misadventures that drag the story on, one minor blip at a time, for a couple hundred pages or so, until the sad little misunderstanding is fixed.
Misadventures and misunderstandings work for episodes of Hannah Montana, but they aren't going to work for your book.
With a thin conflict or series of thin conflicts, you'll lose your reader, because there's nothing driving them to keep reading. They lack the, "Oh, no! What's going to happen next?" or, "How will they ever fix that?"
As our own Josi likes to put it: Get your character up in a tree. Throw rocks at them. Throw bigger rocks. And even bigger rocks. Now set the tree on fire. Then make your character find a way down.
Ask yourself:
Is my character simply up in a tree?
Or have I set the tree on fire?
Get your conflict blazing. Keep us wondering whether (and how!) your character will find a way down. Intense conflicts don't have to be of the James Bond action variety. A solid internal conflict can do the job just as well.
No matter what it is, the conflict must be big enough to carry the story and keep readers interested so they won't chuck your book against the wall.
by Annette Lyon
Want to annoy your reader?
One of the best things you can do is to have a story that, structurally speaking, might as well be a sitcom: it's episodic. That means every chapter has its own new (shallow) problem that gets resolved by the end of the chapter (or so).
That kind of weak plot is enough to make this reader want to throw a book across the room.
While it's common to have chapters that have their own sub-conflicts and sub-plots getting resolved, you always need a bigger, over-arching problem that carries the book from beginning to end.
Yes, we want to know if Luke will get out of the trash compactor alive, but we also have that Death Star thing to destroy by the end of the movie.
Yes, we wonder what Harry will do with Norbert the dragon, but if he doesn't save the Sorcerer's Stone and face Voldemort at the end of the book, we have no story.
And sure, it's nice that Belle and the Beast have a beautiful date in the ballroom, but if the spell isn't eventually broken, who really cares?
If you don't have a big conflict, one that's complex and, well, BIG, I'm sorry, but you aren't writing a novel. Or at least you're not writing a good one that readers will care about.
Conflict is the engine that drives the plot. You need enough of it to push the story from page one to the very end. That means the problems must be deeper than, "Dang. We had a misunderstanding."
At a workshop several years ago taught by Janette Rallison, she made a point that's stuck with me: If your conflict could be resolved by a single conversation, it isn't big enough.
Of course, stories with these kinds of paper-thin conflicts never do have the two characters talking it out, even if they could solve the problem in about fifteen seconds by doing so.
A common place for these kinds of thin conflicts is in romance. The basic romance formula requires the boy to get the girl and then lose the girl before getting her back again for good. Too many would-be writers use a thin excuse for getting the hero and heroine apart: a simple misunderstanding.
So the story has a series of misadventures that drag the story on, one minor blip at a time, for a couple hundred pages or so, until the sad little misunderstanding is fixed.
Misadventures and misunderstandings work for episodes of Hannah Montana, but they aren't going to work for your book.
With a thin conflict or series of thin conflicts, you'll lose your reader, because there's nothing driving them to keep reading. They lack the, "Oh, no! What's going to happen next?" or, "How will they ever fix that?"
As our own Josi likes to put it: Get your character up in a tree. Throw rocks at them. Throw bigger rocks. And even bigger rocks. Now set the tree on fire. Then make your character find a way down.
Ask yourself:
Is my character simply up in a tree?
Or have I set the tree on fire?
Get your conflict blazing. Keep us wondering whether (and how!) your character will find a way down. Intense conflicts don't have to be of the James Bond action variety. A solid internal conflict can do the job just as well.
No matter what it is, the conflict must be big enough to carry the story and keep readers interested so they won't chuck your book against the wall.
Friday, November 18, 2016
What's My Story Question?
A popular post from October 2008
by Annette Lyon
About writing a good story, Lewis Carroll reportedly said something like:
"Begin at the beginning and go on to the end: then stop."
Nice advice, but it's harder than it looks. How do you know where to begin and when to end?
Here's a good place to look: uncover your major story question.
Sure, your book will have subplots and conflicts along the way, but there needs to be one over-arching question. It needs to be posed, or at least reflected, in the first chapter. It'll then be answered in last chapter.
Sometimes the story question might be just hinted at in the beginning. For example, in The Wizard of Oz, the main question is: Will Dorothy will ever get home from Oz.?
In the opening sequence, she's not in Oz. But she is unhappy at home and tries to run away. She wants to be anywhere but home. So that sets up the ultimate question: by the end, she wants to be home more than anything else. So by the time we get the question, "Will Dorothy get home?" we all want the same thing for her. Everything she does is aimed at that one goal.
After she returns to Kansas, the movie has a brief wrap-up ("You were there. And so were you!") and it's over. The credits roll. We don't need to see her interacting with her aunt, where we see how much better things are now. The question is answered.
Often you can identify the kind of story question your book should have based on the genre you're writing in. For example, a mystery's question is who committed the murder? and a romance asks, will the boy and girl ever get together?
Some books have easily identified questions:
With your own writing, it's important for you to know what your story question is, for two reasons:
1) It tells you where to begin.
2) It tells you when to stop.
Without a good beginning, your reader (or editor or agent) won't get past page twelve (or, realistically, past page three).
And without a satisfying ending, they'll never pick up your next book (or this one will never get published).
It's not uncommon for me to see beginning writers' work where they're obviously not sure of the major story question. I can tell because the chapters flounder around with back story dumps, characters who aren't quite themselves yet, a plot that meanders without a clear conflict (or a conflict that's too thin), and a story that doesn't end when it's supposed to.
There is a reason that The Da Vinci Code ends where it does: the puzzle is solved, the characters are safe, and the bad guys are caught. All the story questions are answered.
It would be silly for Dan Brown to have continued the story so Langdon goes home, takes a shower, makes himself breakfast, and then realizes that he's rather troubled by the events of the last while and he needs therapy. And then we watch him go through therapy.
Ack! That's a new story, with new story questions. It's also a new genre. We'd no longer be looking at a symbology-based thriller.
This may be an over-the-top example, but the point is valid. Do you know when your story is over? You might not know the details of the final scene, but do you have a general idea that when X happens, it leads to Y, which answers the story question, so the story ends?
It's hard sometimes to write that last page. We love our characters, and sometimes we know what comes next, so we want to write it. But if that isn't part of the story you were originally telling, don't include it.
Maybe you can write a sequel to tell the next part . . . so long as you start at the right place and end when that story is over!
by Annette Lyon
About writing a good story, Lewis Carroll reportedly said something like:
"Begin at the beginning and go on to the end: then stop."
Nice advice, but it's harder than it looks. How do you know where to begin and when to end?
Here's a good place to look: uncover your major story question.
Sure, your book will have subplots and conflicts along the way, but there needs to be one over-arching question. It needs to be posed, or at least reflected, in the first chapter. It'll then be answered in last chapter.
Sometimes the story question might be just hinted at in the beginning. For example, in The Wizard of Oz, the main question is: Will Dorothy will ever get home from Oz.?
In the opening sequence, she's not in Oz. But she is unhappy at home and tries to run away. She wants to be anywhere but home. So that sets up the ultimate question: by the end, she wants to be home more than anything else. So by the time we get the question, "Will Dorothy get home?" we all want the same thing for her. Everything she does is aimed at that one goal.
After she returns to Kansas, the movie has a brief wrap-up ("You were there. And so were you!") and it's over. The credits roll. We don't need to see her interacting with her aunt, where we see how much better things are now. The question is answered.
Often you can identify the kind of story question your book should have based on the genre you're writing in. For example, a mystery's question is who committed the murder? and a romance asks, will the boy and girl ever get together?
Some books have easily identified questions:
- Will Harry defeat Voldemort?
- Will Lizzy and Darcy get together?
- Will Montag stay true to books and escape with his life?
- Will Langdon solve the puzzle before the bad guys do?
- Will Poirot find the murderer?
- Will Luke destroy the Death Star?
With your own writing, it's important for you to know what your story question is, for two reasons:
1) It tells you where to begin.
2) It tells you when to stop.
Without a good beginning, your reader (or editor or agent) won't get past page twelve (or, realistically, past page three).
And without a satisfying ending, they'll never pick up your next book (or this one will never get published).
It's not uncommon for me to see beginning writers' work where they're obviously not sure of the major story question. I can tell because the chapters flounder around with back story dumps, characters who aren't quite themselves yet, a plot that meanders without a clear conflict (or a conflict that's too thin), and a story that doesn't end when it's supposed to.
There is a reason that The Da Vinci Code ends where it does: the puzzle is solved, the characters are safe, and the bad guys are caught. All the story questions are answered.
It would be silly for Dan Brown to have continued the story so Langdon goes home, takes a shower, makes himself breakfast, and then realizes that he's rather troubled by the events of the last while and he needs therapy. And then we watch him go through therapy.
Ack! That's a new story, with new story questions. It's also a new genre. We'd no longer be looking at a symbology-based thriller.
This may be an over-the-top example, but the point is valid. Do you know when your story is over? You might not know the details of the final scene, but do you have a general idea that when X happens, it leads to Y, which answers the story question, so the story ends?
It's hard sometimes to write that last page. We love our characters, and sometimes we know what comes next, so we want to write it. But if that isn't part of the story you were originally telling, don't include it.
Maybe you can write a sequel to tell the next part . . . so long as you start at the right place and end when that story is over!
Monday, August 22, 2016
What's the Point?
A popular post from January 2010
by Annette Lyon
by Annette Lyon
Yes, I know you love your characters and that they're real to you, but we don't need every single detail about their lives. After they get home from work, do we really need to have a 4-page scene with several of them sitting around discussing what they ate for dinner?
You'd be surprised at how often I come across that kind of thing in my freelance work: long, exhaustive scenes that serve no absolutely point (besides, maybe, as a substitute for Ambien). They may be well-written on the sentence level, but they accomplish nothing.
The entire section could be deleted, and from a story standpoint, you'd never know it.
As a writer, it's easy to inadvertently drop in useless scenes. Like I said, we love our characters. They're real, at least in our heads. And just about anything they do is interesting . . . to their creator.
But you've got an audience to keep entertained. That's why every scene needs to accomplish something. Preferably, more than one something.
Here are six potential goals for a scene:
1) Advance the plot.
This is one of the most important goals for a scene. If the story isn't moving forward, a reader is going to get bored. Keep the story moving, progressing, advancing.
2) Create or show conflict.
Tension is what propels the plot. Without conflict, you have no story. Conflict holds the reader's interest. Plus, it's what most of your story should be based on anyway, right?
3) Set the setting.
Few scenes should have this as a purpose exclusively, but it is a valid one. Often we need to see and experience where the characters are, especially in genre books where the location is just as important as the rest of the story, such as in historical, science fiction, and fantasy works. Just don't belabor the setting. Make sure something else is going on as well. Eight pages dwelling on the unusual sunsets, architecture, or clothing get old.
4) Reveal character.
Do this through actions, thoughts, and dialogue of your POV character as well as their interpretations of others' actions and dialogue. Use this one a lot.
5) Show back story.
I mention this one with a bit of trepidation, because too many writers go, "Yippee! My purpose is to show back story!" and then we end up with long sections of info dumps, making the story stall and the reader fall asleep. Show back story in snippets and with a purpose. Never halt the story and then go into a 5-page history of a character. BORING.
6) Lay groundwork for later plot.
At times, you'll need to set-up a location, event, or something else that'll show up again or be relevant later. Same goes for foreshadowing. Just don't get too carried away here. Make sure you keep things interesting.
As a general rule of thumb, try to make every single scene accomplish at least two of the six purposes. If a scene isn't doing at least one of the six, delete it. It's fluff, and you don't need the scene.
If it's doing one of the six, see if you can add another one or two to punch it up.
Another good idea is to aim for the vast majority of your scenes to have at least one the purposes be either #1 or #2 (advance the plot or create conflict). Then add another one, say character or setting.
Don't try to cram all six purposes into a single scene. That's overload, and readers like that just as much as they like fluff (they don't).
As you read over your work-in-progress, note your scenes and the why. You might not have written the scene with a why in mind, but you can go back to see if there is one now. If not, revise and put one in.
Bottom line, every scene needs one of two things:
1) A purpose
OR
2) The delete key.
Friday, June 24, 2016
Where's the Engine?
A popular post from June 2011
by Annette Lyon
by Annette Lyon
It's an interesting conundrum: great writing in a delightful manuscript, laugh out loud scenes, great showing, awesome characters . . .
but no conflict.
Clean writing on a small scale can get you only so far. I learned this the hard way when a professor read a short story of mine and proclaimed the writing to be excellent but the story to need a lot of work.
To a great extent, the things that needed fixing were big picture issues, like motivation and, yes, conflict.
Conflict is the engine that drives a story. Without conflict, all we have is a series of events. As delightful as those events may be, eventually the reader will get bored and set the book aside if the characters are driving blissfully along without speed bumps and road blocks.
This goes back, on some level, to the two sides of the writer.
First is the storyteller. This is the more common side to have it seems. Someone has a great story but doesn't know how to get it out. As an editor, that's relatively easy to fix and teach.
The second side is the wordsmith, and in some ways, it's the harder side to be on if you lack the other: you can create great writing, but you can't tell a story effectively. In other words, the writing itself is great, but the structure is weak. Wordsmithing is harder to teach (and impossible to edit).
Is your story lacking an engine? Here are a few clues that your story may be struggling with structure and conflict:
- Most of the time, stuff happens to your character that they react to, instead of your character being proactive.
- The story is pleasant, but there's no urgent problem, at least in a significant stretch of pages.
- The stakes aren't high enough. The reader isn't worried for the characters right now.
- The conflict, such as it is, could be resolved with a 2-minute conversation.
- The original conflict is resolved, but we're still here, and any new conflicts we run into are short-lived and/or easily overcome.
Even if you're a "panster" (a writer who goes in blind, without pre-planning), your story needs structure. That could mean going back to add lots of conflict, structure, and plot points in future revisions.
Open your document to any page. Read that page and the one or two that come after. Then ask: Do we care? Is the heat hot enough for my character? Are the stakes high enough (does my character have enough to lose)? Why should your reader keep turning pages?
If you can't answer those questions, beef up that conflict. Study story structure. Revise.
It's work, but it'll be worth it in the end, because you'll be giving a reader a great experience they'll not soon forget . . . rather than a simple, pleasant tale they can set aside and forget to pick back up.
Monday, January 25, 2016
Reading Like a Writer
A popular post from September 2010
by Annette Lyon
by Annette Lyon
We've mentioned it before many times here: writers should read a lot. And they should.
Even inferior stuff.
Awhile ago, I finished some less-than-stellar novels. I pushed myself to finish them, even though I was afraid of losing brain cells in the process, for one big reason: reading bad stuff even to the bitter (sometimes literally) end can be a powerful teaching tool.
Now, I don't recommend finishing every single book you don't like, but finishing some can be worth it purely for the education you get as a result.
By finishing an entire bad book, you get to see poor plots (and how they don't resolve well) firsthand. How to make flat character arcs (you can't tell that from a few chapters). How conflict can fizzle when it's supposed to be ramping up. How dead wood flattens a story. How telling instead of showing weakens the entire effect.
Any time I purposely read bad stuff, I make a point of analyzing it. Why is this bad? Specifically? What could the author have done to fix this part? That one? Why does the voice drive me crazy? Why can't I connect to this character? Why am I bored during what's supposed to be the climax?
If I ask those questions and try to find the answers, then the time I spent on the book isn't wasted. I can apply what I've learned to my work, avoiding problems I might have made if I hadn't seen close-up how this or that doesn't work.
A few gems from some recent reading:
- Make your hero/heroine ACTIVE participants. Having your MC react to everything and not take action is boring.
- On the flip side, don't make your MC act rashly. If you must get them into a dangerous situation, find a way to do it that doesn't make your reader think the character is a total blockhead.
- Assume your reader is at least as smart as your MC. Or smarter. Readers will get it. No need to spell things out. They'll also catch plot holes the size of Alaska. And even ones the size of Rhode Island. Remember, readers are smart.
- Keep the pace clipping along, especially if the story is supposed to be suspenseful. Nothing like your MC spending weeks or months (and wasted paper and words) on, well, nothing.
- BEWARE OF DEAD WOOD.
- Show. Show. Show. No, really. SHOW!
- Make conflicts big enough for the MC. That means not building it up to be something big and then having it resolved in one paragraph like magic.
- Make sure the MC's actions are properly motivated. Just because you need X to happen doesn't mean that readers will buy it when the MC does W to set the wheels in motion. (See the "man, that character is a blockhead" bullet above.)
- After the cool, intense, climactic part hits, don't spend another 80 or more pages wrapping things up and trying to throw in additional minor conflicts for the sake of tying up every little detail.
- Don't belabor points. We got it the first time. And the second. By the ninth time, I'm trying to find a hot poker for my eyes. (Remember that "readers are smart" bit?)
- Make each character unique. They must sound different, not all like versions you.
Anything you've learned from reading crappy stuff lately?
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
How NOT to Begin
by Annette Lyon
Okay, okay, I might not be the best person to discuss the delicate art of beginnings, because I always struggle with where and how to launch my books. Inevitably, I end up writing several beginnings before I land on one I like and that I feel works.
But my trouble is generally deciding which moment of perhaps five possibilities is the right one to begin with.
I do know enough to always, always avoid the following ways of killing your story before it has a chance to get off the ground.
Waking Up
It's morning, the sun streams through the window, and your character wakes up.
BO-RING.
Where's the action? Where's the dialogue, the conflict, the story?
Your story should begin in medias res, "in the middle of things." In other words, in the middle of action and conflict. Showing a character waking up and brushing their hair in the morning is almost as far away from action and conflict as you could get, short of opening with a scene of a sloth sleeping in a tree.
Wait, you say. We'll have action in a dream sequence, and then the character can wake up. That method usually backfires. If you've managed to get your reader engaged in the dream and its conflict, then they'll feel cheated when they find out it wasn't real.
Worse, you're basically creating two beginnings, because once the dream is over, you still have to start the real story.
Flashing Back
You know this one: a character looks out a window, observes a sunset/sunrise, notes the darkening clouds, hears a familiar song, or has some other emotional trigger and is suddenly transported back in time.
Then the reader gets a massive info-dump flashback.
The trouble here is two-fold: First (you guessed it), we're back to having little-to-no action. We're not starting in medias res.
Second, you're not trusting yourself or the reader. Trust yourself enough to know that you can dole the back story well--and in small pieces--later on. Hold off until the main story is set up and on its way. Then and only then drop a line here and there to show back story.
Also, trust that your reader is smart enough to follow the main story without needing every single detail of what happened in your character's life before now.
Tell, Tell, Tell
Those opening sentences are crucial for hooking an agent, editor, or reader. That means you have to get the reader inside the scene, feeling, sensing, and experiencing it right with the character.
Don't be so worried about getting to the exciting parts that you end up telling the scene, skipping over the chance to show what's happening.
Don't tell us that the character is creeped out. Show us with thoughts, emotions, actions, and other details.
Don't use bland adjectives to tell us what the setting is like (it's an old, rundown house). Instead show details that make the setting pop (the house has peeling paint, broken windows, and a sagging porch).
Start too Late
While you do need to begin with action and conflict, sometimes the place to begin isn't with the biggest conflict.
For example, The Wizard of Oz wouldn't be nearly as engaging if we entered the story after Dorothy ended up in Oz. The big problem? We wouldn't care about Dorothy. She's a girl from a house that blew in on a tornado. So what?
We needed to see her struggles and personality back home so that when the crisis arrived, we could empathize with her.
The movie (rightly) begins with a smaller but relevant conflict: Dorothy tries to run away from home with her dog, Toto. That's enough conflict to get the audience engaged long enough for the major conflict to show up. In this case, that big conflict is a foil to the earlier one: now Dorothy wants nothing more than to go home.
You can't expect a reader to sympathize and connect to a character's plight until they've walked a few pages in their shoes. Having a page one where a character burst into tears, screaming how unfair life is pretty meaningless unless the reader has spent enough time with the character to care.
This is surely why Shakespeare included a brief scene with two very minor characters, a mother and son, in his play Macbeth. The mother and son never show up again.
Why did he bother adding the scene? Because we find out later that they are killed. The audience has a bond of sorts with the mother and son, making for a much more heart-wrenching murder than hearing about a nameless, faceless mother and son would be.
Start with action and conflict, but not so late into the story that the reader is spinning and disoriented. And be sure to connect us to your characters before they're thrown into the fire.
Avoiding these pitfalls certainly won't guarantee a great opening (my constant revisions are proof of that), but they will increase your chances of creating a great first chapter that readers won't be able to put down.
Okay, okay, I might not be the best person to discuss the delicate art of beginnings, because I always struggle with where and how to launch my books. Inevitably, I end up writing several beginnings before I land on one I like and that I feel works.
But my trouble is generally deciding which moment of perhaps five possibilities is the right one to begin with.
I do know enough to always, always avoid the following ways of killing your story before it has a chance to get off the ground.
Waking Up
It's morning, the sun streams through the window, and your character wakes up.
BO-RING.
Where's the action? Where's the dialogue, the conflict, the story?
Your story should begin in medias res, "in the middle of things." In other words, in the middle of action and conflict. Showing a character waking up and brushing their hair in the morning is almost as far away from action and conflict as you could get, short of opening with a scene of a sloth sleeping in a tree.
Wait, you say. We'll have action in a dream sequence, and then the character can wake up. That method usually backfires. If you've managed to get your reader engaged in the dream and its conflict, then they'll feel cheated when they find out it wasn't real.
Worse, you're basically creating two beginnings, because once the dream is over, you still have to start the real story.
Flashing Back
You know this one: a character looks out a window, observes a sunset/sunrise, notes the darkening clouds, hears a familiar song, or has some other emotional trigger and is suddenly transported back in time.
Then the reader gets a massive info-dump flashback.
The trouble here is two-fold: First (you guessed it), we're back to having little-to-no action. We're not starting in medias res.
Second, you're not trusting yourself or the reader. Trust yourself enough to know that you can dole the back story well--and in small pieces--later on. Hold off until the main story is set up and on its way. Then and only then drop a line here and there to show back story.
Also, trust that your reader is smart enough to follow the main story without needing every single detail of what happened in your character's life before now.
Tell, Tell, Tell
Those opening sentences are crucial for hooking an agent, editor, or reader. That means you have to get the reader inside the scene, feeling, sensing, and experiencing it right with the character.
Don't be so worried about getting to the exciting parts that you end up telling the scene, skipping over the chance to show what's happening.
Don't tell us that the character is creeped out. Show us with thoughts, emotions, actions, and other details.
Don't use bland adjectives to tell us what the setting is like (it's an old, rundown house). Instead show details that make the setting pop (the house has peeling paint, broken windows, and a sagging porch).
Start too Late
While you do need to begin with action and conflict, sometimes the place to begin isn't with the biggest conflict.
For example, The Wizard of Oz wouldn't be nearly as engaging if we entered the story after Dorothy ended up in Oz. The big problem? We wouldn't care about Dorothy. She's a girl from a house that blew in on a tornado. So what?
We needed to see her struggles and personality back home so that when the crisis arrived, we could empathize with her.
The movie (rightly) begins with a smaller but relevant conflict: Dorothy tries to run away from home with her dog, Toto. That's enough conflict to get the audience engaged long enough for the major conflict to show up. In this case, that big conflict is a foil to the earlier one: now Dorothy wants nothing more than to go home.
You can't expect a reader to sympathize and connect to a character's plight until they've walked a few pages in their shoes. Having a page one where a character burst into tears, screaming how unfair life is pretty meaningless unless the reader has spent enough time with the character to care.
This is surely why Shakespeare included a brief scene with two very minor characters, a mother and son, in his play Macbeth. The mother and son never show up again.
Why did he bother adding the scene? Because we find out later that they are killed. The audience has a bond of sorts with the mother and son, making for a much more heart-wrenching murder than hearing about a nameless, faceless mother and son would be.
Start with action and conflict, but not so late into the story that the reader is spinning and disoriented. And be sure to connect us to your characters before they're thrown into the fire.
Avoiding these pitfalls certainly won't guarantee a great opening (my constant revisions are proof of that), but they will increase your chances of creating a great first chapter that readers won't be able to put down.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Cheating the Reader
by Annette Lyon
Imagine a story that leads, slowly and inevitably, toward the final climactic battle. The tension is building. The stakes are high. The bad guys are on their way.
The battle arrives.
Your protagonist takes a back seat and watches most of it. He's worried and afraid, but not really participating.
That is, until a critical moment, when all might be lost. The hero steps in, knowing he might well die as he acts to save the day.
In the end, the battle is won.
But the reader then learns that the action the hero took was not only unnecessary to the victory, but actually made the winning side worse off and victory harder to come by.
Feel a bit cheated? Thought so.
When you put together a story, you're making a silent contract with your readers. Their obligation is to suspend their disbelief enough to give you a chance to tell a great story.
Your obligation as the writer is to do your best to carry out a story that's satisfying. That doesn't mean every reader will like your work. Hardly. But it does mean that you can't promise to give your readers one thing going in and then deliver something else.
It means that if you're building up to a climactic battle, the battle should be, well, climactic.
It means that your hero or heroine should be in the thick of things, taking part, and not on the sidelines observing and reacting.
It means that if the hero is willing to sacrifice everything, including his very life, his sacrifice needs to make a difference, have some significance to the story.
Now if your story is of the Thomas Hardy variety, your reader will know to expect a dark story with tragedy in it. So if the hero's sacrifice means nothing, that might actually work. But if you've done your part right, your reader will know pretty early on not to expect a Disney ending.
The battle example above is from an actual book that's part of a series, from a book several into the series. The author had made a very clear contract with the reader on what to expect with the previous books.
This ending wasn't what the writer had promised previously. Instead, I, at least, finished the book with a sense of disappointment and unease. Of irritation that I'd been brought through hundreds of pages for this.
The traditional hero story is one where the hero prevails, makes a difference, grows, and returns triumphant. If you're going to break those expectations, that's fine. Just be sure your readers know that going in.
For example, if you're calling your book a romance, then the hero and heroine must get together in the end. (If they don't get together, again, that's fine. That's a legitimate storyline. But you shouldn't call it a romance.)
If you're calling your novel a mystery, then the murderer better be revealed before the last page. (If the detective ends up being the last victim and the reader closes the cover without knowing his identity, you haven't written a mystery.)
As Chekov reportedly said, if you show a gun on the mantel in Act I, it had better go off before the end of Act III.
Don't want anyone getting shot? Don't put the gun on the mantel.
Don't build up to a big fight if you're going to let it fizzle out before it gets started. Don't have your hero observe the climax; make him participate. Don't set up a huge issue that your hero will face . . . but then have it turn out to be nothing after all.
Know what you're promising your readers and don't cheat them.
You want them buying your next book, not throwing this one against the wall in frustration.
Imagine a story that leads, slowly and inevitably, toward the final climactic battle. The tension is building. The stakes are high. The bad guys are on their way.
The battle arrives.
Your protagonist takes a back seat and watches most of it. He's worried and afraid, but not really participating.
That is, until a critical moment, when all might be lost. The hero steps in, knowing he might well die as he acts to save the day.
In the end, the battle is won.
But the reader then learns that the action the hero took was not only unnecessary to the victory, but actually made the winning side worse off and victory harder to come by.
Feel a bit cheated? Thought so.
When you put together a story, you're making a silent contract with your readers. Their obligation is to suspend their disbelief enough to give you a chance to tell a great story.
Your obligation as the writer is to do your best to carry out a story that's satisfying. That doesn't mean every reader will like your work. Hardly. But it does mean that you can't promise to give your readers one thing going in and then deliver something else.
It means that if you're building up to a climactic battle, the battle should be, well, climactic.
It means that your hero or heroine should be in the thick of things, taking part, and not on the sidelines observing and reacting.
It means that if the hero is willing to sacrifice everything, including his very life, his sacrifice needs to make a difference, have some significance to the story.
Now if your story is of the Thomas Hardy variety, your reader will know to expect a dark story with tragedy in it. So if the hero's sacrifice means nothing, that might actually work. But if you've done your part right, your reader will know pretty early on not to expect a Disney ending.
The battle example above is from an actual book that's part of a series, from a book several into the series. The author had made a very clear contract with the reader on what to expect with the previous books.
This ending wasn't what the writer had promised previously. Instead, I, at least, finished the book with a sense of disappointment and unease. Of irritation that I'd been brought through hundreds of pages for this.
The traditional hero story is one where the hero prevails, makes a difference, grows, and returns triumphant. If you're going to break those expectations, that's fine. Just be sure your readers know that going in.
For example, if you're calling your book a romance, then the hero and heroine must get together in the end. (If they don't get together, again, that's fine. That's a legitimate storyline. But you shouldn't call it a romance.)
If you're calling your novel a mystery, then the murderer better be revealed before the last page. (If the detective ends up being the last victim and the reader closes the cover without knowing his identity, you haven't written a mystery.)
As Chekov reportedly said, if you show a gun on the mantel in Act I, it had better go off before the end of Act III.
Don't want anyone getting shot? Don't put the gun on the mantel.
Don't build up to a big fight if you're going to let it fizzle out before it gets started. Don't have your hero observe the climax; make him participate. Don't set up a huge issue that your hero will face . . . but then have it turn out to be nothing after all.
Know what you're promising your readers and don't cheat them.
You want them buying your next book, not throwing this one against the wall in frustration.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Blowing it up; How Not to End Your Story
By Josi S. Kilpack
Over the years I've done several elementary school visits where I talk to the kids about writing. During these visits I have the class help me write a story. I start with characters, since no matter the plot, every story is about somebody who grows through the course of the story. We then move onto plot, since every story is about something that happens to that somebody, then causing the growth that is so essential. Once we have those two main points in place, we add the antagonist, the person that makes things hard for our main character, which leads to conflicts; ways in which the antagonist gets in the way of our main character getting what they want. Seeing as how I'm doing this with eight year olds, our stories usually go like this:
Kyra enters a jump rope competition that she wins every year. The new girl in school, Sasha, won the competition in her old school every year. Sasha cuts Kyra's jump rope, Sasha is better than Kyra, Sasha spreads mean rumors about Kyra to the school hoping Kyra will skip the competition. Kyra, however has grown through these challenges and she shows up to the competition despite everything Sasha has done to thwart her.
At this point we face the climax--critical mass for the story. What happens next? The climax needs to be intense and important and a worthy challenge for Kyra to overcome.
This is where the bombs come in.
Why bombs? Because the fact is that any story can end with an explosion that simply makes everything disappear--albeit dramatically. Take Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth doesn't need to admit she's in love with Mr. Darcy and has let her pride blind her for all this time. She doesn't need to suffer the embarrassment of her sister's marriage--everyone in the book can just blow up due to some cosmic thing that won't be figured out for another hundred years. Harry Potter--same thing. He doesn't have to fight Voldemort, he doesn't have to save the world from evil, they can all just explode via a spell gone horribly wrong. And Kyra doesn't have to face her nemesis at the jump rope competition, the boiler room can simply explode beneath the gym floor, obliterating all sign of character, plot, and conflict. Over. Done. The End.
Of course, none of us would read books if they all ended this way, but the point is they CAN end this way. It provides climax and conclusion in one felled swoop. However, it's rarely the right way to do it. The reason I use this example at my school visit is first, because all the boys that stopped paying attention when we mentioned jump rope, are now paying attention again, and second, because all writer's need the challenge to come up with something better--something satisfying, something fair, something more creative than explosives that fits their story, shows the character growth and allows the reader to put down the book without screaming obscenities at it.
While climax-conclusion is a very basic lesson in writing, as writers we too face dark days of our own that have nothing to do with elements of fiction. We are the main character in our story, the plot is laid out behind us more often than before us and we look back and marvel at how long it's taken to get here and the conflicts we've overcome.
And then we face a dark day. A day we thought was behind us, a day we didn't expect.
Your dark day might be a rejection, it might be a family member's snide remark about us choosing our writing over our children, it might be a negative review, a royalty check we expected to receive but didn't get because we had too many returns, it might be the story we just can't figure out an ending too. Wherever we are in our writing, there are dark days ahead and it's these days when we start thinking of the ultimate climactic conclusion to our writing days--a figurative explosion which is actually the opposite, an implosion of all we've worked for; where we throw our hands in the air and give up. This is especially tempting when the dark days have compiled. It's not just a rejection, it's the FIFTEENTH rejection. It's not just a snide comment, it's the NEXT snide comment after years of them. It's the SECOND bad review this week, and it was a royalty check we really needed because our book expense account is in the red.
It's hard to see the silver lining when the clouds get this thick and we find ourselves wondering what else we could do with our time, our talents, our passions; certainly we could redirect them to something else--something that would surely be more enjoyable than this.
This is the point that 80% of would-be-published-authors implode. They've had too many dark days and they can't see their way through anymore. They don't WANT this in their life anymore. And this isn't necessarily the wrong choice--for them. The question you have to ask yourself when you're the one facing the darkness, is it the right choice for you?
I will submit that there is not a single writer anywhere that does not consider the implosion on numerous occasions. I would submit that most published authors have faced weeks worth of bad weather, hoping and praying for sunshine without knowing if they'll see it again. I would submit that the fact you are facing dark days is similar to the conflicts you give to your characters. Will you press forward and be stronger for it in the end? Will you learn something here that will make the future easier to handle? Will you look for the joy of your writing even if it means digging in the dirt until your fingers bleed?
Each time I face a new dark day I have to go through this all over again--is it worth it? Do I want it? Can I keep going? So far, I can, but I know many people that are better writers than I am that finally determined they couldn't. I would like to offer an flashlight to anyone that feels suffocated by the darkness. If you've ever read by flashlight you know that it only illuminates a few words at a time, and you have to keep moving it as you go. If it all feels too big, if you're overwhelmed, and undernourished and questioning your efforts, just look at a few words at a time, and keep moving. Better days are ahead, imploding is not the only solution, and if writing is truly a part of who you are you won't be whole without it.
No matter the story, it's about somebody who grows through the course of the story. Be the hero in your own book and conquer.
Over the years I've done several elementary school visits where I talk to the kids about writing. During these visits I have the class help me write a story. I start with characters, since no matter the plot, every story is about somebody who grows through the course of the story. We then move onto plot, since every story is about something that happens to that somebody, then causing the growth that is so essential. Once we have those two main points in place, we add the antagonist, the person that makes things hard for our main character, which leads to conflicts; ways in which the antagonist gets in the way of our main character getting what they want. Seeing as how I'm doing this with eight year olds, our stories usually go like this:
Kyra enters a jump rope competition that she wins every year. The new girl in school, Sasha, won the competition in her old school every year. Sasha cuts Kyra's jump rope, Sasha is better than Kyra, Sasha spreads mean rumors about Kyra to the school hoping Kyra will skip the competition. Kyra, however has grown through these challenges and she shows up to the competition despite everything Sasha has done to thwart her.
At this point we face the climax--critical mass for the story. What happens next? The climax needs to be intense and important and a worthy challenge for Kyra to overcome.
This is where the bombs come in.
Why bombs? Because the fact is that any story can end with an explosion that simply makes everything disappear--albeit dramatically. Take Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth doesn't need to admit she's in love with Mr. Darcy and has let her pride blind her for all this time. She doesn't need to suffer the embarrassment of her sister's marriage--everyone in the book can just blow up due to some cosmic thing that won't be figured out for another hundred years. Harry Potter--same thing. He doesn't have to fight Voldemort, he doesn't have to save the world from evil, they can all just explode via a spell gone horribly wrong. And Kyra doesn't have to face her nemesis at the jump rope competition, the boiler room can simply explode beneath the gym floor, obliterating all sign of character, plot, and conflict. Over. Done. The End.
Of course, none of us would read books if they all ended this way, but the point is they CAN end this way. It provides climax and conclusion in one felled swoop. However, it's rarely the right way to do it. The reason I use this example at my school visit is first, because all the boys that stopped paying attention when we mentioned jump rope, are now paying attention again, and second, because all writer's need the challenge to come up with something better--something satisfying, something fair, something more creative than explosives that fits their story, shows the character growth and allows the reader to put down the book without screaming obscenities at it.
While climax-conclusion is a very basic lesson in writing, as writers we too face dark days of our own that have nothing to do with elements of fiction. We are the main character in our story, the plot is laid out behind us more often than before us and we look back and marvel at how long it's taken to get here and the conflicts we've overcome.
And then we face a dark day. A day we thought was behind us, a day we didn't expect.
Your dark day might be a rejection, it might be a family member's snide remark about us choosing our writing over our children, it might be a negative review, a royalty check we expected to receive but didn't get because we had too many returns, it might be the story we just can't figure out an ending too. Wherever we are in our writing, there are dark days ahead and it's these days when we start thinking of the ultimate climactic conclusion to our writing days--a figurative explosion which is actually the opposite, an implosion of all we've worked for; where we throw our hands in the air and give up. This is especially tempting when the dark days have compiled. It's not just a rejection, it's the FIFTEENTH rejection. It's not just a snide comment, it's the NEXT snide comment after years of them. It's the SECOND bad review this week, and it was a royalty check we really needed because our book expense account is in the red.
It's hard to see the silver lining when the clouds get this thick and we find ourselves wondering what else we could do with our time, our talents, our passions; certainly we could redirect them to something else--something that would surely be more enjoyable than this.
This is the point that 80% of would-be-published-authors implode. They've had too many dark days and they can't see their way through anymore. They don't WANT this in their life anymore. And this isn't necessarily the wrong choice--for them. The question you have to ask yourself when you're the one facing the darkness, is it the right choice for you?
I will submit that there is not a single writer anywhere that does not consider the implosion on numerous occasions. I would submit that most published authors have faced weeks worth of bad weather, hoping and praying for sunshine without knowing if they'll see it again. I would submit that the fact you are facing dark days is similar to the conflicts you give to your characters. Will you press forward and be stronger for it in the end? Will you learn something here that will make the future easier to handle? Will you look for the joy of your writing even if it means digging in the dirt until your fingers bleed?
Each time I face a new dark day I have to go through this all over again--is it worth it? Do I want it? Can I keep going? So far, I can, but I know many people that are better writers than I am that finally determined they couldn't. I would like to offer an flashlight to anyone that feels suffocated by the darkness. If you've ever read by flashlight you know that it only illuminates a few words at a time, and you have to keep moving it as you go. If it all feels too big, if you're overwhelmed, and undernourished and questioning your efforts, just look at a few words at a time, and keep moving. Better days are ahead, imploding is not the only solution, and if writing is truly a part of who you are you won't be whole without it.
No matter the story, it's about somebody who grows through the course of the story. Be the hero in your own book and conquer.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
3 Point of View Pitfalls
by Annette Lyon
I recently pulled out an ancient manuscript of mine and read through the first few pages. At first I was pleasantly surprised; the writing and dialogue weren't too bad. I still thought the language was fresh and fun.
One big problem, though: the point of view was nonexistent.
While some of my favorite authors, like L M Montgomery and Charles Dickens, could get away with either not having a point of view or using an omniscient point of view (where the narrator can see into everyone's head--and DOES, at any point), that method is far less likely to get your work into print today.
Readers and editors expect a clear point of view. Who's head are we in? Whatever is seen, thought, heard, felt, experienced, and (most importantly) interpreted, is through one person's eyes in that particular scene. You can have a few points of view in a novel, although more than 3-5 can get cumbersome.
Below are three pitfalls to avoid so your readers aren't getting dizzy trying to keep it all straight.
Pitfall #1: Hopping heads
As I said, you can have more than one point of view per book. Just don't hop between them willynilly. Don't switch even in the course of a scene. And absolutely never do what an author I recently read did by switching points of view at paragraph breaks--at nearly every paragraph break. It was hard to connect with the characters' thoughts and reactions when every few lines we're seeing the story through a different lens. The experience was flat at best and jarring at worst.
Pitfall #2: The Boring POV
Don't pick a random POV for each scene, showing the story from one person's head just because they happen to be there. Maybe another key person in the scene would provide a different--better--angle for the story.
Think about who has the most to lose. Often that's the right POV to pick. Maybe there's someone who has the possibility for misinterpretation of what's happening. Pick that POV. Who will react the strongest to the conflict in this scene? Latch onto that. Whichever POV you pick should help the scene be the most effective dramatically.
Pitfall #3: The POV Intrusion
This particular pitfall is so easy to fall into and not even realize it. The POV Intrusion is when the author is being so careful to stay inside one person's head that they get a little too carried away with pointing it out.
If we're in Sally's POV and she's waiting at a crosswalk, we don't need to be told that she sees a red car drive by. If the red car drives by (and we're in her POV), we can easily assume that she saw it. Same goes with all the other senses. Don't tell us that she heard the car's engine or noticed the cloud of exhaust. Just describe the sound of the engine, the smell of the exhaust.
This may sound like a little thing, but it's not: Every time you use a POV Intrusion, you're throwing up a flag to your reader that says, "POV Alert! Did you see it?" That pulls the reader out of the story.
Worse, it makes your reader less connected to your character. If Sally sees or notices something, the reader doesn't. It effectively keeps your reader one step away from the vicarious experience you're trying to create.
On the flip side, if you describe Sally's experience without the POV intrusion, the reader will feel it too, almost as if it's happening to them. In short, you've shown instead of told.
Point of view can be tricky, but it's a skill that's worth learning, especially if it gets your readers so entrenched in your story that they forget they aren't your characters.
I recently pulled out an ancient manuscript of mine and read through the first few pages. At first I was pleasantly surprised; the writing and dialogue weren't too bad. I still thought the language was fresh and fun.
One big problem, though: the point of view was nonexistent.
While some of my favorite authors, like L M Montgomery and Charles Dickens, could get away with either not having a point of view or using an omniscient point of view (where the narrator can see into everyone's head--and DOES, at any point), that method is far less likely to get your work into print today.
Readers and editors expect a clear point of view. Who's head are we in? Whatever is seen, thought, heard, felt, experienced, and (most importantly) interpreted, is through one person's eyes in that particular scene. You can have a few points of view in a novel, although more than 3-5 can get cumbersome.
Below are three pitfalls to avoid so your readers aren't getting dizzy trying to keep it all straight.
Pitfall #1: Hopping heads
As I said, you can have more than one point of view per book. Just don't hop between them willynilly. Don't switch even in the course of a scene. And absolutely never do what an author I recently read did by switching points of view at paragraph breaks--at nearly every paragraph break. It was hard to connect with the characters' thoughts and reactions when every few lines we're seeing the story through a different lens. The experience was flat at best and jarring at worst.
Pitfall #2: The Boring POV
Don't pick a random POV for each scene, showing the story from one person's head just because they happen to be there. Maybe another key person in the scene would provide a different--better--angle for the story.
Think about who has the most to lose. Often that's the right POV to pick. Maybe there's someone who has the possibility for misinterpretation of what's happening. Pick that POV. Who will react the strongest to the conflict in this scene? Latch onto that. Whichever POV you pick should help the scene be the most effective dramatically.
Pitfall #3: The POV Intrusion
This particular pitfall is so easy to fall into and not even realize it. The POV Intrusion is when the author is being so careful to stay inside one person's head that they get a little too carried away with pointing it out.
If we're in Sally's POV and she's waiting at a crosswalk, we don't need to be told that she sees a red car drive by. If the red car drives by (and we're in her POV), we can easily assume that she saw it. Same goes with all the other senses. Don't tell us that she heard the car's engine or noticed the cloud of exhaust. Just describe the sound of the engine, the smell of the exhaust.
This may sound like a little thing, but it's not: Every time you use a POV Intrusion, you're throwing up a flag to your reader that says, "POV Alert! Did you see it?" That pulls the reader out of the story.
Worse, it makes your reader less connected to your character. If Sally sees or notices something, the reader doesn't. It effectively keeps your reader one step away from the vicarious experience you're trying to create.
On the flip side, if you describe Sally's experience without the POV intrusion, the reader will feel it too, almost as if it's happening to them. In short, you've shown instead of told.
Point of view can be tricky, but it's a skill that's worth learning, especially if it gets your readers so entrenched in your story that they forget they aren't your characters.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Fortunately, Unfortunately
by Annette Lyon
I want to hug my daughter's third-grade teacher. She has come up with a fabulous way of helping students draft stories with great conflict, stories that have several steps and aren't simply a recounting of summer vacation.
At a recent parent-teacher conference, I got to read my daughter's latest story, written using the concept Mrs. P. had taught, which she in turn got from a book (which I'm admitting right now I haven't read) called Fortunately, by Remy Charlip.
Each line of the book begins with either "fortunately" or "unfortunately."
I'll quote a bit from my daughter's story (with her permission) so you see how it works. She began what happened after Ned from the original story got to the party he had been invited to:
Unfortunately, tigers burst into the party.
Fortunately, everyone ran out of the room safely.
Unfortunately, he got lost.
Fortunately, he found a plane.
Unfortunately, there was no pilot.
Fortunately, he knew how to drive a plane.
Unfortunately, he fell asleep.
Fortunately, there was another person on the plane.
Unfortunately, he could not drive it.
Fortunately, the boy woke up.
Unfortunately, they crashed.
Fortunately, the plane landed in a flower bed.
Unfortunately, there were bees in the flower bed.
Fortunately, the bees went after someone else.
Unfortunately, they were just getting more bees.
Fortunately, the boy could run faster than the bees could fly.
Unfortunately, he smashed into a door.
Fortunately, it was his house and he got in safely.
See how this works? Something good happens, and then something messes that up, which propels the character into the next situation. The reader thinks it's a good time to take a breath, that everything will work out. But of course it doesn't. Not until the very end.
While I don't recommend beginning every scene of your book with "fortunately" or "unfortunately," the amazing thing here is that this is pretty much how your book should work, too, just on a slightly more complex level.
One situation should lead causally to the next one, which leads to the next.
Good things happen, but then they get messed up, leading to the next thing.
If your story doesn't have enough "unfortunately" moments, it's going to be dry and slow-paced.
Take a look at your plot and see if you can't shake it up by going between the highs and lows that we learned from good old Ned and Mrs. P.
I want to hug my daughter's third-grade teacher. She has come up with a fabulous way of helping students draft stories with great conflict, stories that have several steps and aren't simply a recounting of summer vacation.
At a recent parent-teacher conference, I got to read my daughter's latest story, written using the concept Mrs. P. had taught, which she in turn got from a book (which I'm admitting right now I haven't read) called Fortunately, by Remy Charlip.
Each line of the book begins with either "fortunately" or "unfortunately."
I'll quote a bit from my daughter's story (with her permission) so you see how it works. She began what happened after Ned from the original story got to the party he had been invited to:
Unfortunately, tigers burst into the party.
Fortunately, everyone ran out of the room safely.
Unfortunately, he got lost.
Fortunately, he found a plane.
Unfortunately, there was no pilot.
Fortunately, he knew how to drive a plane.
Unfortunately, he fell asleep.
Fortunately, there was another person on the plane.
Unfortunately, he could not drive it.
Fortunately, the boy woke up.
Unfortunately, they crashed.
Fortunately, the plane landed in a flower bed.
Unfortunately, there were bees in the flower bed.
Fortunately, the bees went after someone else.
Unfortunately, they were just getting more bees.
Fortunately, the boy could run faster than the bees could fly.
Unfortunately, he smashed into a door.
Fortunately, it was his house and he got in safely.
See how this works? Something good happens, and then something messes that up, which propels the character into the next situation. The reader thinks it's a good time to take a breath, that everything will work out. But of course it doesn't. Not until the very end.
While I don't recommend beginning every scene of your book with "fortunately" or "unfortunately," the amazing thing here is that this is pretty much how your book should work, too, just on a slightly more complex level.
One situation should lead causally to the next one, which leads to the next.
Good things happen, but then they get messed up, leading to the next thing.
If your story doesn't have enough "unfortunately" moments, it's going to be dry and slow-paced.
Take a look at your plot and see if you can't shake it up by going between the highs and lows that we learned from good old Ned and Mrs. P.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Characters as Archetypes
by Annette Lyon
All stories have a structure that is reflected throughout time and cultures. Whether you're a believer in Jung's philosophy about a "collective unconscious" that we draw from or not, the fact remains that from Homer to Grisham, from China to Italy, certain elements get repeated over and over again. For example, it's amazing to see how many versions of what we call "Cinderella" exist in the world, many of which were created independently of the others.
I'm currently reading The Writer's Journey by Christopher Vogler (2nd edition). It's out of print now, but if you can get your hands on one, I recommend it. This relatively small book has become a bible of sorts among the filmmakers in Hollywood and novel writers as well. Vogler takes the work of many others who have analyzed the structure of story and myth and put it all together in one place. It's given me lots of food for thought, and I'll likely discuss elements from the book here many times in the future.
Today, however, I thought I'd list and define some of the common archetypes found in literature. Not every story has to have them all. Some characters can assume more than one archetype, depending on their story "job" at the moment (Vogler calls these temporary archetypes "masks" that a character puts on).
HERO
Male or female, this is your main character, the person whose life is shaken up and changed at the beginning of the story and who must put things right. Vogler states that, "The most effective Heroes are those who experience sacrifice" whether it's a loved one, an item, a treasure, or a personality trait. Heroes often come full circle, ending where they began (think The Hobbit). Other times they'll stay in the "new world" they were thrust into with the story (Disney's Aladdin). Or they'll come back to the old world, only to discover it no longer exists, at least for them. By and large, the Hero teaches us how to deal with death in some form or another. The "old" and "new" worlds could be literal in a fantasy novel, or figurative in the sense of someone leaving home or even leaving their comfort zone and having difficulties to surmount that they've never faced before.
MENTOR
This person gives something to the Hero that will be useful or protective later, such as wisdom/advice (ala Jiminy Crickit), a helpful object (the Marauder's Map), or a skill (using a light saber blindfolded). Mentors are often old men or women, but any character can wear the Mentor's mask. Sometimes it's the Mentor that gives the Hero the kick out the door to get the story moving.
THRESHOLD GUARDIAN
These characters block the Hero's way, but generally aren't the primary antagonist or villain. Often they are the villain's underlings, but they can also be a friend who disagrees with the Hero's quest and tries to stop them. The Hero must find a way around the Threshold Guardian, whether through attack, bribery, winning the Guardian over as an Ally, or something else. These characters essentially TEST the Hero, make them worthy of continuing the quest. How much does the Hero really want this?
HERALD
Generally showing up in the first act of the story, the Herald is the one who brings the news that will disrupt the story and create change. Sometimes the Herald isn't a person, but rather a letter or other event. Regardless, after the Herald's appearance, life will never again be the same. One of Vogler's examples is in Romancing the Stone when Joan Wilder receives the treasure map in the mail, followed by a frantic call from her sister who is being held hostage in Columbia.
SHAPESHIFTER
Like the name suggests, this is a character who is inconstant and changing, at least from the Hero's perspective. A Shapeshifter can change loyalties or be revealed as having been in disguise the entire time (think Cary Grant in Charade; you don't know until the end who he really is: a good guy? A bad guy? Hmmm.) Often, but not always, Shapeshifters are of the opposite gender as the Hero, and therefore they're often the love interest as well (which makes some sense--since when did either gender fully understand the other?). In some cases, an opposite-gender Shapeshifter can turn out to be evil (think Fatal Attraction).
SHADOW
In short, the Hero's Villains, Antagonists, and Enemies. Note that an Antagonist isn't necessary a bad person. It could be a close friend or family member. In the Harry Potter books, Professor McGonnogal is, at times, an Antagonist to Harry, preventing him from doing what he wants to do. Vogler uses a great analogy to explain the difference between a Villain and an Antagonist: A Hero and a Villain are like two freight trains heading for one another. A Hero and an Antagonist are like two horses pulling the same wagon but trying to go opposite directions. A strong Shadow can provide a great story. (What would Star Wars be without Darth Vader?)
TRICKSTER
This person provides impetus for change as well as comic relief. Tricksters make the audience laugh at themselves and can cut the villain's ego down to size. They often act as the Hero's sidekick. According to Vogler, many cartoon characters are tricksters, including Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, and the Roadrunner.
Again, these roles are all very fluid. You can have a Trickster Hero, or a Shapeshifter Shadow, or a Herald who also happens to be a Mentor. Other archetypal characters exist as well, but these are the most common. Don't worry about becoming formulaic as you use them. There are countless ways of combining roles and creating new ways of using them. In a sense, instead of a firm recipe for a story, they're rather a great list of categories for the ingredients you can draw from to create a great dish.
All stories have a structure that is reflected throughout time and cultures. Whether you're a believer in Jung's philosophy about a "collective unconscious" that we draw from or not, the fact remains that from Homer to Grisham, from China to Italy, certain elements get repeated over and over again. For example, it's amazing to see how many versions of what we call "Cinderella" exist in the world, many of which were created independently of the others.
I'm currently reading The Writer's Journey by Christopher Vogler (2nd edition). It's out of print now, but if you can get your hands on one, I recommend it. This relatively small book has become a bible of sorts among the filmmakers in Hollywood and novel writers as well. Vogler takes the work of many others who have analyzed the structure of story and myth and put it all together in one place. It's given me lots of food for thought, and I'll likely discuss elements from the book here many times in the future.
Today, however, I thought I'd list and define some of the common archetypes found in literature. Not every story has to have them all. Some characters can assume more than one archetype, depending on their story "job" at the moment (Vogler calls these temporary archetypes "masks" that a character puts on).
HERO
Male or female, this is your main character, the person whose life is shaken up and changed at the beginning of the story and who must put things right. Vogler states that, "The most effective Heroes are those who experience sacrifice" whether it's a loved one, an item, a treasure, or a personality trait. Heroes often come full circle, ending where they began (think The Hobbit). Other times they'll stay in the "new world" they were thrust into with the story (Disney's Aladdin). Or they'll come back to the old world, only to discover it no longer exists, at least for them. By and large, the Hero teaches us how to deal with death in some form or another. The "old" and "new" worlds could be literal in a fantasy novel, or figurative in the sense of someone leaving home or even leaving their comfort zone and having difficulties to surmount that they've never faced before.
MENTOR
This person gives something to the Hero that will be useful or protective later, such as wisdom/advice (ala Jiminy Crickit), a helpful object (the Marauder's Map), or a skill (using a light saber blindfolded). Mentors are often old men or women, but any character can wear the Mentor's mask. Sometimes it's the Mentor that gives the Hero the kick out the door to get the story moving.
THRESHOLD GUARDIAN
These characters block the Hero's way, but generally aren't the primary antagonist or villain. Often they are the villain's underlings, but they can also be a friend who disagrees with the Hero's quest and tries to stop them. The Hero must find a way around the Threshold Guardian, whether through attack, bribery, winning the Guardian over as an Ally, or something else. These characters essentially TEST the Hero, make them worthy of continuing the quest. How much does the Hero really want this?
HERALD
Generally showing up in the first act of the story, the Herald is the one who brings the news that will disrupt the story and create change. Sometimes the Herald isn't a person, but rather a letter or other event. Regardless, after the Herald's appearance, life will never again be the same. One of Vogler's examples is in Romancing the Stone when Joan Wilder receives the treasure map in the mail, followed by a frantic call from her sister who is being held hostage in Columbia.
SHAPESHIFTER
Like the name suggests, this is a character who is inconstant and changing, at least from the Hero's perspective. A Shapeshifter can change loyalties or be revealed as having been in disguise the entire time (think Cary Grant in Charade; you don't know until the end who he really is: a good guy? A bad guy? Hmmm.) Often, but not always, Shapeshifters are of the opposite gender as the Hero, and therefore they're often the love interest as well (which makes some sense--since when did either gender fully understand the other?). In some cases, an opposite-gender Shapeshifter can turn out to be evil (think Fatal Attraction).
SHADOW
In short, the Hero's Villains, Antagonists, and Enemies. Note that an Antagonist isn't necessary a bad person. It could be a close friend or family member. In the Harry Potter books, Professor McGonnogal is, at times, an Antagonist to Harry, preventing him from doing what he wants to do. Vogler uses a great analogy to explain the difference between a Villain and an Antagonist: A Hero and a Villain are like two freight trains heading for one another. A Hero and an Antagonist are like two horses pulling the same wagon but trying to go opposite directions. A strong Shadow can provide a great story. (What would Star Wars be without Darth Vader?)
TRICKSTER
This person provides impetus for change as well as comic relief. Tricksters make the audience laugh at themselves and can cut the villain's ego down to size. They often act as the Hero's sidekick. According to Vogler, many cartoon characters are tricksters, including Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, and the Roadrunner.
Again, these roles are all very fluid. You can have a Trickster Hero, or a Shapeshifter Shadow, or a Herald who also happens to be a Mentor. Other archetypal characters exist as well, but these are the most common. Don't worry about becoming formulaic as you use them. There are countless ways of combining roles and creating new ways of using them. In a sense, instead of a firm recipe for a story, they're rather a great list of categories for the ingredients you can draw from to create a great dish.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Weaving Fiction from History
by Annette Lyon
Some of the most beloved novels of all time are historical fiction, written well after the period described in them. Think Gone with the Wind, A Tale of Two Cities, and Les Miserables.
These books (and many others) have much in common, including the fact that when you read them, it feels like they were written during the time they were set. The time period is accurate and real.
How did Margaret Mitchell, Charles Dickens, and Victor Hugo do it?
A Dynamic Time Period
They didn't write about any day in any year. They wrote about a time in which there was turmoil and conflict (great building blocks for a story!). Those time periods are also ones in which readers can readily identify. Saying "1860" is far more generic to a reader than "The U.S. Civil War." Immediately we have an image in mind, complete with inherent conflicts, a setting, and much more.
Research
These authors most certainly read up on the time period they were writing about. I don't know if it's true, but rumor has it that Dickens read a couple of hundred books on the French Revolution for A Tale of Two Cities. While I don't think you need to go that far in your research, read and dig around enough to know what you're talking about and be able to present the era in a way that's believable and real.
Story over Research
If there's one key to writing great historical fiction, this is it.
Keep your knowledge of the period in check. Yes, Dickens and the others knew boatloads about the Civil War or war-torn France, but they didn't flout it. They used whatever bits and pieces helped bring the STORY alive.
And that's the key right there. Story must take precedence over research. A chain of facts does not make a plot.
It's tempting to cram into your book as many of the details, facts, and figures you've learned. Or at the very least, cram more than you should. Chances are that less than 10% of what you research will end up in the book. But it's that 90% or so that you can draw on that allows you to create a rich environment for your characters to play out their stories in.
Beware the danger of making your story into a giant history lesson. Remember at all costs that the historical details are NOT the story, that they are there solely to ENHANCE the story. Yes, they may play a big part of the story and provide many of the conflicts. (But now we're back to the history being there for a reason: creating a rip-roaring story, not for setting the scene.)
I like to think of the time period as the hanger on which the story is draped. It's definitely there. It makes a big difference in how the story and characters work. But it's NOT the story in and of itself. In some respects, Gone with the Wind could have been written about several different wars, because it's the characters who create the story, not the war itself per se. (Remember how Goodnight Saigon, based in Vietnam, is a retelling of Madame Butterfly? MB certainly wasn't written during the 60s, but the underlying story is timeless.)
Any time you find yourself throwing in facts for the sake of telling more than your reader needs to know, pull back. Don't over explain elements from the past; it doesn't sound natural. If you use terms that might be unfamiliar to modern readers, find a natural way to work an explanation into the text.
For example, I had a reader for my upcoming historical novel indicate that he/she didn't know what a tick was and that I should explain. It would have been ridiculous for me to stop the scene and go on about how before mattresses, people filled large fabric "pillowcase" type things with straw, and they slept on those, and that's what a tick was. That would have been an intrusion to the narrative.
Having my characters stop and talk about it would have felt equally false. Why on earth would one of my two female characters describe a tick when they both know full well what it is? People don't chat over things they already know about. (It's what I call the, "As you know, Bob" mistake in dialogue.)
Instead, I simply had a character refer to the person who would be sleeping on the guest tick and that they'd need to get it filled with straw before she arrived. Natural conversation, but the information that the reader needs to know gets across.
Historical writing can be rewarding and exciting. Just don't let the history get in the way!
Some of the most beloved novels of all time are historical fiction, written well after the period described in them. Think Gone with the Wind, A Tale of Two Cities, and Les Miserables.
These books (and many others) have much in common, including the fact that when you read them, it feels like they were written during the time they were set. The time period is accurate and real.
How did Margaret Mitchell, Charles Dickens, and Victor Hugo do it?
A Dynamic Time Period
They didn't write about any day in any year. They wrote about a time in which there was turmoil and conflict (great building blocks for a story!). Those time periods are also ones in which readers can readily identify. Saying "1860" is far more generic to a reader than "The U.S. Civil War." Immediately we have an image in mind, complete with inherent conflicts, a setting, and much more.
Research
These authors most certainly read up on the time period they were writing about. I don't know if it's true, but rumor has it that Dickens read a couple of hundred books on the French Revolution for A Tale of Two Cities. While I don't think you need to go that far in your research, read and dig around enough to know what you're talking about and be able to present the era in a way that's believable and real.
Story over Research
If there's one key to writing great historical fiction, this is it.
Keep your knowledge of the period in check. Yes, Dickens and the others knew boatloads about the Civil War or war-torn France, but they didn't flout it. They used whatever bits and pieces helped bring the STORY alive.
And that's the key right there. Story must take precedence over research. A chain of facts does not make a plot.
It's tempting to cram into your book as many of the details, facts, and figures you've learned. Or at the very least, cram more than you should. Chances are that less than 10% of what you research will end up in the book. But it's that 90% or so that you can draw on that allows you to create a rich environment for your characters to play out their stories in.
Beware the danger of making your story into a giant history lesson. Remember at all costs that the historical details are NOT the story, that they are there solely to ENHANCE the story. Yes, they may play a big part of the story and provide many of the conflicts. (But now we're back to the history being there for a reason: creating a rip-roaring story, not for setting the scene.)
I like to think of the time period as the hanger on which the story is draped. It's definitely there. It makes a big difference in how the story and characters work. But it's NOT the story in and of itself. In some respects, Gone with the Wind could have been written about several different wars, because it's the characters who create the story, not the war itself per se. (Remember how Goodnight Saigon, based in Vietnam, is a retelling of Madame Butterfly? MB certainly wasn't written during the 60s, but the underlying story is timeless.)
Any time you find yourself throwing in facts for the sake of telling more than your reader needs to know, pull back. Don't over explain elements from the past; it doesn't sound natural. If you use terms that might be unfamiliar to modern readers, find a natural way to work an explanation into the text.
For example, I had a reader for my upcoming historical novel indicate that he/she didn't know what a tick was and that I should explain. It would have been ridiculous for me to stop the scene and go on about how before mattresses, people filled large fabric "pillowcase" type things with straw, and they slept on those, and that's what a tick was. That would have been an intrusion to the narrative.
Having my characters stop and talk about it would have felt equally false. Why on earth would one of my two female characters describe a tick when they both know full well what it is? People don't chat over things they already know about. (It's what I call the, "As you know, Bob" mistake in dialogue.)
Instead, I simply had a character refer to the person who would be sleeping on the guest tick and that they'd need to get it filled with straw before she arrived. Natural conversation, but the information that the reader needs to know gets across.
Historical writing can be rewarding and exciting. Just don't let the history get in the way!
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Fiction vs. Reality
by Annette Lyon
There's a reason Tom Clancy said, "The difference between fiction and reality? Fiction has to make sense."
No kidding. I've heard many, many beginning writers go off on a tangent, demanding, "But that's how it really happened!"
So? That doesn't mean you should write it that way in your fiction. It's very easy to try "writing what you know" in the sense of recreating your own experiences in the pages of a novel. I think all beginning writers are guilty of that to some extent. And yes, it can work.
But here's where the problems creep in:
1) It becomes unbelievable.
This is the most common problem. A beginning writer recently complained that he entered his real war story into a contest, only to be told by the female judge that it was too unbelievable. He dismissed her comments because SHE WAS A WOMAN, so naturally wouldn't "get" a war story.
Hmmm. Maybe he should take a look at how he WROTE the story. I haven't read the piece, and I don't know the judge, so I'm just guessing here, but since I've judged enough of these things, I'm thinking I'm not too far off the mark: He probably didn't show what was going on, explain the situations, put the reader into the moment, make the motivations clear.
Your audience should be able to figure out, believe, and be immersed in your story regardless of gender. If he/she just can't buy it, the problem doesn't rest with the reader. It rests with YOU, the author. It's YOUR job to make the piece believable.
2) You're writing it like a journal entry.
In journals, we usually recount events. We don't recreate the scenes complete with dialogue and descriptions. If you've fallen into this trap, you're TELLING, not SHOWING, and the piece has turned into a boring sequence of events. (This happened and then this happened . . .)
Fiction must be propelled by motivation and conflict. Life isn't always like that. It USUALLY isn't like that. Stuff just happens. But in your story, events must be causally linked, and you must have conflict as the driving force.
If you're adapting a real story to fiction, you've got to be willing to hack it to pieces enough (taking out the boring parts, combining new elements) so that it becomes compelling to a reader and isn't just a bunch of journaled events.
Which leads to:
3) You won't adapt for the sake of the piece.
Sometimes a real-life story is a great springboard for fiction. But since we've established that you are writing FICTION, guess what? You can make it up. You don't have to stick with what really happened, even if you are basing the story on your first boyfriend who was such a jerk. Move things around. Change a plot point. Add a new conflict or subplot over there. Throw in a new minor character here. Clinging to "what really happened" when you're writing fiction is pointless and will result in a flat piece.
We all write from personal experience to some extent; it's inevitable. Just don't get so hung up on keeping what's "real" at the expense of what could be very good if you just shook it up a bit.
There's a reason Tom Clancy said, "The difference between fiction and reality? Fiction has to make sense."
No kidding. I've heard many, many beginning writers go off on a tangent, demanding, "But that's how it really happened!"
So? That doesn't mean you should write it that way in your fiction. It's very easy to try "writing what you know" in the sense of recreating your own experiences in the pages of a novel. I think all beginning writers are guilty of that to some extent. And yes, it can work.
But here's where the problems creep in:
1) It becomes unbelievable.
This is the most common problem. A beginning writer recently complained that he entered his real war story into a contest, only to be told by the female judge that it was too unbelievable. He dismissed her comments because SHE WAS A WOMAN, so naturally wouldn't "get" a war story.
Hmmm. Maybe he should take a look at how he WROTE the story. I haven't read the piece, and I don't know the judge, so I'm just guessing here, but since I've judged enough of these things, I'm thinking I'm not too far off the mark: He probably didn't show what was going on, explain the situations, put the reader into the moment, make the motivations clear.
Your audience should be able to figure out, believe, and be immersed in your story regardless of gender. If he/she just can't buy it, the problem doesn't rest with the reader. It rests with YOU, the author. It's YOUR job to make the piece believable.
2) You're writing it like a journal entry.
In journals, we usually recount events. We don't recreate the scenes complete with dialogue and descriptions. If you've fallen into this trap, you're TELLING, not SHOWING, and the piece has turned into a boring sequence of events. (This happened and then this happened . . .)
Fiction must be propelled by motivation and conflict. Life isn't always like that. It USUALLY isn't like that. Stuff just happens. But in your story, events must be causally linked, and you must have conflict as the driving force.
If you're adapting a real story to fiction, you've got to be willing to hack it to pieces enough (taking out the boring parts, combining new elements) so that it becomes compelling to a reader and isn't just a bunch of journaled events.
Which leads to:
3) You won't adapt for the sake of the piece.
Sometimes a real-life story is a great springboard for fiction. But since we've established that you are writing FICTION, guess what? You can make it up. You don't have to stick with what really happened, even if you are basing the story on your first boyfriend who was such a jerk. Move things around. Change a plot point. Add a new conflict or subplot over there. Throw in a new minor character here. Clinging to "what really happened" when you're writing fiction is pointless and will result in a flat piece.
We all write from personal experience to some extent; it's inevitable. Just don't get so hung up on keeping what's "real" at the expense of what could be very good if you just shook it up a bit.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Crank It up a Notch
by Annette Lyon
I've read countless manuscripts from beginning writers that go something like this:
Mary and Steve sit around talking and talking and talking. Maybe they're eating something and they talk about the food. (Great cookies, he says. Thanks, she replies. I tried a new recipe.)
They might be walking around the streets of some city (often New York, maybe San Francisco), and we get the surroundings described a lot. (Honking cars, smog, whatever.)
We have background information on the characters' lives dropped in from the sky (what I call info dump.)
BUT NOTHING SIGNIFICANT HAPPENS.
I yawn. At this point I keep reading only if I'm judging a contest where I'm forced to give specific feedback on a form.
Where is the plot, folks?!
Let's back up and define what we think we already know but sometimes forget:
Plot is a series of connected events that tell a story. More importantly, plot is a series of connected events driven by conflict.
Conflict is the essence of every story. It's why we keep reading.
Will Woody ever be the favorite toy again? We want to know. Otherwise, why bother watching? That one big question is broken up into smaller, bite-sized questions that are answered at the end of each scene, which propels us into the next one.
That scene-ending answer is always one of three things:
1) NO
2) NO. And furthermore . . .
3) Yes, BUT
Using Disney's Toy Story, let's look at a few examples:
-Once at Pizza Planet, will Woody manage to get him and Buzz into the stroller? No. And furthermore, Buzz runs off into what he thinks is a spaceship, so Woody has to save him.
-Does Woody manage to pull Buzz out of said spaceship/game before the claw does? No. And furthermore, it's the evil kid Sid that gets them, shoves them into his backpack, and takes them home to do scary things to them.
-Does Woody manage to escape from Sid's mutant toys? Yes, BUT now his own friends at the house next door turn on him, thwarting their escape because they think he's betrayed Buzz.
See how this works? I've actually skipped over some of the smaller scene questions and could have broken it down even further. But the idea is that one scene's question leads directly into the next scene's.
No scene question will never be answered as a happy, "YES!" until the very end, where the question is essentially, "Will they be happy now?"
I first got this way of looking at scenes from a book by Jack M. Bickham,who has written a number of volumes about writing. This one is Scene and Structure. When I first read it, the thing had my brain swirling in about a hundred directions.
I won't try to encapsulate it here--go read it yourself. There's a lot more to it than I've explained, and while the entire method won't necessarily work for every book (maybe an action/suspense that's plot-driven, but not a historical romance that's more character-driven, for example), it's a great technique for seeing where you can ratchet up your conflict and tension.
At the very least, if you use more scene-ending questions, your characters won't be sitting around shooting the breeze and chewing on hot dogs for no reason anymore.
I've read countless manuscripts from beginning writers that go something like this:
Mary and Steve sit around talking and talking and talking. Maybe they're eating something and they talk about the food. (Great cookies, he says. Thanks, she replies. I tried a new recipe.)
They might be walking around the streets of some city (often New York, maybe San Francisco), and we get the surroundings described a lot. (Honking cars, smog, whatever.)
We have background information on the characters' lives dropped in from the sky (what I call info dump.)
BUT NOTHING SIGNIFICANT HAPPENS.
I yawn. At this point I keep reading only if I'm judging a contest where I'm forced to give specific feedback on a form.
Where is the plot, folks?!
Let's back up and define what we think we already know but sometimes forget:
Plot is a series of connected events that tell a story. More importantly, plot is a series of connected events driven by conflict.
Conflict is the essence of every story. It's why we keep reading.
Will Woody ever be the favorite toy again? We want to know. Otherwise, why bother watching? That one big question is broken up into smaller, bite-sized questions that are answered at the end of each scene, which propels us into the next one.
That scene-ending answer is always one of three things:
1) NO
2) NO. And furthermore . . .
3) Yes, BUT
Using Disney's Toy Story, let's look at a few examples:
-Once at Pizza Planet, will Woody manage to get him and Buzz into the stroller? No. And furthermore, Buzz runs off into what he thinks is a spaceship, so Woody has to save him.
-Does Woody manage to pull Buzz out of said spaceship/game before the claw does? No. And furthermore, it's the evil kid Sid that gets them, shoves them into his backpack, and takes them home to do scary things to them.
-Does Woody manage to escape from Sid's mutant toys? Yes, BUT now his own friends at the house next door turn on him, thwarting their escape because they think he's betrayed Buzz.
See how this works? I've actually skipped over some of the smaller scene questions and could have broken it down even further. But the idea is that one scene's question leads directly into the next scene's.
No scene question will never be answered as a happy, "YES!" until the very end, where the question is essentially, "Will they be happy now?"
I first got this way of looking at scenes from a book by Jack M. Bickham,who has written a number of volumes about writing. This one is Scene and Structure. When I first read it, the thing had my brain swirling in about a hundred directions.
I won't try to encapsulate it here--go read it yourself. There's a lot more to it than I've explained, and while the entire method won't necessarily work for every book (maybe an action/suspense that's plot-driven, but not a historical romance that's more character-driven, for example), it's a great technique for seeing where you can ratchet up your conflict and tension.
At the very least, if you use more scene-ending questions, your characters won't be sitting around shooting the breeze and chewing on hot dogs for no reason anymore.
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