A popular post from April 2008
by Heather Moore
In Jack Bickham’s The 38 Most Common Fiction Writing Mistakes (Chapter 6), he warns us not to BEGIN our book with a lengthy description.
When you start describing a pretty sunset, a dark, leafy forest, or a calm blue ocean, the action of the story stops. So you want to make sure that you don’t BEGIN your book with a lengthy description. When you begin a book, you want to start with dialog, action or thought (internal dialog).
Also, watch for cliché descriptions. There are isolated circumstances when lengthy descriptions work. But until you get published, you need to follow the rules and make yourself competitive against the thousands of other writers out there. In fact, in writers and publishing circles, according the Bickham, cliché descriptions have become a hallmark of poor fiction writing—a red flag that signals the “beginning writer”. i.e. “the rosy fingers of dawn”.
Why? Bickham notes: Fiction is movement. Description is static. In other words, to describe something in detail means that you have to . . . stop . . . describe it . . . then move onto the action again.
Ask yourself this question. When you are reading a book, what do YOU skim over? Have you ever “skimmed” over descriptions to get to “what is happening next”?
It's important to find a good balance with description. Of course, you still need description, but you don’t need a page describing the desert terrain, or even a paragraph. Description must be worked in carefully in small doses.
Description isn't just about describing sunsets, landscape, details of a house . . . Description can also include writing about every single thought and every single action a character has. The seasoned writer will describe a little (tell), and demonstrate a lot (show).
Over the past decade or two, readers have changed. Readers today want you to move your story forward, not stand around picking apart the scenery or discussing every little movement.
From Bickham's book (15), I've modified his speed tracker idea below. If your story is moving too slowly, look at the form of writing you are using most, and speed it up with a higher “mph.” Or if it’s moving too fast, you can slow it down.
10 mph: Exposition—slowest of all.
1. Straight log of factual information—biographical, forensic, sociological, etc.
25 mph: Description
1. Some is necessary, but monitor it carefully.
40 mph: Narrative
1. Characters are in the story “now” and their actions, etc are presented moment by moment with nothing left out.
2. Similar to a stage play and what most of your story should be in. Moves swiftly.
55 mph: Dialogue
1. Talking, very little action or interior thought
2. Can be very quick, like a tennis match, when the characters are talking in short bursts
70 mph: Dramatic Summary
1. Summarizing. i.e. by Bickham: “A car chase or argument that might require six pages of narrative might be condensed into a single light-speed paragraph.”
2. Moves the story forward in leaps and bound.
Our ultimate goal as a writer is to keep the story moving. Don't let the description slow you down!
Showing posts with label show don't tell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label show don't tell. Show all posts
Monday, June 19, 2017
Friday, April 28, 2017
Basic Training
A popular post from January 2008
By Julie Wright
This is just some good old fashioned nuts and bolts writing information for today. I am writing this post mainly because I've done a lot of editing books for new authors, and because I've done a lot of reading of author's first books and think we could all benefit from a little refresher course.
There is a broadway musical called Urinetown. In the opening scene officer Lockstock explains the musical to the audience.
Little Sally comes along and asks, “Say, Officer Lockstock, is this where you’re going to tell them about the water shortage?”
To which Officer Lockstock replies, “Everything in its time, Little Sally. You’re too young to understand it now, but nothing can kill a show like too much exposition.”
Little Sally ponders this, and then replies, “How about bad subject matter? Or a bad title? That could kill a show pretty good.”
“Yes, yes, a bad title and too much exposition!” Since the subject matter of this musical is pretty bad, the title is outright horrible, and the fact that the whole first ten minutes was exposition and explaining why exposition is bad, it all worked as a marvelous parody and a downright funny scene.
In a new author's manuscript where he isn't trying to make a mockery of the scene, it's not funny.
You've all heard it--show don't tell. Exposition is where we find ourselves giving a summary of events and dialogue rather than putting it into real action and dialogue. Exposition reads like a laundry list of things the character did and said today. Readers don't want to be told a story. They want to be in the story.
Instead of TELLing your readers that Emma is depressed and frustrated, SHOW her taking a bite of her favorite cake and pushing the rest away.
Instead of TELLing your reader that Sam's car is a broken-down wreck, SHOW him twisting two bare wires together to get the headlights to come on.
Instead of TELLing your readers. “Amanda took one look at the hotel room and recoiled in disgust.” SHOW the cockroach crawling over the edge of the bathroom sink, crawling down the cabinet (hanging by a single hinge), scurrying across the threadbare carpet, and disappearing under the rusty bed that sags in the middle.
Instead of saying: My mom hated my new hair cut. Make it: Mom reached for my head, but her hand halted at the place where my long curls should have been as though she could still sense them there, as though she were one of those amputees who still felt phantom pain in a leg long gone. "What have you done to your hair?"
"I cut it."
"I can see that! Why would do such a stupid thing? You look like an army sergeant. You need to fix this!"
I snorted at that. "What do you want me to do? Should I go back to the salon and demand they glue it all back?"
My mom pulled her hand away and wiped it on the front of her skirt as though she'd touched something dirty.
The exposition was dry . . . part of a laundry list. But showing the scene creates tension and character development. Now you don't have to tell us that Anne and her mom don't always agree. You don't have to tell us that Anne is independent, and does what she wants in spite of other people's opinions. You don't have to tell us that Anne falls into sarcasm in an effort to win arguements. You don't have to tell us that Anne's mother is a more traditional person. You can sense that by the fact she disapproves of Anne's new hair style--by the fact that she's wearing a skirt.
One conversation of realistic dialogue and we know quite a bit about these characters. The exposition would have put us to sleep.
In your writing, avoid lengthy bouts of exposition. Avoid the laundry list of what your character did and said today. Put your reader in your story by making them feel as though they are living it.
By Julie Wright
This is just some good old fashioned nuts and bolts writing information for today. I am writing this post mainly because I've done a lot of editing books for new authors, and because I've done a lot of reading of author's first books and think we could all benefit from a little refresher course.
There is a broadway musical called Urinetown. In the opening scene officer Lockstock explains the musical to the audience.
Little Sally comes along and asks, “Say, Officer Lockstock, is this where you’re going to tell them about the water shortage?”
To which Officer Lockstock replies, “Everything in its time, Little Sally. You’re too young to understand it now, but nothing can kill a show like too much exposition.”
Little Sally ponders this, and then replies, “How about bad subject matter? Or a bad title? That could kill a show pretty good.”
“Yes, yes, a bad title and too much exposition!” Since the subject matter of this musical is pretty bad, the title is outright horrible, and the fact that the whole first ten minutes was exposition and explaining why exposition is bad, it all worked as a marvelous parody and a downright funny scene.
In a new author's manuscript where he isn't trying to make a mockery of the scene, it's not funny.
You've all heard it--show don't tell. Exposition is where we find ourselves giving a summary of events and dialogue rather than putting it into real action and dialogue. Exposition reads like a laundry list of things the character did and said today. Readers don't want to be told a story. They want to be in the story.
Instead of TELLing your readers that Emma is depressed and frustrated, SHOW her taking a bite of her favorite cake and pushing the rest away.
Instead of TELLing your reader that Sam's car is a broken-down wreck, SHOW him twisting two bare wires together to get the headlights to come on.
Instead of TELLing your readers. “Amanda took one look at the hotel room and recoiled in disgust.” SHOW the cockroach crawling over the edge of the bathroom sink, crawling down the cabinet (hanging by a single hinge), scurrying across the threadbare carpet, and disappearing under the rusty bed that sags in the middle.
Instead of saying: My mom hated my new hair cut. Make it: Mom reached for my head, but her hand halted at the place where my long curls should have been as though she could still sense them there, as though she were one of those amputees who still felt phantom pain in a leg long gone. "What have you done to your hair?"
"I cut it."
"I can see that! Why would do such a stupid thing? You look like an army sergeant. You need to fix this!"
I snorted at that. "What do you want me to do? Should I go back to the salon and demand they glue it all back?"
My mom pulled her hand away and wiped it on the front of her skirt as though she'd touched something dirty.
The exposition was dry . . . part of a laundry list. But showing the scene creates tension and character development. Now you don't have to tell us that Anne and her mom don't always agree. You don't have to tell us that Anne is independent, and does what she wants in spite of other people's opinions. You don't have to tell us that Anne falls into sarcasm in an effort to win arguements. You don't have to tell us that Anne's mother is a more traditional person. You can sense that by the fact she disapproves of Anne's new hair style--by the fact that she's wearing a skirt.
One conversation of realistic dialogue and we know quite a bit about these characters. The exposition would have put us to sleep.
In your writing, avoid lengthy bouts of exposition. Avoid the laundry list of what your character did and said today. Put your reader in your story by making them feel as though they are living it.
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
Get to the Point
A popular post from January 2008
by Annette Lyon
Where should you start your story?
That's the magic question so many writers wrestle with. I'm one of them; I usually rewrite my first chapter a dozen times before it's right, and often it'll end up as a different scene altogether, starting at a different moment in the story.
Regardless of how difficult the beginning is to spot and capture in your writing, doing so is critical. A reader (or, more importantly, an agent or editor) won't give you the benefit of the doubt and keep reading to page 63 where it really gets good.
You must hook the reader immediately and give them a solid reason to keep going. You have to earn the reader going on to the second sentence, the next paragraph, the next page.
In my editing experience, the most common mistake with beginnings is that the writer tries to tell too much of the back story too soon, as if we just have to know right away what got John to this point in his life.
When this happens, the reader doesn't get to the actual story without wading through the history, perhaps in flashbacks or large sections of "info dump." (Big hint here: if you're beginning your story with a flashback, you're starting in the wrong place.)
Your beginning should open at a time of change for the main character. By the end of the first chapter, their life has to be turned upside down.
And most importantly, something must be happening. Never, ever, have your first chapter filled with a character sitting on a mountaintop (or in the car, or by the beach, or in bed) recalling past events or what they need to do about them.
Remember "show don't tell"? Do it here. Show your character in a difficult situation. Show your character reacting to it, struggling to decide what to do next.
When past information is critical to include, drop a tidbit here and there, just enough to keep the reader informed while the story keeps moving forward. Avoid writing more than a couple of sentences of back story at any point; when you do that, you stall the story, no matter how fascinating the history is. Let us discover the past a piece at a time.
The majority of manuscripts I see with the problem of opening overload eventually find their beginnings. I can often spot it two or three (or more) pages into the piece. Sometimes I'll star that spot and say, "Start here. This is the real beginning."
What about everything before it? Hit the delete button. Really. It's all what David Fryxell from Writer's Digest calls "throat clearing," where you're just warming up and finally you reach the point you've been trying to make all along.
Reread your work with an eye out for any "throat clearing." You might just find you've already written a brilliant opening . . . on page 4.
by Annette Lyon
Where should you start your story?
That's the magic question so many writers wrestle with. I'm one of them; I usually rewrite my first chapter a dozen times before it's right, and often it'll end up as a different scene altogether, starting at a different moment in the story.
Regardless of how difficult the beginning is to spot and capture in your writing, doing so is critical. A reader (or, more importantly, an agent or editor) won't give you the benefit of the doubt and keep reading to page 63 where it really gets good.
You must hook the reader immediately and give them a solid reason to keep going. You have to earn the reader going on to the second sentence, the next paragraph, the next page.
In my editing experience, the most common mistake with beginnings is that the writer tries to tell too much of the back story too soon, as if we just have to know right away what got John to this point in his life.
When this happens, the reader doesn't get to the actual story without wading through the history, perhaps in flashbacks or large sections of "info dump." (Big hint here: if you're beginning your story with a flashback, you're starting in the wrong place.)
Your beginning should open at a time of change for the main character. By the end of the first chapter, their life has to be turned upside down.
And most importantly, something must be happening. Never, ever, have your first chapter filled with a character sitting on a mountaintop (or in the car, or by the beach, or in bed) recalling past events or what they need to do about them.
Remember "show don't tell"? Do it here. Show your character in a difficult situation. Show your character reacting to it, struggling to decide what to do next.
When past information is critical to include, drop a tidbit here and there, just enough to keep the reader informed while the story keeps moving forward. Avoid writing more than a couple of sentences of back story at any point; when you do that, you stall the story, no matter how fascinating the history is. Let us discover the past a piece at a time.
The majority of manuscripts I see with the problem of opening overload eventually find their beginnings. I can often spot it two or three (or more) pages into the piece. Sometimes I'll star that spot and say, "Start here. This is the real beginning."
What about everything before it? Hit the delete button. Really. It's all what David Fryxell from Writer's Digest calls "throat clearing," where you're just warming up and finally you reach the point you've been trying to make all along.
Reread your work with an eye out for any "throat clearing." You might just find you've already written a brilliant opening . . . on page 4.
Friday, April 7, 2017
Increasing Your Funny Quotient
A popular post from January 2008
by Annette Lyon
Humor in writing is tough to get right. It's all too easy for a joke to go just slightly off the mark and miss the laugh.
I think many writers do manage to be funny to a degree, but their problem is that they don't take it to the next level, the unexpected place where the laugh comes at you from the side so that you can't help but wipe away tears.
One great way of taking your humor to the next level is to analyze the laugh you're trying to make. What's the obvious joke (even if it's a funny one)?
Now, how can you take that joke one step (or even better, two steps) further?
An example:
In a recent essay I read, the author described a soul-sucking job and the manager she worked for. A good comparison (and a funny laugh) would have been to say her boss was a vampire, sucking the life out of her employees.
But this author took it a step further:
"[S]even years later, I voluntarily left a good-paying, soul-sucking, part time job as the records clerk for an office of remarkable neurosurgeons and one prickly office manager (who I am still convinced has no reflection in a mirror) to take a position at a veterinary hospital."
The reader deduces that she's a vampire without the writer ever saying so. It's a classic case of show-don't-tell.
Chandler from the sitcom Friends is another terrific example of taking the humor past the obvious. Take, for example, the time when he and Joey try to determine the identity of two babies, one of which belongs to Ross. One baby has clothing with ducks on it, and the other has clowns.
Joey decides to flip a coin about it, saying that the baby with ducks on its clothes will win if the coin lands on heads because ducks have heads.
It would have been funny enough had Chandler said, "What, and clowns don't have heads?"
But in a sense, that's what the audience is already thinking (and already laughing) about.
Chandler instead comes out with something that uses the first joke (clowns have heads too) and creates a second laugh by planting a comical image in our minds:
"What kind of freak clowns did you have at your birthday parties?"
Bull's eye.
Show-don't-tell is powerful no matter what kind of writing you're doing. Learn the skill well.
Then learn to take the humor past the obvious joke. Find out how far you can take it to create funny, fresh, and unexpected images.
It helps to read books, essays, and columns by some of the best funny men and women we have writing today. Also, watch comedians. Pay attention to how they craft their jokes, how the punch line flips the joke on its head and makes you laugh. Notice how jokes often come full circle later in the book/sketch/essay and take on new meaning the second time.
by Annette Lyon
Humor in writing is tough to get right. It's all too easy for a joke to go just slightly off the mark and miss the laugh.
I think many writers do manage to be funny to a degree, but their problem is that they don't take it to the next level, the unexpected place where the laugh comes at you from the side so that you can't help but wipe away tears.
One great way of taking your humor to the next level is to analyze the laugh you're trying to make. What's the obvious joke (even if it's a funny one)?
Now, how can you take that joke one step (or even better, two steps) further?
An example:
In a recent essay I read, the author described a soul-sucking job and the manager she worked for. A good comparison (and a funny laugh) would have been to say her boss was a vampire, sucking the life out of her employees.
But this author took it a step further:
"[S]even years later, I voluntarily left a good-paying, soul-sucking, part time job as the records clerk for an office of remarkable neurosurgeons and one prickly office manager (who I am still convinced has no reflection in a mirror) to take a position at a veterinary hospital."
The reader deduces that she's a vampire without the writer ever saying so. It's a classic case of show-don't-tell.
Chandler from the sitcom Friends is another terrific example of taking the humor past the obvious. Take, for example, the time when he and Joey try to determine the identity of two babies, one of which belongs to Ross. One baby has clothing with ducks on it, and the other has clowns.
Joey decides to flip a coin about it, saying that the baby with ducks on its clothes will win if the coin lands on heads because ducks have heads.
It would have been funny enough had Chandler said, "What, and clowns don't have heads?"
But in a sense, that's what the audience is already thinking (and already laughing) about.
Chandler instead comes out with something that uses the first joke (clowns have heads too) and creates a second laugh by planting a comical image in our minds:
"What kind of freak clowns did you have at your birthday parties?"
Bull's eye.
Show-don't-tell is powerful no matter what kind of writing you're doing. Learn the skill well.
Then learn to take the humor past the obvious joke. Find out how far you can take it to create funny, fresh, and unexpected images.
It helps to read books, essays, and columns by some of the best funny men and women we have writing today. Also, watch comedians. Pay attention to how they craft their jokes, how the punch line flips the joke on its head and makes you laugh. Notice how jokes often come full circle later in the book/sketch/essay and take on new meaning the second time.
Monday, January 16, 2017
Characterization: It’s hard to do
A popular post from July 2009
By Heather Moore
The other night I saw “The Proposal” with a friend of mine. Whether or not you like “chick flicks” there were some great characters in there. Yes, a little predictable, but sometimes when watching a movie and analyzing characters, the “aha” light goes on. It’s a little easier to define why one character works and is endearing or relatable, while another might not be, when you see a 2 hour movie.
But what I really want to discuss is a movie I saw a couple of weeks ago, called “New in Town.” Renee Zellweger’s character is a smart, classy, climbing-the-corporate-ladder type. (Incidentally this was the same character-type as Sandra Bullock in The Proposal—but Sandra played it oh-so-much better).
The plot for “New in Town” and Renee’s character were cliché-ish and quite predictable. Renee’s job was to go into a small-town manufacturing plant, that the corporation she worked for had purchased, and to make it profitable. But who shined in the movie was the secretary, played by Siobhan Hogan. She was quirky and her famous, but top-secret, Tapioca recipe became an integral part of the plot. Siobhan’s character “stole the show” and her naivety and small-town good-heartedness felt real, easy to relate to, and easy to picture her as your neighbor.
Here are the things that made up her character:
-Loves scrapbooking, finds value in it and spends time with her neighbors doing it.
-Is the type of person to invite others over for dinner, even if it’s just meatloaf. Which leads to that she’s the type of person who doesn’t put on airs. Meatloaf is good enough for her, so it’s good enough for anyone else.
-Generous and willing to share her Famous Tapioca. Yet, she will not give out the recipe no matter how she is bribed.
-She is trustworthy and trusts back. Also a peacemaker.
-She is a romantic and wants everyone to be happy.
-She lives in a very cold climate but makes the best of it.
-She states her opinion but doesn’t force it on anyone.
-She’s a bit naïve and goes through several upsets because of it.
-She is funny, but unassuming.
-Even when she is emotionally distraught, she makes Tapioca and takes it over to her “enemy”.
I hope this gives you a more rounded view of characterization. It’s not just about description, but about the core of the person. When faced with two choices, which choices would your character make?
For a quick study (and a quick read), I’d recommend Everything is Fine by Ann Dee Ellis. She is a YA author, and her characterization of Mazzy was impressive in that book.
By Heather Moore
The other night I saw “The Proposal” with a friend of mine. Whether or not you like “chick flicks” there were some great characters in there. Yes, a little predictable, but sometimes when watching a movie and analyzing characters, the “aha” light goes on. It’s a little easier to define why one character works and is endearing or relatable, while another might not be, when you see a 2 hour movie.
But what I really want to discuss is a movie I saw a couple of weeks ago, called “New in Town.” Renee Zellweger’s character is a smart, classy, climbing-the-corporate-ladder type. (Incidentally this was the same character-type as Sandra Bullock in The Proposal—but Sandra played it oh-so-much better).
The plot for “New in Town” and Renee’s character were cliché-ish and quite predictable. Renee’s job was to go into a small-town manufacturing plant, that the corporation she worked for had purchased, and to make it profitable. But who shined in the movie was the secretary, played by Siobhan Hogan. She was quirky and her famous, but top-secret, Tapioca recipe became an integral part of the plot. Siobhan’s character “stole the show” and her naivety and small-town good-heartedness felt real, easy to relate to, and easy to picture her as your neighbor.
Here are the things that made up her character:
-Loves scrapbooking, finds value in it and spends time with her neighbors doing it.
-Is the type of person to invite others over for dinner, even if it’s just meatloaf. Which leads to that she’s the type of person who doesn’t put on airs. Meatloaf is good enough for her, so it’s good enough for anyone else.
-Generous and willing to share her Famous Tapioca. Yet, she will not give out the recipe no matter how she is bribed.
-She is trustworthy and trusts back. Also a peacemaker.
-She is a romantic and wants everyone to be happy.
-She lives in a very cold climate but makes the best of it.
-She states her opinion but doesn’t force it on anyone.
-She’s a bit naïve and goes through several upsets because of it.
-She is funny, but unassuming.
-Even when she is emotionally distraught, she makes Tapioca and takes it over to her “enemy”.
I hope this gives you a more rounded view of characterization. It’s not just about description, but about the core of the person. When faced with two choices, which choices would your character make?
For a quick study (and a quick read), I’d recommend Everything is Fine by Ann Dee Ellis. She is a YA author, and her characterization of Mazzy was impressive in that book.
Monday, May 9, 2016
Show, Don't Tell: Micro vs Macro
A popular post from April 2011
by Annette Lyon
by Annette Lyon
For years, I heard the "Show, Don't Tell" mantra and struggled to know exactly what it meant. I figured out pretty early that showing included using the five senses. I learned a few more techniques here and there (don't say she's sad; show her crying), but I still didn't fully grasp the concept until I heard A. E. Cannon speak at a writing workshop.
She talked about the revisions for her novel Charlotte's Rose and how her editor wanted her to show a particular character's personality better. Cannon insisted that she had shown it; we knew that Charlotte thought he was a mean, angry jerk (my words, but that's the gist), and we see Charlotte ruminating over his jerkiness as she's doing the laundry on the prairie.
Her editor suggested changing all that. Instead of telling us Charlotte's thoughts, have her interact with the man. We'd see her get hurt and angry, and then the reader, too, thinks he's a jerk because we just watched him be one.
That's how that section of the book was rewritten, by adding a showing scene. The man was shown to be a grouchy jerk, and the reader figured it out.
As I sat there listening to Cannon speak, a 1000-watt light bulb turned on in my head.
Prior to this, I'd thought of showing as something that belonged on the sentence or paragraph level. I could show by using a sound, a taste, a smell, a thought, an action. Sure, all of those things are important, and they are showing.
But.
They're only half of the equation. They're what I now call micro showing. And showing goes much deeper than that.
What I learned at the workshop was that showing is something you can (and should) do on a much larger scale, using entire scenes or chapters. What I now call macro showing.
Since then, I've gone on to write and edit many, many more books, and I've applied that principle constantly.
Macro showing involves dropping lots of bread crumbs throughout the story, trusting that the reader will follow those crumbs and figure out what they mean.
Don't simply say that this is how it is. Imply. Hint. Leave clues. Add shadows of meaning for plot, setting, and character. It all adds up to great showing.
Put your characters into situations that reveal their personalities. Don't tell us that Sheena eats when she's stressed. Have a scene where she gets totally stressed out (because of great conflict). Then write another scene where she's drowning her stress in cheese fries and a bacon burger.
Don't tell us that Patrick is an overbearing boss and that Cynthia has no backbone. Throw them into the same room when Cynthia's trying to get a few days off to be with her dying mother but Patrick insists she has to stay to meet a deadline. Let them reveal who they are and what they really want through dialog.
If Emily really likes Steve, don't tell us she gets tongue-tied whenever he's around. Put them in the same room and have Steve talk to her. Run a mental movie camera so we see Emily trying to respond to Steve, but unable to form a coherent sentence. We'll figure out what it means.
Macro showing is now one of the most powerful tools in my writing and editing arsenal. Chances are, if I write "show" on an edit, this is what I mean: pull out the macro-showing hammer and go to work. Your story will come alive.
Wednesday, March 9, 2016
Show, Not Tell, Second-Grade Style
A popular post from 2011.
by Annette Lyon
by Annette Lyon
Both photos included a large, stuffed animal (a white, striped tiger), Snowflake.
Photo one: On top of the tiger, right on its head, is a small doll (roughly Barbie-sized), and in the voice of the doll, the post proclaims she's pretty good at climbing Snowflake, but a friend, Mia, well, she's still getting used to the climb. Oh, and it looks like Snowflake has a new hairdo.
The second photo: Mia, the American Girl doll, collapsed on top of the tiger, with only her hair visible, spread across the tiger's head like a wig.
Giggling, my daughter showed me the short story and her pictures, declaring with pride, "Look! I didn't say Mia fell over when she tried climbing Snowflake. I said she was still getting used to climbing Snowflake and then joked about Snowflake's new hair. See? I showed it!"
Cool part: She was absolutely right. Of course, it worked in part because she had photos to accompany the story. But the point remains: she never came out and stated what happened. The reader/viewer had to infer it. (And then laugh, because it was pretty clever of her.)
Figuring out when and how to show instead of tell can seem like a heavy burden and a big job. For me, it seems a bit easier to do when I look at it in terms of Mia and Snowflake.
Heck, if a second grader can get it, I should be able to figure it out, even for something as complex as a novel . . . just take it one showing moment at a time.
Monday, February 29, 2016
Wait. Where Are We?
A popular post from March 2011
by Annette Lyon
by Annette Lyon
One part of writing that I love is when I'm really in the groove and the story simply flows from my fingers, through the keyboard, onto the screen. It's like I'm watching and creating a movie simultaneously.
Sometimes those great bursts of creativity produce good work. Other times, well, the section needs revision.
Remember: What's in your head and what's on the page aren't always the same thing.
A common problem I see in beginning writers' work is not grounding the reader at the beginning of a new scene or chapter. The writer knows what the new scene looks like, but they haven't put it on the page. The reader may end up spending a page or two figuring out who all is present, where we are, how much time has passed since the last scene, and who's head we're in.
A good writer can jump right into the story, keep the pace going, and not leave the reader in the dust. It's a balancing act of giving out enough information but not too much.
The key is to remember as you write that your reader isn't in your head. They have no idea where or when this new scene is compared to the last one. The story could have jumped two minutes, two hours, or two years. We could be in the same room, outdoors, or on another continent.
If the writer doesn't orient us quickly, we're liable to close the book, annoyed and confused. This is especially important for speculative works, where one chapter could literally be in another world or time.
An example: John and James have a conversation. With speech tags, they're both identified. So far, so good. They're talking along for a couple of pages, when John signals and turns left into a grocery store.
Wait, what? When did we get into a car? Last time we saw John, he was at work.
Shake the head to clear it. Create new mental picture: John and James are in a car. John is driving. He pulls into a grocery store parking lot. Got it.
They keep talking, go into the store, and as they reach the produce section, Jennifer adds her two bits to the conversation.
Whoa. Where did she come from? Oh, she was in the car with them? The writer didn't show us that. We redraw the entire scene in our heads, adding Jennifer to the car as a passenger.
And so on.
As the writer, you're seeing it all. You know who's present. You know what everyone is saying and doing. Heck, you probably know what they're all wearing and had for lunch. You know precisely what the environment looks like and could describe the sights, sounds, smells.
But if you don't describe those things, we don't know any of it.
A similar problem with a scene opener is when we're put into a character's head, thinking about the current situation and what to do next. But we're not in a scene. There's no location, no action. We're just floating around in someone's head. That's not only confusing, it's boring.
So create a scene from line one. A scene requires, at the very least, a character, a location, and action (and preferably conflict). Then we can get into someone's head and think. (But not for long, flowing paragraphs, unless you're looking at literary fiction.)
The tricky part, of course, is knowing how much to show on the page. You don't want to bog down the narrative showing every turn the car makes, every detail of the dashboard, or the color, style, and designer of each passenger's shirt, and every business they pass on the road.
But we do need to know we're in a car, driving somewhere. A few specifics about the type of car, plus a sight, a sound, or smell, are all great additions that help make a scene pop. Sprinkle those in with care.
Likewise, there's no reason to spend paragraphs on every character present, but the reader must know who's there. And make sure we are somewhere doing something.
Remember: set a scene, which means having both location and action.
You'd be surprised at how easy it is to open a chapter or scene without either. Don't.
By the same token, avoid simply stating who's present, plus where they are and where they're going. That's telling, not showing.
Fixing this kind of problem really comes down to show, don't tell (as so many writing problems seem to).
In our example scene, where John and James are talking (and we have no idea where they are), we have a "talking heads" situation. That means we hear voices that might as well be disembodied, because we don't have solid details that ground the "movie" in our heads. Talking heads = telling.
We can fix the dialogue by adding "beats," such as facial expressions, gestures, thoughts from the POV character, and more. That breaks up the talking heads, and it creates a showing environment. The movie in the writer's head is more fully on the page.
The reader figures out the location not by being told what it is but by watching how the characters react to and interact with their environment. If every character is reacting and interacting, we get no surprises when Jennifer speaks in the produce section.
Perhaps James nervously flips the lock/unlock button back and forth. John moves the visor to block the sun then gets annoyed at the guy in the Lamborghini who cut him off. Jennifer tells James to stop it with the lock button already, because it's driving her crazy. All of those details show us where they are (and we get a peek into their characters to boot).
A challenge: Open your WIP to any scene. Read half a page of the opening. Is it clear where, when, and with whom we are? For that matter, are we in a scene or just floating in a character's head?
Look at every scene opener in your story. Revise them as needed to be sure the reader will come away with a clear movie in their heads: the one you want them to be watching.
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, January 20, 2016
What I See Most Often
A popular post from September 2011
by Annette Lyon
by Annette Lyon
As an editor, I see a lot of the same things. If you can avoid these few issues in your work, you'll automatically be a step ahead of the competition.
Here are three of the most common problems I see:
Back-story Dump
Also known as "info dump." This is when the story comes to a screeching halt so we can learn the characters' history, what led up to this moment, and so on. It includes flashbacks, long strings of thought, dialog where characters recap the past (things they already know and likely wouldn't actually say to one another), and so on.
At the beginning of a story, this is a real problem. Back story may be important, although I'm betting it's less important than you think. We really don't want to hear about it in the first chapter. If the reader needs information from the past, tell us in small pieces . . . later.
Point of View Problems
I highly recommend reading Orson Scott Card's book Character and Viewpoint as a primer for learning how point of view works, how to pick the right one, and how to use it well.
Common POV problems I see include head-hopping, picking the wrong POV, having no point of view whatsoever, and having inconsistent POV characterization. POV problems pull the reader out of the story. They can make the narrative confusing. When handled well, POV helps the reader get immersed in the story.
Telling Instead of Showing
Show, don't tell, is such a common piece of advice it's almost cliche, but it's crucial. Telling creates a shallow story with flat characters. Instead of readers feeling and experiencing the story, getting wrapped up into it, they'll remain at a distance, as if reading a summary.
Good showing appears on the sentence and paragraph level (what I call micro showing) and in the overall scene, chapter, and full-length work level (what I call macro showing).
Interestingly enough, back story dumps and POV problems are often also telling problems. If you learn how to avoid these three common weak spots, you'll automatically find yourself knowing how to fix a lot of problems in your work--and avoid them altogether in the future.
Friday, December 18, 2015
Show Not Tell Homework
A popular post from February 2010
by Annette Lyon
by Annette Lyon
I'm stealing from myself today. I thought some of the material from the creative writing class I taught last week might be useful for Writing on the Wall readers.
We talked about the old adage, "Show not tell" and how to apply that in your writing.
What I didn't know early on in my writing journey is that there are lots of ways to show. Had someone explained it to me clearly, I could have been spared a lot of grief (and likely, rejections).
Showing Scenes
Sometimes we need a mini scene to see and learn that this character is a workaholic or this one is a computer genius or that one is a great chef. Put your characters into the moment and let us watch them do their thing.
Let us see that Phil is the only person in the company who can find and fix the bug in the program. We'll figure out that he's the smart computer dude.
Alternately, if someone has a personality trait, a scene revealing that trait is far more effective than just telling us the person is kind or loud or simply a jerk. In other words, give the reader a scene where the character is interacting with others and behaving in a kind way or being loud or treating others like a jerk.
In other words, give your reader the breadcrumbs (the clues) and assume they're smart enough to figure out that this behavior in this scene means that Ashley is a snob. But you never ever used the word, "snob."
This does a couple of things: your reader isn't talked down to (you're assuming they're smart) and you're making the story alive. You're breathing life into the characters.
In other words, you're showing, not telling.
Specificity
I did an entire post some time ago about specificity. In short, it's a micro way of showing. In these cases, we don't need an entire scene or even a paragraph here. Sometimes all you'll do is replace a single word with one or two more specific ones.
A bird didn't fly overhead; a seagull did.
A car didn't drive pull into the driveway, but a yellow Jeep did.
Your character isn't enjoying a great meal; he can't get enough of the 3-cheese lasagna and garlic bread.
The more specific you are, the more your reader can be immersed in the story.
Sensory Details
Sensory details are another great way to show. They put the reader right in the same location with your POV character. The reader experiences the same thing vicariously because you made it so real.
Imagine a specific location: say parking garage, a hospital, or a cemetery.
What do you notice about it besides things you see?
Smell: The parking garage might smell of oil, the hospital of disinfectant, and the cemetery like freshly cut grass or flowers.
Sound: In the parking garage, you'll likely hear fans blowing out the exhaust fumes, car engines, squealing tires, the click-click of high heels on the concrete and maybe even voices echoing. Depending on the area of the hospital, you could hear beeps of machines, announcements over the intercom, elevator doors, beds squeaking along the halls, TVs in patient rooms, and more. And the cemetery could be silent save for the breeze in the oak over there (we're being specific, right? So it's not a tree) or maybe there's the hum of cars on the street in the distance or a single mourner crying next to a headstone.
Feeling: This one can go a couple directions, both toward emotions (what's the overall FEEL of the place?) as well as the actual sense of feeling or touch. The parking garage may be cold, with dim lighting, and feel claustrophobic. The hospital could feel sterile (in more ways than one). A writer could describe pushing open a heavy door to see a patient, the hard mattress, the thin blankets. And since a cemetery is outside, what you feel would depend largely on the season (summer versus winter, rain or hail, a breeze or sweltering heat, etc.).
Taste: A sense writers often forget about. It's a powerful one, so I don't recommend using it all the time, but it's one to remember because it can pack such a great punch. Think through the locations and what someone might taste in them: the parking garage (even the flavor of a person's gum might taste different with the fumes in there), the hospital (oy, the food . . .), and the cemetery.
General rule of thumb: Try to use at least one other sense besides sight on every page. And change up which sense you're using: don't always use sound, which comes in second behind sight. Be creative: try for taste and smell too, and don't forget touch.
A Challenge:
Here's the homework I gave to my class this week. It's a great exercise to learn how to show rather than tell.
Write THREE showing paragraphs:
1) An emotion. But you aren't allowed to say what it is. (For example, show fear without ever using "afraid" or "scared" or anything like them.)
2) A location or setting. Don't ever name the location; we should be able to figure out where you are by the fantastic showing description.
3) An act. Show a character doing something. We should be able to know what it is without the act being named. (Examples: baking cookies, changing oil in the car, putting on makeup, mowing the lawn.)
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.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Specificity
by Annette Lyon
Once again I'm inspired for my post by A Conversation on the Writing Life by Julia Cameron and Natalie Goldberg.
This time the topic could be called, “show, don’t tell,” but to me (and especially the early writer me), “specificity” describes it so much better.
I can’t remember how many times I’d get the comment that I was telling instead of showing, and I’d want to scream, “I thought I was showing!”
Showing has several elements, but specificity is one of my favorites. The gist is to take a general noun (such as a car) and tell us more. Make us see it.
Is it a VW Bug? Is it a little red Toyota truck with rusted wheel wells? Is it a sleek, black Jaguar? A yellow Jeep with fuzzy, pink dice hanging from the mirror?
The more specific you are, the more clearly readers will see the “movie” in your head—and be drawn into your imaginary world.
If I say I walked into a yard with beautiful, fragrant flowers, you might have a certain image in mind. But it’s probably pretty vague, and the picture in your head is going to be very different than the one in mine.
What if instead I say that I walked under a arch of pink climbing roses and then past a hedge of violet-colored lilacs, and that a vase along the winding gravel path was full of yellow irises?
Ah, now we’re picturing the same thing. And it’s a lot more specific and memorable than plain old “flowers.”
So the girl in your book isn’t just a girl. She’s a six-year-old red-head with pigtails and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks—and a black eye.
The man isn’t tall—he has to duck to get through the doorway.
The woman isn’t tired—instead, her eyes open and close heavily, her gait is slow and measured, and she rubs her eyes with her fingertips.
Granted, you can take specificity too far. You don’t want to describe each and every passing character and landscape in total detail, resulting in what’s often called, “purple prose.” (You know, the kind of thing where a sunset lasts two pages and you’re ready to scream at the author to get on with it already!)
But in general, writers tend to err on the side of being too vague.
Think about J. K. Rowling’s first description of Snape’s classroom. Yes, we know it’s a dungeon, so it’s obviously dim and dank. She doesn’t go on much about that. Instead she drops in a creepy detail about jars on the shelves that hold floating dead things. She doesn’t need to include much more than that. We get the picture, and we want out of the classroom as much as Harry does.
Take a piece of your work and circle every noun and every adjective. Look them one at a time. Is there a way to make them more specific? Can you focus your mental “movie” a bit more and give the reader something that’ll convey your world to them more clearly?
In general, two or three details when introducing a new major character or location are plenty, provided you’ve picked good, solid ones that can represent the rest of the person or place.
Now I’ll head to my kitchen, where I’ll open a dark alder wood cupboard for a glass, and then I’ll take out the Winder Farms chocolate milk from the stainless-steel fridge. Mmm. Good.
(Can you see it?)
Once again I'm inspired for my post by A Conversation on the Writing Life by Julia Cameron and Natalie Goldberg.
This time the topic could be called, “show, don’t tell,” but to me (and especially the early writer me), “specificity” describes it so much better.
I can’t remember how many times I’d get the comment that I was telling instead of showing, and I’d want to scream, “I thought I was showing!”
Showing has several elements, but specificity is one of my favorites. The gist is to take a general noun (such as a car) and tell us more. Make us see it.
Is it a VW Bug? Is it a little red Toyota truck with rusted wheel wells? Is it a sleek, black Jaguar? A yellow Jeep with fuzzy, pink dice hanging from the mirror?
The more specific you are, the more clearly readers will see the “movie” in your head—and be drawn into your imaginary world.
If I say I walked into a yard with beautiful, fragrant flowers, you might have a certain image in mind. But it’s probably pretty vague, and the picture in your head is going to be very different than the one in mine.
What if instead I say that I walked under a arch of pink climbing roses and then past a hedge of violet-colored lilacs, and that a vase along the winding gravel path was full of yellow irises?
Ah, now we’re picturing the same thing. And it’s a lot more specific and memorable than plain old “flowers.”
So the girl in your book isn’t just a girl. She’s a six-year-old red-head with pigtails and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks—and a black eye.
The man isn’t tall—he has to duck to get through the doorway.
The woman isn’t tired—instead, her eyes open and close heavily, her gait is slow and measured, and she rubs her eyes with her fingertips.
Granted, you can take specificity too far. You don’t want to describe each and every passing character and landscape in total detail, resulting in what’s often called, “purple prose.” (You know, the kind of thing where a sunset lasts two pages and you’re ready to scream at the author to get on with it already!)
But in general, writers tend to err on the side of being too vague.
Think about J. K. Rowling’s first description of Snape’s classroom. Yes, we know it’s a dungeon, so it’s obviously dim and dank. She doesn’t go on much about that. Instead she drops in a creepy detail about jars on the shelves that hold floating dead things. She doesn’t need to include much more than that. We get the picture, and we want out of the classroom as much as Harry does.
Take a piece of your work and circle every noun and every adjective. Look them one at a time. Is there a way to make them more specific? Can you focus your mental “movie” a bit more and give the reader something that’ll convey your world to them more clearly?
In general, two or three details when introducing a new major character or location are plenty, provided you’ve picked good, solid ones that can represent the rest of the person or place.
Now I’ll head to my kitchen, where I’ll open a dark alder wood cupboard for a glass, and then I’ll take out the Winder Farms chocolate milk from the stainless-steel fridge. Mmm. Good.
(Can you see it?)
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Research in Funny Places
by Annette Lyon
Good writers are big readers. They just are.
To paraphrase a friend of mine, fiction is a language, and to become fluent in it, you must study it a lot and regularly.
Read your genre of interest. Read classics. Read your market. Read outside your genre. Reread old favorites. Read bumper stickers and cereal boxes. Read everything.
Even if a book doesn't seem, at the outset, to be something that would benefit your work, consider cracking it open anyway. Be open for books (and other media) to feed your creative self in ways you wouldn't have come up with on your own.
Many times, non-fiction books I've read on topics that have nothing whatsoever to do with my current work in progress have later become great resources.
For example, A year or two ago I went on a Deborah Tannen kick. Tannen is a socio-linguist who studies conversational styles, and her books are fascinating. After reading several of them, I understood my own language style better, my family's style, and even my husband's.
But there were a couple of additional side benefits:
Good writers are big readers. They just are.
To paraphrase a friend of mine, fiction is a language, and to become fluent in it, you must study it a lot and regularly.
Read your genre of interest. Read classics. Read your market. Read outside your genre. Reread old favorites. Read bumper stickers and cereal boxes. Read everything.
Even if a book doesn't seem, at the outset, to be something that would benefit your work, consider cracking it open anyway. Be open for books (and other media) to feed your creative self in ways you wouldn't have come up with on your own.
Many times, non-fiction books I've read on topics that have nothing whatsoever to do with my current work in progress have later become great resources.
For example, A year or two ago I went on a Deborah Tannen kick. Tannen is a socio-linguist who studies conversational styles, and her books are fascinating. After reading several of them, I understood my own language style better, my family's style, and even my husband's.
But there were a couple of additional side benefits:
- I had a better grasp on how to write good, realistic dialogue that could have underlying meanings.
- I got smacked with a great idea for future characters and a storyline (that I'm now in the middle of)
I recently finished a book about body language, which I originally began just because I was curious (writers tend to be a curious lot). But as I read it, I couldn't help noticing gestures and behaviors described in it I could use to create perfect showing moments in my writing.
Maybe I could show this particular facial expression or gesture (ones I hadn't thought of before). New possibilities for showing instead of telling opened up for me.
Books on seemingly unrelated topics are always a great source for material, but I've also gotten all kinds of great ideas from random sources, including:
- A character that evolved from an Ann Landers column.
- Another character born after reading a scholarly paper from a university.
- The ability to accurately describe a fire in one book after my research for another one about police procedures (the police book happened to have a section on arson).
- An entire book concept that came to me while listening to a radio talk show.
- A key element in one book that struck me between the eyes after watching a TV drama.
I could go on, and I'm sure a lot of writers can look into things they've read, watched, or listened to and pinpoint where an idea came from.
Those ideas can't come to you unless you open the door for them.
Read. Watch. Listen. Always. The seemingly random things you're exposing yourself to are likely to be the things that fill up your creative well when you least expect it.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Fantastic, Cool, Totally-Awesome Adjectives
by Annette Lyon
Of late, my post topics have been drawn from recent reading or editing projects. Today is no different.
Today's topic: adjective abuse.
First, a background issue: Most writers are aware of the need to pull back on using -ly adverbs too much. For example, if a character yells, "You idiot!" you can assume he said so "angrily," but saying as much dilutes the effect. Adverbs tend to be the easy way out, because instead of finding a great way to show what's going on, the writer tells you.
Search through your document for adverbs and find better ways to show what's happening. But please, when you do that, for the love of Pete, don't start throwing in large doses of adjectives in the adverbs' places.
If someone is tired, you could describe their "red-rimmed eyes," but don't make it, "teary, stinging, red-rimmed eyes." Additional details do not always make a sentence stronger, and quite often they just detract. It's easy to get so caught up in the sensory stimuli that you're peppering every sentence with several adjectives. Trust me here: Your readers won't be nearly as enamored with your descriptive prowess as you are.
A recent manuscript I worked on is like that. Great writing overall. (Few adverbs, even . . .) But I don't think I ever came across an adjective riding solo. It was always a compound adjective (two adjectives working together) and at times three or even four adjectives in a string. Worse, sometimes the same sentence would describe two or three different things, and each one had two or three different descriptors, yielding a sentence with half a dozen (or more) adjectives!
Something along the lines of this (I made this sentence up, but it's demonstrative of the kind of thing I saw over and over again):
He looked up at the dark, gray, roiling clouds and stroked his short, brown beard with his long, slender, bony fingers.
Heaven help me.
The image gets so cluttered up with adjectives that we can't see the scene for what it is. Keep only the most relevant and powerful adjectives.
In the example above, you can probably take out dark and gray, since roiling clouds are probably not going to be white and fluffy, and roiling is far more powerful than the other two anyway. With the beard, decide which part is more important: that it's short or brown? Or can you show that it's short by how he strokes the brown beard (if the beard is long, he could tug it, but if it's short, he can rub the whiskers, perhaps). And the fingers? Any one of the adjectives (long, slender, or bony) would work (they provide similar images anyway), but all three are overkill.
Every single adjective should show something fresh and interesting. Any word not pulling its weight should be cut.
For the more technical side of things, here's how you should punctuate adjectives:
Compound adjectives (adjectives working together for one image) need to be hyphenated. Take this sentence:
She used a green based color scheme.
The two words acting together are "green" and "based," so the hyphen belongs there:
She used a green-based color scheme.
It's not a green, based-color scheme. That makes no sense.
The punctuation may sound like no big deal, but not putting the hyphen in there (and in the right place) can be confusing.
Take this sentence:
Her relaxed fit boot cut jeans stretched over the tops of her cowboy boots.
At first reading, that sentence can be monumentally confusing (Her fit boots? Cut jeans? What?). But add the hyphens in the correct places, and suddenly it's crystal clear:
Her relaxed-fit, boot-cut jeans fit over the tops of her cowboy boots.
On the flip side, if you're not using a compound adjective (which needs a hyphen) and instead have a series of adjectives (and please, don't do this often), combine them with a simple comma:
He parked his red, mid-size convertible out front.
Pare down your use of adjectives. Make the images you use powerful. And when you do drop in the occasional adjective, punctuate it correctly.
Your readers (and editor) will thank you.
Of late, my post topics have been drawn from recent reading or editing projects. Today is no different.
Today's topic: adjective abuse.
First, a background issue: Most writers are aware of the need to pull back on using -ly adverbs too much. For example, if a character yells, "You idiot!" you can assume he said so "angrily," but saying as much dilutes the effect. Adverbs tend to be the easy way out, because instead of finding a great way to show what's going on, the writer tells you.
Search through your document for adverbs and find better ways to show what's happening. But please, when you do that, for the love of Pete, don't start throwing in large doses of adjectives in the adverbs' places.
If someone is tired, you could describe their "red-rimmed eyes," but don't make it, "teary, stinging, red-rimmed eyes." Additional details do not always make a sentence stronger, and quite often they just detract. It's easy to get so caught up in the sensory stimuli that you're peppering every sentence with several adjectives. Trust me here: Your readers won't be nearly as enamored with your descriptive prowess as you are.
A recent manuscript I worked on is like that. Great writing overall. (Few adverbs, even . . .) But I don't think I ever came across an adjective riding solo. It was always a compound adjective (two adjectives working together) and at times three or even four adjectives in a string. Worse, sometimes the same sentence would describe two or three different things, and each one had two or three different descriptors, yielding a sentence with half a dozen (or more) adjectives!
Something along the lines of this (I made this sentence up, but it's demonstrative of the kind of thing I saw over and over again):
He looked up at the dark, gray, roiling clouds and stroked his short, brown beard with his long, slender, bony fingers.
Heaven help me.
The image gets so cluttered up with adjectives that we can't see the scene for what it is. Keep only the most relevant and powerful adjectives.
In the example above, you can probably take out dark and gray, since roiling clouds are probably not going to be white and fluffy, and roiling is far more powerful than the other two anyway. With the beard, decide which part is more important: that it's short or brown? Or can you show that it's short by how he strokes the brown beard (if the beard is long, he could tug it, but if it's short, he can rub the whiskers, perhaps). And the fingers? Any one of the adjectives (long, slender, or bony) would work (they provide similar images anyway), but all three are overkill.
Every single adjective should show something fresh and interesting. Any word not pulling its weight should be cut.
For the more technical side of things, here's how you should punctuate adjectives:
Compound adjectives (adjectives working together for one image) need to be hyphenated. Take this sentence:
She used a green based color scheme.
The two words acting together are "green" and "based," so the hyphen belongs there:
She used a green-based color scheme.
It's not a green, based-color scheme. That makes no sense.
The punctuation may sound like no big deal, but not putting the hyphen in there (and in the right place) can be confusing.
Take this sentence:
Her relaxed fit boot cut jeans stretched over the tops of her cowboy boots.
At first reading, that sentence can be monumentally confusing (Her fit boots? Cut jeans? What?). But add the hyphens in the correct places, and suddenly it's crystal clear:
Her relaxed-fit, boot-cut jeans fit over the tops of her cowboy boots.
On the flip side, if you're not using a compound adjective (which needs a hyphen) and instead have a series of adjectives (and please, don't do this often), combine them with a simple comma:
He parked his red, mid-size convertible out front.
Pare down your use of adjectives. Make the images you use powerful. And when you do drop in the occasional adjective, punctuate it correctly.
Your readers (and editor) will thank you.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
When No Criticism Is Bad News
by Annette Lyon
As I judged a writing contest this last week, several commonalities struck me about the entries.
A few things cropped up over and over again:
As I judged a writing contest this last week, several commonalities struck me about the entries.
A few things cropped up over and over again:
- Point of View issues: No point of view. Or poor execution of point of view. Or some funky version of an omniscient narrator. None of which worked.
- Telling instead of showing, which is especially weak when it’s during moments that should be tense or emotional.
- Punctuation mistakes. Not only were sentences punctuated incorrectly (which editors hate), but a lot of the time the wrong punctuation made the text plain old hard to decipher. Good punctuation acts as sign posts so the reader knows what belongs where, who’s doing what, and where the pauses belong. It’s worth learning how to do it right.
- Awkward or stilted dialogue.
- “It was all a dream” cop-out endings.
- Starting in a boring place—often way too early—and including lots of extra back story and other elements that didn’t belong to the core story.
- Padding sentences with extra baggage, like the piece that used the term, “a forest of trees.” (As opposed to what, a forest of pretzels?)
As I made my way through the entries and jotted notes in the margins, I found a pattern: The worst entries had very little red ink, while best ones were covered with my scribbles.
At first that made no sense.
After a little reflection, the reason dawned on me: The best entries were ready for polishing. I could indicate redundancies, awkward sentences, or motivation issues. I could make concrete suggestions for improving a paragraph or a description. These authors knew enough to take such suggestions and run with them. They have the basics down and just need someone to point the way down the path and give them a nudge to get going.
What I’ll call the “non-winning” entries were on a different level altogether, and not in a good way. The majority had major problems—problems that went beyond what I could suggest or help with in a quick margin note. With these writers,“Show this,” “Begin with the moment of change,” or, “Be sure to keep a consistent point of view,” would be like speaking a foreign language to them.
So I had to sit and stare at those stories to figure out what to say to their creators. Where do you begin to point out a path to someone when they aren’t even on the map? To use a different metaphor, I can’t suggest how to decorate a house when the foundation isn’t even in place.
I tried to give some kind of constructive suggestions to everyone, but it was tough. The non-winning folks got a lot of “fun image”-type comments and have large sections with no red ink at all, while the winning entries almost look like I bled on them.
I feel bad about that; I hope the winners don’t get discouraged but instead see the feedback as a chance to grow and improve as writers.
Next time you enter a contest or get feedback from an agent or editor, keep this in mind: The more specific the criticism, chances are, the better writer you are. If you stunk, there would be no way to point out every weakness; the judge/editor/agent on the other end wouldn’t know where to start.
The moral of today’s post: Never look at feedback as merely cutting you down. Instead, open your arms and let it in. It only goes to show that you’re already good, and weighing the suggestions carefully will only make you better.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Know Your Audience
I was running the register in our store a few weeks ago and the last customer had just left when my husband came in from the back door and joined me behind the counter. A thrill of that high-school-girl-in-love shivered through me when his hot breath on the back of my neck turned into a soft lingering kiss.
I turned, anticipating a romantic interlude, but what I got instead was triumph. His eyes glittered with knowledge. "THAT," he said. "Is why Stephenie Meyer's Twilight is a best seller."
I blinked. "What?" I wanted to slap him outright for making me think romantically when he was only using me as a test market.
Then he pinned me to the counter and ran his finger down my jawline and kissed me again. Dang, but he's good. I almost did slap him, but had to catch my breath.
He laughed. "See?" he said. "She caters to the romantic inklings of every silly girl in America." Then I raised my fist. A slap wouldn't be good enough. He needed to be punched since I was one of those silly American girls. He grinned. "Not that I don't like kissing you, babe. I do, but I listened to the audio book of Twilight and found that the plot is lame, and nothing happens except for some girl living out her fantasy of having a superhero type guy smother her in soft hormone-inducing kisses."
My husband is all detached logic, and I really was fuming by this point since I really liked Twilight. I told him it had a brilliant plot.
"Ah, but what is the plot?" he asked.
"A young girl falls in love with a vampire and . . . and . . ."
He's making fun of me now. "And what?"
"Well, there's that other vampire that tries to kill her . . ."
"Not until the end, and she passes out for that--which is one of the lamest things ever. The story finally gets exciting and the main character sleeps through it? No, babe. The book sold well because it caters to female hormones."
I see his point of view. And as much as I still want to punch the man . . . he has a good point. But I don't think this is a bad thing. If you're writing a best seller and you cater to the audience for which you write . . . that's still brilliance in my book.
And the fact that each girl reading the book felt as if Edward's kisses were on her neck, is proof in the power of "show--don't tell."
We can all take a lesson from this and know the audience we're catering to, and make the book riveting enough that our audience feels that they--personally--are experiencing it.
I turned, anticipating a romantic interlude, but what I got instead was triumph. His eyes glittered with knowledge. "THAT," he said. "Is why Stephenie Meyer's Twilight is a best seller."
I blinked. "What?" I wanted to slap him outright for making me think romantically when he was only using me as a test market.
Then he pinned me to the counter and ran his finger down my jawline and kissed me again. Dang, but he's good. I almost did slap him, but had to catch my breath.
He laughed. "See?" he said. "She caters to the romantic inklings of every silly girl in America." Then I raised my fist. A slap wouldn't be good enough. He needed to be punched since I was one of those silly American girls. He grinned. "Not that I don't like kissing you, babe. I do, but I listened to the audio book of Twilight and found that the plot is lame, and nothing happens except for some girl living out her fantasy of having a superhero type guy smother her in soft hormone-inducing kisses."
My husband is all detached logic, and I really was fuming by this point since I really liked Twilight. I told him it had a brilliant plot.
"Ah, but what is the plot?" he asked.
"A young girl falls in love with a vampire and . . . and . . ."
He's making fun of me now. "And what?"
"Well, there's that other vampire that tries to kill her . . ."
"Not until the end, and she passes out for that--which is one of the lamest things ever. The story finally gets exciting and the main character sleeps through it? No, babe. The book sold well because it caters to female hormones."
I see his point of view. And as much as I still want to punch the man . . . he has a good point. But I don't think this is a bad thing. If you're writing a best seller and you cater to the audience for which you write . . . that's still brilliance in my book.
And the fact that each girl reading the book felt as if Edward's kisses were on her neck, is proof in the power of "show--don't tell."
We can all take a lesson from this and know the audience we're catering to, and make the book riveting enough that our audience feels that they--personally--are experiencing it.
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.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Deep down . . . I'm really shallow
By Julie Wright
Now that I've written my title to this, I cringe at how many meanings it has for me personally.
But really this isn't about me. It's about my characters and your characters and characters in general. I recently completed reading a book for the YA market. The plot rocked. The fantasy elements stunned. The setting perfect. But the characters were so flat, they were unrecognizable road kill.
I know that sounds harsh but I feel the editors failed this author. They should have sent the manuscript back and given a little lesson on dialogue and depth and motivation. But alas . . . no.
I am not here today as a writer, but as a reader--to shout in behalf of readers everywhere who say, "Please give me depth! Please do not let me dive into a puddle when I thought I had an ocean.
Your characters have to make choices for themselves. They have to solve things for themselves. They have to grieve when things go wrong, but take action against that wrong. They have to show emotion. They need habits; they need intelligence. They need opinions. They need a few flaws since no ones perfect. They need pasts and futures. They need depth.
If you want living characters, learn about dialogue. Eavesdrop on other people's conversation if you must, but take the time to do real dialogue.
And don't have your characters explain and explain and explain.
I know a little exposition is necessary, but if you do too much, you're going to have some other writer ranting about you on a blog somewhere in the world!
Exposition can be hidden. Do your readers a favor and do not have characters whose only purpose is to say, "Well,this happened because a long time ago blah blah blah . . ." or "this might happen because blah blah blah." If you have a character whose only purpose is to be a narrator of your story, you may need a rewrite.
I think that's what bugged me most about the last book I read. The characters never take responsibility for anything they do. The girl doesn't seem all that bothered when her brother is thought to be dead, and doesn't rejoice enough for me to believe her when she finds he really isn't dead. The whole book is filled with emotions so blah that I don't see any of them as anything important. I don't care what happens to anyone in this book.
If I'm going to invest my time with your characters, I want to care about them. I need to care about them. Please make me care.
So I beg of you writers out there. Don't let me dive into another puddle when I thought I was diving into an ocean. You should see the goose-egg on my forehead.
Now that I've written my title to this, I cringe at how many meanings it has for me personally.
But really this isn't about me. It's about my characters and your characters and characters in general. I recently completed reading a book for the YA market. The plot rocked. The fantasy elements stunned. The setting perfect. But the characters were so flat, they were unrecognizable road kill.
I know that sounds harsh but I feel the editors failed this author. They should have sent the manuscript back and given a little lesson on dialogue and depth and motivation. But alas . . . no.
I am not here today as a writer, but as a reader--to shout in behalf of readers everywhere who say, "Please give me depth! Please do not let me dive into a puddle when I thought I had an ocean.
Your characters have to make choices for themselves. They have to solve things for themselves. They have to grieve when things go wrong, but take action against that wrong. They have to show emotion. They need habits; they need intelligence. They need opinions. They need a few flaws since no ones perfect. They need pasts and futures. They need depth.
If you want living characters, learn about dialogue. Eavesdrop on other people's conversation if you must, but take the time to do real dialogue.
And don't have your characters explain and explain and explain.
I know a little exposition is necessary, but if you do too much, you're going to have some other writer ranting about you on a blog somewhere in the world!
Exposition can be hidden. Do your readers a favor and do not have characters whose only purpose is to say, "Well,this happened because a long time ago blah blah blah . . ." or "this might happen because blah blah blah." If you have a character whose only purpose is to be a narrator of your story, you may need a rewrite.
I think that's what bugged me most about the last book I read. The characters never take responsibility for anything they do. The girl doesn't seem all that bothered when her brother is thought to be dead, and doesn't rejoice enough for me to believe her when she finds he really isn't dead. The whole book is filled with emotions so blah that I don't see any of them as anything important. I don't care what happens to anyone in this book.
If I'm going to invest my time with your characters, I want to care about them. I need to care about them. Please make me care.
So I beg of you writers out there. Don't let me dive into another puddle when I thought I was diving into an ocean. You should see the goose-egg on my forehead.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Ah . . . Sweet Misery
By Julie Wright
Have you ever shelved a book project because you, as the author, were bored?
I have four shelved manuscripts in various stages of completion. Yeah . . . they bored me to shame.
Most of the time, this happens because your character is flat, or has nothing going on to retain your interest.
This is why you need to make your characters suffer. In screen writing, this is called the principle of antagonism. Not saying that you’re character needs to be a bad guy, but that bad things need to keep happening to them. Your character needs to be pushed to the limits of what they can handle. They need to have weaknesses and then have those weaknesses tested to the point of pain for that character.
Just like misery loves company, the suffering loves an audience. If you’re bored with your manuscript, it’s usually not the plot’s fault. So what are some ways you can raise your characters from the dead?
Remember your characters are human. And as such they have human feelings. They feel anger, jealousy, sorrow, loss, depression, fear, happiness, excitement, love . . . Find an emotion you can identify the character with.
Show don’t tell. Don’t tell us he’s angry; show him throwing the bottle against the wall. Don’t tell us she’s in love and deliriously happy. Show her drawing hearts all around his name as she talks on the phone. If she’s mad at him she can draw a picture of him hanging from his necktie.
Don’t try to make the reader feel unearned emotion. If you open up a story with the wife getting news her husband is dead and you show all this great emotion, you might be pretty proud of yourself. But why do I, the reader, care? The dead guy could be a schlub for all I know. Show me a brief scene where the two of them are making dinner together and he surprises her with a dessert he’d made while she was at work. She can say something like, “That’s my favorite.” To which he’d respond, “I know.” Or something like that—something that helps you glimpse their lives and see that all is well. So when you take it all away, we, the reader, care.
Take it ALL away. Characters need to suffer. No one wants to read about some perfect person with no lumps to take. So if you’ve got a character with a great job, a great boyfriend, a great apartment in Manhattan, you have to take it all away so that we’re interested in what this character is doing.
Act, don’t react. Characters who consistently react to the things taking place around them are weak. Make them make their own choices—for good or bad—your characters need to act, make decisions, and take control at some point.
Identify with your character. If you can do this, so will everyone else.
Have you ever shelved a book project because you, as the author, were bored?
I have four shelved manuscripts in various stages of completion. Yeah . . . they bored me to shame.
Most of the time, this happens because your character is flat, or has nothing going on to retain your interest.
This is why you need to make your characters suffer. In screen writing, this is called the principle of antagonism. Not saying that you’re character needs to be a bad guy, but that bad things need to keep happening to them. Your character needs to be pushed to the limits of what they can handle. They need to have weaknesses and then have those weaknesses tested to the point of pain for that character.
Just like misery loves company, the suffering loves an audience. If you’re bored with your manuscript, it’s usually not the plot’s fault. So what are some ways you can raise your characters from the dead?
Remember your characters are human. And as such they have human feelings. They feel anger, jealousy, sorrow, loss, depression, fear, happiness, excitement, love . . . Find an emotion you can identify the character with.
Show don’t tell. Don’t tell us he’s angry; show him throwing the bottle against the wall. Don’t tell us she’s in love and deliriously happy. Show her drawing hearts all around his name as she talks on the phone. If she’s mad at him she can draw a picture of him hanging from his necktie.
Don’t try to make the reader feel unearned emotion. If you open up a story with the wife getting news her husband is dead and you show all this great emotion, you might be pretty proud of yourself. But why do I, the reader, care? The dead guy could be a schlub for all I know. Show me a brief scene where the two of them are making dinner together and he surprises her with a dessert he’d made while she was at work. She can say something like, “That’s my favorite.” To which he’d respond, “I know.” Or something like that—something that helps you glimpse their lives and see that all is well. So when you take it all away, we, the reader, care.
Take it ALL away. Characters need to suffer. No one wants to read about some perfect person with no lumps to take. So if you’ve got a character with a great job, a great boyfriend, a great apartment in Manhattan, you have to take it all away so that we’re interested in what this character is doing.
Act, don’t react. Characters who consistently react to the things taking place around them are weak. Make them make their own choices—for good or bad—your characters need to act, make decisions, and take control at some point.
Identify with your character. If you can do this, so will everyone else.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
