Chuck Wendig On Straight Lines, Story Structure And Why Storytellers Need To Be Unconventional

I know, in the past, I've said, "You've GOT to read this blog post, it's amazing!" I try not to say that too often because not every good post is going to be oh-my-gosh-you've-got-to-drop-everything-right-now-and-read-this amazing.

This one is (article contains adult language): How Story Rebels Against Expectation, by Chuck Wendig.

Here are some highlights.

The Heart Of Story: Avoid The Straight, The Predictable: Be Rebellious

In his most recent post on story structure Chuck Wendig writes about what lies at the heart of storytelling, it's essence.

Straight lines, he says, are predictable and boring.

The straight path is what a protagonist is on before a story begins. Chuck writes:

It is the life everyone expects of her. Or, perhaps, the life that everyone demands. The line is situation normal. The line is plain vanilla frosting. The line is office parties and yearbook photos.

The line is conservative and afraid.

But a line doesn't have to be straight. We are creators, gods, in the world of story.

A line can be any shape we want it to be. A gentle curve suggests a slow build and a slide downward. A sharp peak is a knife’s blade, a mountain’s peak, a fast rise and a quick fall.

Sometimes lines go wild.

One line falls when you think it should rise.

One line ends when you think it’s just beginning.

Some lines are the snake that bites its own tail, a spiral, a circle, looping back on itself and becoming that thing and that place it was trying to flee all along.

Some lines detonate — a plunger pressed, a dynamite choom, an unexpected gunshot in the dark of the night, a sudden collapse of an old life, a death that is life that is rebirth that is death all over again, a massive avalanche, a soot-choked cave-in, a heart rupture, a giddy explosion.

The lines of our stories and our lives should not be safe, straight walking paths.

They should be electric eels that squirm and shock. They should be the lines in Escher prints, the peaks and valleys of mountains and volcanoes, the sloppily painted strokes of a drunken chimpanzee. The right line, the interesting line, is a line that defies, ... that is shaped like a middle finger aimed squarely at the expectations of others.

The line should not be safe, it should not be predictable, it should not be normal.

This is what the emotional energy of Chuck's post was leading up to:

Storytelling is an act of rebellion. Story is a violation of the status quo.

Everything the straight line tells you to do is how you know to do differently.

When you think you have the answer, defy it with a new question.

When the path seems well-lit, kill the lights and wander into darkness.

When the way is straight, kick a hole in the wall to make a new door.

When everything seems so obvious, close your eyes and look for what remains hidden.

Seek the wild lines.

The straight line is our anti-guide.

. . . .

The status quo is a known quantity and so it does not demand the attention of our description — we know what a chair looks like, a bed, a wall, the sky, that tree. The straight line is as plain and obvious as a pair of ugly thumbs. We know to describe instead the things that break our expectation, that stand out as texture, that are the bumps and divots and scratches and shatterpoints of that straight line. We describe those things that must be known, that the audience cannot otherwise describe themselves, that contribute to the violation of their expectations. We don’t illuminate every tree in the forest: just that one tree that looks like a dead man’s hand reaching toward the sky, pulling clouds down into its boughs, the tree from whence men have hanged and in which strange birds have slept. We describe the different tree. The tree that matters. The crooked tree that doesn’t belong.

I think the best bit comes right at the end when Chuck likens storytellers to shamans, but I'll let you head over to Chuck's blog and read that for yourself. I don't like quoting extensively from another writer's article, but in this case it was just so good I couldn't resist!

Please do head over to Chuck's Website and read: How Story Rebels Against Expectation, but be aware that it does contain adult language.

What shapes are your stories? Straight lines? Triangles? Zany, death-defying, roller-coasters?

Other articles you might like:

- A Pantser Turned Plotter
- Is Writing Your Brightest Fire? Guest Post By Max W. Miller
- 6 Ways To Write Every Day

Photo credit: "red snapper" by paul bica under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0.

Chuck Wendig On Story Structure, Part 2

What follows is based on Chuck Wendig's fabulous post (adult language warning): 25 Things You Should Know About Story Structure.

This is part two of a mini-series, here's a link to Part 1: Chuck Wendig On Story Structure.

The Microcosm Mirrors The Macrocosm

Chuck Wendig writes:

Whatever structure you give to a story is also a structure you can give to an individual act. In this way, each act is like a story within a story with its own ups and downs and conflicts and resolutions.

An example of this is how--in stories at least--things tend to come in threes.

The Magic Of Three

Chuck Wendig writes:

[Omne Trium Perfectum is] Latin for ... “Every set of three is complete.” Even if you ignore all other structural components, this is a good one to keep an eye on — the Rule of Threes suggests that all aspects of your story should have at least three beats. Anything that has any value or importance should be touched on three times and, further, evolve a little bit each time. Every character arc, every act, every scene, every setting, every motif or theme, needs you the storyteller to call it back at least three times.

Further:

You could argue that all stories fall into three acts — and, in filmmaking, if they don’t fall that way they’re damn well pushed. Act One is the Set-Up (first 25%), Act Two is the Confrontation (next 50%), Act Three is the Resolution (final 25%). It’s an imperfect description and damn sure not the only description, and in the grand scheme of things you could, if you chose, distill it down to beginning, middle, and end.

Arcs

Like stories, arcs have three parts, a beginning, middle and end. Chuck writes that "a story comprises a number of smaller and larger arcs". Anything can have an arc, not just stories and characters. For example, "[c]haracters, themes, events, settings ..." can all have arcs.

Your main character's arc--from desire/motivation, getting a goal, encountering obstacles, encountering more obstacles, attaining her goal (or failing to)--lasts for the entire story. Heck, it is the story. But all the main characters can, and should, have their own arc. Many antagonists even have arcs (for more on this read How To Build A Villain, By Jim Butcher).

Chuck writes:

Some [arcs] fill a whole story, some are just little belt loops popping up here and there. Some arcs begin where others end. Many overlap, rubbing elbows or shoulders .... Television is a great place to study arcs (and if I may suggest a show: Justified, on FX). Comic books, too.

Well, that's it! I thought it would take me three posts to get through the material in 25 Things You Should Know About Story Structure, but it only took two. Yesterday I wrote about the monomyth and story structure and, of course, I'll be revisiting points Chuck Wendig touched on such as Freytag's Pyramid, the 7 act structure, and Vladimir Propp's 31 structural steps explicating "the narrative nature of folk-tales (Russian folk-tales in particular)".

Hope you have a great writing day!

By the way, the first chapter of Chuck Wendig's new book, Gods & Monsters: Unclean Spirits, is up over at io9.

What are you working on right now? Are you writing a first draft or editing one?

Other articles you might like:

- A Chance To Meet Stephen King And Help Mark Twain House
- Hugh Howey's 3 Rules For Writing
- Short Story Structures: Several Ways Of Structuring Short Fiction

Photo credit: "els pets:al seient del costat" by visualpanic under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0.

Story Structure

This was going to be the second post in a series on Chuck Wendig's ideas about story structure but my muse had other plans.

What follows is a description of a story structure that I think is common to the overwhelming majority of stories I've read, watched or listened to.

Narrative

Before I read Chuck Wendig's post on story structure I hadn't thought of structure in terms of measurement. Meter. The ups and downs, the rises and falls. It's almost like breathing, it's what brings a story to life.

Scenes strung together, like beads, to make sequences. Sequences comprise Acts. Acts, taken together, tell a story.

There is a beat, a rhythm, to story. Pause a moment, listen to it, write with it in mind.

The Magic Of Three

Three acts comprise most stories.

Act One (Approximately first 25% of story)

The First Act is the setup, The Ordinary World. This is where readers meet the characters, start rooting for the hero, learn what his strength is, what he is comfortable with, as well as what his weaknesses are, the things that are holding him back from getting what he really wants, perhaps even what he needs.

Although not all heroes have an inner weakness, many do, and it's here in the setup that it will be introduced.

In the First Act the hero is issued a Call To Adventure, perhaps he even Refuses The Call and needs the guidance of a mentor (Meeting With The Mentor).

For instance, Shrek is an ogre who just wants to be left alone in his swamp. When his swamp is invaded by legions of fairy-tale creatures this acts as a call to adventure because it provides the impetus for Shrek to leave his beloved swamp and search out the king so he can get things back to normal.

This gives us an early look at not only one of the defining personality characteristics of Shrek--he wants to be left alone--but his inner weakness. He wants companionship but he thinks he can't be loved because of what he is: an ogre. So he pushes everyone away.

Act Two, Part One (Starts at about the 25% mark and continues to about the 50% mark)

At the end of Act One the hero answers the call to adventure and crosses the threshold into the Special World. Here everything is different, strange. The hero's strength probably isn't going to serve him as well here, perhaps it even puts him at a disadvantage. The hero goes through a series of tests, most of which he fails, and he meets new people. (The beginning of Act Two is often where the B Story begins.) Some of these will become his stanch allies and travelling companions, some of them will become his sworn enemies.

This time of testing is also a time of Fun And Games. In a movie this is where you have a feel-good montage. Many of the scenes used for movie trailers come from this part of the story. Blake Snyder, author of Save The Cat!, writes that this is his one of his favorite parts to write.

Soon, though, the hero must confront the villain/antagonist, and the hero prepares for his Approach To The Inmost Cave. (One thing to note is that the villain's/antagonist's goal will be such that if he achieves it, the hero cannot and vice versa.)

This part of the story will often contain a moment of bonding. If there is a romance in the story, often the hero and his love interest will deepen their relationship before he heads off to confront the villain and, possibly, pay with his life. If there is no romance, the story will likely still contain a moment of bonding, a pause, a girding of the loins, and a review of the states. What will happen if the hero loses? Who will it effect? What will result if the hero wins?

Act Two, Part Two (Starts about about the 50% mark and continues to about the 75% mark)

Finally the moment of confrontation has arrived--this is the Midpoint of the story--and the hero faces the villain. The Ordeal has begun. Since we know the stakes of the battle, we watch anxiously as the hero risks everything to achieve his goal.
 
After the confrontation, if the hero is successful, he will get a Reward. This will be, in a sense, a false victory. Something else will soon happen that raises the danger, and the stakes. The hero hasn't resolved the conflict, instead he has just made it greater.

In some stories, perhaps many stories, there is no 'win' for the hero at the midpoint, instead the stakes just get bigger; the danger becomes more immediate. Where before it was only the hero's life at stake now it is the hero's entire party, perhaps even his loved ones back home, who are in danger if he fails.

Act Three (Starts at about the 75% mark)

The Road Back is much more difficult than the one which brought him to the special world. Things have radically changed, and for the worse.

Why is this? It could be many things. Perhaps the worst happened and the hero failed in his contest with the villain. Perhaps he won but his mentor, the person he most trusted, whose advice he had listened to and followed since he was a child, who he risked his life for and the lives of his friends, betrays him. Something happens that transforms the hero's world, or his view of it, and not for the better.

I sometimes think of this, the fundamental transition that occurs at, or just after, the midpoint, as having the veil torn from the hero's eyes. He thought he knew how things were, but he didn't. He was a child and now he's an adult and the burden he is being asked to bear will most likely crush him. If only he could resolve his inner conflict, that something that is holding him back from coming into his power, his true self.

But the hero doesn't give up. Even though it seems the entire force of creation has been set against him, he rallies and devises a plan. The plan is clever but it's a long-shot and he must ask more of his friends than he ever has before and right at the moment when the little band seems to be falling apart.

Against all odds, though, it seems to be working, the plan may be successful. The allies find the strength to pull together. Perhaps the hero finds a way to work with one of his sworn enemies.

And then it all falls apart. Something happens to (it seems) finally, conclusively, crush any hope the hero had of achieving his goal. We (the audience) know the stakes, so we know this means that the worst is going to happen. But no. That was only what we thought was the worst. The villain/antagonist gleefully tells the hero that the real stakes are very much worse than he thought.

This is the All Is Lost moment that happens just before the Climax.

At this point a very important change occurs in the hero. He resolves his inner conflict, that character trait, that thorn in his side, that was holding him back from coming into his power, whatever that is. I don't mean a superhuman ability--though it could be--but whatever it is the ground must have been laid for it, otherwise it would be a cheat. Perhaps the hero is finally able to think clearly, perhaps he finally understands how someone else feels (he needed empathy), perhaps he had to release a certain way of thinking that was holding him back.

Something fundamental within the hero changes and, as a result, he is able to defeat the villain and achieve his goal. (In stories where there is no internal conflict--Indiana Jones And The Raiders Of The Lost Ark for example--there may be no change. Instead the hero draws upon his knowledge, some characteristic that defines him, that sets him apart. His strength.)

Or not. Sometimes the hero doesn't win. Sometimes the revelation comes, but too late. Sometimes the revelation doesn't come at all.

Whatever happens, there will be an Aftermath where the audience sees the effects of the hero's efforts. How did the hero's Ordinary World change as a result of his adventure? What was his reward? Or, if he failed, what was the cost of his failure? Tie up loose ends, etc. This is the wrap up.

Caveat

I don't want to leave anyone with the impression that there's only one story structure. As Chuck Wendig says, every story has a structure and there are as many story structures as there are stories. No one can look at the structure of a story and say, "That's wrong!" just because it's different.

The structure I wrote about, above, is one I've been thinking about and working on for the last few months. I think (this is my own personal view) that it describes over 90% of the stories I've read/listened to/viewed, or at least parts of it do.

I like using story structures--structures like the above--as springboards to create my own adventures. And, sometimes, if I feel that something is wrong with a story but I just can't put my finger on it, I like going back to basics and studying various story structures as I try and puzzle out what went wrong with mine.

It usually helps!

I think that's the bottom line. If something helps you, use it, if it doesn't, then ignore it. Let your own sense of what is right for you be the bottom line.

Tomorrow we'll get back to Chuck Wendig and, as promised, I'll talk about Aristotle and his theory of tragedy, the magic of three, and how the microcosm mirrors the macrocosm.

“Story Structure” copyright © 2013 by Karen Woodward.

Other articles you might like:

- Chuck Wendig On Story Structure
- To Blog Or Not To Blog, That Is Jane Friedman's Question
- Hugh Howey's 3 Rules For Writing
- Short Story Structures: Several Ways Of Structuring Short Fiction

Photo credit: "belle&sebastian:dirty dream number two" by visualpanic under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0.

Chuck Wendig On Story Structure

I don't know what I was doing last January, but I let this gem of a blog post fall by the wayside (adult content warning): 25 Things You Should Know About Story Structure. (As you probably know, all things Chuck Wendig come with an adult content warning, so keep that in mind before you click the link. That said, my article is 100% kid friendly; though I doubt many kids are interesting in reading about story structure!)

It's time to correct my oversight. This is the first in a series of posts--likely three posts--that will take a look at what Chuck Wendig has to say about narrative structure. Let's get started!

Every Story Has A Structure

Chuck Wendig writes:

Structure is either something you design as a storyteller or something that just happens.

Structure, on its own, could be either felicitous or infelicitous. Put another way, if a story's structure is like a skeleton, then some stories have entire limbs missing, or growing where they shouldn't.

When this happens, many authors have the gut instinct that something is wrong even if they can't sense the arm growing out of their poor story's forehead. Or something like that. Chuck Wendig's metaphor is much more colorful and infinitely more memorable.

I've often wondered if writer's block is caused by one's muse shouting that the story structure is off. Like spoiled milk just turned, there's a niggling sense of unease; something isn't right.

Structure As Story Architecture

My dad used to love eating sandwiches on the couch while he watched TV, but it drove my mother--who had to clean up the crumbs--nuts! "Father, you'll ruin the couch!" she'd say. One day, dad replied, "Dear, I was not made for the couch, the couch was made for me."

A similar point could be made about story structure. As Chuck Wendig writes,

Structure serves story; story does not serve structure.

Just as you want certain things in a couch--my dad preferred his large, sturdy and eminently comfortable--you'll want a certain kind of structure for a certain kind of story. Chuck writes:

A cathedral is built toward certain considerations: the beauty of God, the presence of God’s story, the need for acoustics, the accommodation of seating, the sacrificial altar, the DJ booth, and so on. You design a structure to highlight the type of story you’re telling. Using a non-linear structure in a mystery story is so that you maximize on the uncertainty and use the rejiggered narrative to create suspense. Structure has purpose. Structure is where art and craft collide.

Two Things Any Story Needs To Have

In practically all stories--heck, in order to have a story--something needs to happen, usually something goes disastrously wrong--and then someone, the hero/protagonist has to fix things and re-establish order.

Certainly something has to change--there has to be a change of state--and the hero must respond in a meaningful way to the change.

Try telling a story in which absolutely nothing changes to a bunch of girl scouts sitting around a campfire. You'd get pelted with half-roasted marshmallows!

Well, no, they'd probably start talking amongst themselves or walk away, and that's worse. I'd rather pick the candy equivalent of napalm out of my hair for the next two weeks than bore people.

Not that I've ever participated in a melted marshmallow fight.

Nope. Never.

Moving on ...

Chuck sums up this point by saying that two things are essential to storytelling:

a) conflict
b) a hero/protagonist who responds to the conflict.

It's important that the hero intends to respond. If someone accidentally puts out a fire that would have claimed several lives--well, that's great--but it doesn't count the same as doing it on purpose. (Some comedies are built on this premise. For example, Mr. Magoo got himself into, and out of, potentially disastrous situations all the while completely oblivious to the danger he was in.)

The hero needs to realize what the stakes are, perhaps be terrified, but he, or she, needs to act regardless.

I'll leave it there for today. Next time we'll talk about Aristotle and his theory of tragedy, the magic of three, and how the microcosm mirrors the macrocosm. Stay tuned!

Update: Here is the next and final post in this series: Chuck Wendig On Story Structure, Part 2.

Do you think about your story's structure before you sit down to write, or are you more of a pantser, making it up as you go along?

Other articles you might like:

- To Blog Or Not To Blog, That Is Jane Friedman's Question
- Hugh Howey's 3 Rules For Writing
- 7 Secrets To Writing A Story Your Readers Won't Be Able To Put Down

Photo credit: "dem bones" by Robert Couse-Baker under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0.

7 Secrets To Writing A Story Your Readers Won't Be Able To Put Down

Chuck Wendig's 7 Secrets Of Withholding (alternately: 7 steps to becoming a literary tease)

Chuck Wendig has written some fine posts on the art and craft of writing, but his latest is my all-time favorite. What he says makes sense and it's doable.

Before I get into that, though, yesterday someone reminded me I should give a warning before I post a link to Chuck Wendig's blog, preferably something in large blinking neon letters saying: Warning! Adult material ahead! So, consider yourself warned. Here's the link to Chuck Wendig's article.

I know my title promised 7 secrets, but there's really only ONE secret and seven ways of implementing it. Ready? Here's the secret:

Be a tease.

I probably gave that up too quickly. (sigh)

Chuck writes that the "power of withholding is key to telling a good story" and goes on to list 7 ways you can withhold from your readers:

1. Withhold description

a. Withholding description helps make reading interactive

You want your readers to do some work. This isn't a lecture, it's a collaboration. What CW says here reminded me of one of Robert Sawyer's talks. This is from my notes:

Prose fiction is a form of interactive media. Lectures are boring, books shouldn't be. Make your stories interactive.

What is our goal? Why do we write? We want to ENTERTAIN readers. You want to engage your reader, you want to bring their cognitive functions to the story. (Robert J. Sawyer: Showing Not Telling)

In other words, your readers don't have to know every single last detail about what a protagonist is wearing, they only need to know the telling ones, the ones that show character.

And if you can convey the information by your character(s) doing something active, so much the better.

b.  Withholding description helps cut out needless information

We don't need to know what everything in a scene looks like down to the minutest detail. When I read this point I thought of something Stephen King said in On Writing:

Look--here's a table covered with a red cloth. On it is a cage the size of a small fish aquarium. In the cage is a white rabbit with a pink nose and pink-rimmed eyes. In its front paws is a carrot-stub upon which it is contentedly munching. On its back, clearly marked in blue ink, is the numeral 8.

Do we see the same thing? We'd have to get together and compare notes to make absolutely sure, but I think we do. ...

[The cage] is described in terms of rough comparison, which is useful only if you and I see the world and measure the things in it with similar eyes. It's easy to become careless when making rough comparisons, but the alternative is a prissy attention to detail that takes all the fun out of writing. What am I going to say, "on the table is a cage three feet, six inches in length, two feet in width, and fourteen inches high"? That's not prose, that's an instruction manual.

So, you heard it from the King of Horror as well: Don't get hung up on a "prissy attention to detail that takes all the fun out of writing" and, I would add, reading.

Don't overwhelm the reader. They don't need every single detail to receive get a clear picture.

2. Withhold Aspects of Character

Don't just withhold aspects of character, hint at them. Hint at possible cruelty, or a priveledged past, or uncharacteristic depths of generosity. Or pain. Or malevolence.

Tease your readers, make them curious. CW writes:

A character with unrevealed secrets or stories interests us: we’re the kids at Christmas morning tearing through a pile of presents hoping to get to the big reveal at the end (a new bike! a BB gun! a Barbie dream home! a Turkish scimitar with which to behead thine enemies!).

3. Withhold Information

By withholding information you create mystery.

Every question mark is a door that the reader wants desperately to walk through — and will do so almost to the point of compulsion, and compulsion is what we want, the compulsion to pick up the book again and again, the audience hungering to get back to the pages of the tale or to read the next issue or see the next episode. Litter your tale with unexplained mysteries big and small. The question will drive them: what does that strange tattoo on the woman’s back mean? Why did the wife kill the husband? Who is the one-eyed man? Who put the bomp in the bop-she-bop?

4. Withhold The Culmination Of A Relationship

Hold off on the big reveal, on letting the reader know if the narrator is going to die at the end of the story (Twilight), or whether one character will finally have their long fought-for revenge, or whether two characters will reconcile.  CW writes:

The audience will continue to tear through pages, hoping to see the hero and the villain have their climactic showdown, hoping to see if the two star-crossed lovers will ever uncross the stars and come together, hoping to see if the sea-king and the mer-girl finally realize that they are father-and-daughter.

5. Withhold Victory

I'm in the middle of plotting a novel and one thing I keep in mind is that things must keep getting more complicated, more dire, for my protagonist.

At the beginning of the story she's presented with a problem, a challenge, and she survives it--kinda, sorta--but her life after that takes a nose dive as the problems keep coming and escalate.

In the beginning she's only worried about saving her own life but, by the end, the lives of everyone she's ever cared about hang in the balance. CW writes:

When complicating the goals of the protagonist, withholding victory and denying her success or an escape or an answering to her own questions is key — the audience is bound up with the protagonist and they want to see her safe and happy and vanquish darkness and find love and learn the truth. But by continuing to dangle the carrot, we see the protagonist urge forward through the story and we see the audience trailing along with her.

6. Withhold Knowledge

This goes both ways. Above, in point 3, we talked about withholding information from your characters, information the reader knows, and how that creates mystery.

But it works the other way as well. We can also let readers know more about something than one of our characters. CW writes:

Withholding information from the characters but then revealing that information to the audience is dramatic irony, and makes the audience feel like they’re “in on the secret,” and further, become eager to know when the damning information they possess will finally catch up to the characters on the page.

7. Withhold What The Audience Wants

You've probably heard the saying, "Give the reader what they want." This is the exact opposite. You want to build-up interest, tension, curiosity. You want to hook your readers and you do that by making them want more. As Chuck Wendig writes,

It’s about build-up. And tension. And hesitation. And uncertainty. And fear. And lust. It’s about a trail of moist little morsels pulling them deeper and deeper into the tangled wood. It’s equal parts baited trap and Stockholm Syndrome. It’s about not giving up what the audience desires most and at the same time making them thank you for the privilege of being denied.

At the climax of your book, that's when the veil is torn down and your readers' curiosity is quenched. AT least, mostly. If you're writing a series, you'll want to leave just a bit of the mystery in place.

What do you think of Chuck Wendig's tips? Do you use the secrets of withholding to increase tension and create a riveting story, one a reader can't put down?

Other articles you might like:

- Review Of Grammarly, Its Strength And Weaknesses
- Joe Konrath Makes $15k A Week Selling His Backlist
- How To Be A More Productive Writer: Use A Voice Recorder

Photo credit: "Amber" by Stewart Black under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0.

Chuck Wendig's Editing Plan: Edit A Novel In Four Months

Chuck Wendig's Plan To Edit A Novel In Four Months

I wrote about Chuck's post before, but only about the first couple of paragraphs because what he wrote there blew my mind: Editing is writing.

If you're looking at the screen blankly thinking, "Yeah. So?" then I applaud you. That held me back for a long time.

Caveat

Of course writing new words matters, but here's how I look at it. It's not new words per day that matters, it's new words per year. I can't sell three novels and miscellaneous short stories a year if I don't write 250,000 or so words in a year.

Write and edit.

Okay. Enough said. Moving on.

Writing vs Storytelling

These are the twin pillars of writing and, yes, the analogy of pillars breaks down because unlike the Grecian pillars I imagined when I wrote the above, writing and storytelling intermingle like rum on a Bundt cake.

As Chuck Wendig mentions, writing is "technical and objective" while storytelling is "far more subjective and instinct-driven".

For instance, I had a friend in my university days who--though he couldn't write an essay to save his life--could spin funny, absurd and altogether spellbinding tales. I worried about him, though, since the majority of his stories began with, "I was out at the bar the other night". It was his version of "Once upon a time".

My storytelling friend had an innate understanding, in intuitive grasp, of the elements of story. But, since we're writers, that's only half the picture.

Writing problems

Here's what I mean by writing problems: an unreflective disregard of grammar. For instance, comma confusion, talking about the barber's convention rather than the barbers' convention. And so on.

Of course many of the greats spurned grammatical conventions regularly, but they knew them. Either explicitly or, like storytelling for my friend, it was in their bones. Their prose satisfied the ultimate grammatical directive: Be clear.

Garbled language can't help anyone express a thought. For instance, using "bakers" when you mean "baker's"--a mistake I know I've made a time or three (thank all-things-good for copy editors!)--never makes prose clearer.

Storytelling problems

Storytelling, on the other hand, is more about the flow and structure of a story. For instance, when you read about Blake Snyder's Beat Sheet or Michael Hauge's Screenplay Structure, or--something I've been writing about lately--the stages of the monomyth, we're in the realm of storytelling.

Get The Story First Then Write It

Before you pick up your pen to write a novel it helps (the writing will be faster and less angst-fraught) to have a good grasp of the story.

Think of it this way. When I open my mouth to say something I like to know, beforehand, exactly what I want to say. When I don't, things can get messy, and I suspect that's not just true for me.

Draft Zero

But life's not always like that. I find that, just like I'm not always 100% sure exactly what I'm going to say, I don't always know what story I want to write when I sit down to write it. (For instance, someone once asked me whether I thought it was a good idea for writers to keep a pet. It was an interesting question but one I don't have a settled view on; still, it was interesting to discuss it. To, as we sometimes say, "hash it out".)

Perhaps I'll have an idea, an image or two, a premise. Perhaps I'll have a vague idea how it all ends. Then I'll put my butt in a chair and write.

The first draft will probably be only 2/3 or even 1/2 the length of the book, but that's okay. These are my initial ideas. They're still growing, changing. The story is evolving.

After that initial draft (or, as Kim Neville says, draft zero) I'll have a much better idea of what my story is. I'll know how it begins (although this will probably change over the next few drafts), I'll know how it ends (this also will likely change but not as radically) as well as all the story points in between.

Detailed outline

Now I can sit down again, rip the whole thing apart, and write (hopefully) a good, clean, draft. One that, when finished, I can send out to my beta readers.

My first draft (or zero draft) is all about grabbing the story out of thin air--birthing the ideas on paper (and WOW, is that messy).

Then I do a good, detailed, outline of what I have, rearranging things as needed. Sometimes I end up scrapping much of the first/zero draft, but that's okay. It's main purpose is to birth the story.

The next draft

The second draft is more about writing. Now I know, more-or-less, what the story is. Sure things can still change, but not as much. Now I know exactly where I'm headed and how I'm going to get there. I've got my roadmap.

Before I send my baby out to my beta readers I give her a bath, dress her up and try to teach her some manners. That means checking the spelling, the grammar and reading my manuscript aloud.

Chuck Wendig's post is chalked full of great advise, I heartily recommend it. One of the best things about it are all the links he shares to his previous posts on editing.

Chuck Wendig's Editing Plan

This is the thing I've been meaning to get to, that the build up was really for. Chuck's handy-dandy editing plan. (cue trumpets)

You have just finished the first draft of your novel; perhaps you followed Chuck Wendig's plan for how to write a novel in a year. Here's what you do:

1. Edit 5 days a week.
2. For each of those 5 days, edit 5 pages.

That's it. You can do more than that. Chances are you'll have to junk parts of it and re-write others but the goal is to edit 5 pages a day.

Chuck estimates that, if you hold to this plan, it will take 3 to 4 months to edit an 80,000 word manuscript.

All together, this writing-editing plan will get you a finished novel in about a year and a half. If you stick to it!

Not bad. Not bad at all.

What do you think of Chuck Wendig's plan for completing a novel in a year and a half? Would you try this?

Other links you might like:

- Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction Challenge: Choose Your Random Sentence
- Stephen King Talks About Doctor Sleep, Winnebagos & A Movie Prequel To The Shining
- Handy Guides To Avoiding Mistakes In Grammar
- Writing Resources

Photo credit: "Home Base" by flossyflotsam under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0.

Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction Challenge: Choose Your Random Sentence

Chuck Wendig has issued another Flash Fiction Challenge, but he's mixing it up!

The Challenge

This time the challenge is to generate 10 or so random sentences from this random sentence generator and use one in a story of up to 1,000 words.

Be sure to let everyone know what your random sentence was!

When you're done, post it on your webspace and leave a link in a comment to Chuck's post: Flash Fiction Challenge: Choose Your Random Sentence. Your tale must be finished and the link posted by Friday, March 15th, noon EST.

Fun With Randomness

Get ready for crazy, nonsensical, sentences. It's great! Here are some of the ones I generated:

Can the year nose?
The hook objects to the war. (A pacifist Captain Hook?)
The teenager lurks next to the centered chestnut.
How can the touch flash? (Someone faster than Flash Gordon?)
The exciting weapon revolts behind the inventor.

When I saw the last sentence all sorts of light bulbs went off. First thought: An ancient scientist turns away from his latest creation, but as he does it becomes self-aware and attempts to escape.

Or something.

What sentence(s) did you generate?

Other links you might like:

- Stephen King Talks About Doctor Sleep, Winnebagos & A Movie Prequel To The Shining
- Handy Guides To Avoiding Mistakes In Grammar
- Beware Alibi Publishing, John Scalzi Warns: "This is the worst book contract I have ever encountered"

Photo link: "_IGP5461 | 70" by Ben Fredericson (xjrlokix) under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0.

How To Edit: Kill Your Darlings

When I started writing this post I fully intended to discuss Chuck Wendig's distinction between writing and storytelling and how to use this distinction to help diagnose problems in your manuscript. But then I fell down the rabbit hole of layer cakes and editordomes.

That's right. Editordomes.

In a soon-to-be-written post I do fully intend to talk about writing versus storytelling--a distinction I've wanted to talk about for some time--but for now I'm going to talk (or, rather, write) about how to identify darlings and then massacre them.

Kill Your Darlings

What is a darling? It's something that exists in your manuscript only because you love it. Or, to put it another way, if something is in your manuscript, your story, only because you love it then it's a darling and needs to go. (1)

Simply put, a darling "doesn't connect. It doesn't bond with the rest of the manuscript." (1)

A true “darling” is a lone wolf, a ronin ninja, a pretty little unibomber, a delicate snowflake. It does nothing for your work. It dances alone with itself in the corner, and you don’t have the heart to tell it that it needs to join the rest of the crowd or drink a capful of drain cleaner. (1)

Okay, that's how a darling functions, or fails to function, in your manuscript, but what is it? Chuck writes: "Darlings can be anything: a turn-of-phrase, a character, a word, a grammatical crutch (1)".

The test: how to determine if something is a darling

Here's the question you should ask yourself: If you cut out this bit of text does the story loose anything? Chuck writes:

Theatrically kill it. ... You’re just… taking it out of the draft for a little while to see how it reads, how it feels, how it lays. Copy the offending section. Paste it into a blank document. Let it sit there on its own ... Come back after fifteen minutes (or, up to a whole day if you’re able). Now, check out the draft once more. Re-read it. Read it aloud. (Always read aloud. I will jackhammer that into your brain as often as I can.) Do you feel that it lays fine the way it is? Or do you say, “Y’know what? This is missing a little something-something. Needs more salt and pepper.”

If it’s okay without it — and I’ll bet 7 times out of 10 it will be — then the darling you’ve sequestered on its own is no longer on vacation, but now trapped in a Murder Room. Close that open window and let it die a swift death.

If you think it needs more spice, more flavor, put it back in. “Kill your darlings” is not meant to be a surly screed against flavor. Flavor is good, as long as flavor accompanies nutritional value. Again, to go back to the empty calories metaphor: darlings are garnish for the sake of garnish, or sweets just because you want sweets. (1)

Weak Words: An Example Of A Darling That Has To Go

In Strangling My Darlings In A Clawfoot Bathtub (Part Two Of Two) Chuck gives examples of darlings. It's well worth the read, but I want to talk about one of his examples here because this is something I still battle with: the use of weak words or as Chuck writes: "mushy, weak, wobbly words".

Maybe, actually, really, almost, sort of, kind of, very, theoretically, mehh, meeeehhhhhh.

You want your writing to sound conversational.

But you don’t want it to sound like uncertain conversation. You don’t want it weak-in-the-knees. (2)

That doesn't mean weak words always make your prose boring, in fact you might think they lend it flair. Chuck concedes this, to a point.

They’re not terrible in total, and some can lend to a stylistic flair, but it’s often too easy to default to that as your excuse. “My writing doesn’t suck. It’s just my style.”

Well, fine. Then your style involves copious amounts of sucking. (2)

How We Can Drown Darlings Without Drama

Be in the right state of mind

You need to let your manuscript go. Yes, you have invested a lot of yourself in its pages, into the story, but now it's time to let it go, to disassociate yourself from it. It is not you. Keep saying that until you believe it.

I love the way Chuck puts this: "You are not the sum of those pages." (1)

How does one distance oneself from ones litterary offspring? Put your manuscript in a drawer, close the drawer and walk away. Chuck advises taking at least a month off, Stephen King recommends six weeks. Don't even open the drawer. Forget about the manuscript. Wipe it from your mind as much as possible. You want to come back to it with new eyes and edit it as though it were someone else's work. That's the kind of objectivity you'll need.

Read Everything Aloud

I don't do this but I know I should ... and now that I've read Chuck's posts I think I will. He writes:

You do that [read aloud], you will hear all the fits and starts, all the awkward language, all the broken pauses, all the disturbed rhythms. Typing is not like speaking — we have the extra step of having our fingers do their little fingery dance. As such, you need to bridge that gap. (3)

Have you ever read your manuscript aloud? Have you ever had your manuscript read to you?

References:

1. Strangling My Darlings In A Clawfoot Bathtub (Part One Of Two)
2. Strangling My Darlings In A Clawfoot Bathtub (Part Two Of Two)
3. Welcome To Editordome

Other articles you might like:

- Chuck Wendig Says That Editing Is Writing
- Looking At Plot: Urban Myths And What They Teach Us
- Monsignor Ronald Knox's 10 Rules Of Detective Fiction

Photo credit: "A petición de Fran." by www dot jordiarmengol dot net (Xip) under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0.

Chuck Wendig Says That Editing Is Writing

My title comes from Chuck Wendig's latest post. He writes:

Let’s get something out of the way:

Editing is writing.

This--his way of drilling down to the core of relevant writing issues--is one reason I've been increasingly eager to read Chuck Wendig's posts.

Believe it or not, there is some disagreement about the point. Some reasonable, smart, experienced, articulate writers would insist that, to the contrary, editing is most emphatically NOT writing.

The Problem With Saying Editing Is Not Writing

For me, here's the problem with denying that editing is writing: I'm a writer, but I spend most of my time editing because I write fast drafts.

Here's how I write a first draft: for two or three (glorious!) weeks I'll say goodbye to the collective illusion we call the real world and climb through a rabbit hole--or slink into a closet, or creep inside (what looks like) a phone booth, or ...--into a world it's up to me to create.

This is the part of writing I can't wait to get to. Writing a fast draft helps me stretch my creative muscles in a way I rarely get to otherwise. Of course, by the end, I can't wait to get to the editing!

The upshot is that I spend the overwhelming majority of my time editing that first draft (and editing, and editing, and ...).

Yes, I insert new scenes here and there, and I cut others, but I think of that as editing not writing. I can't say, "I'll write at least 1,000 words today" because I write as much as I need to and it varies day to day.

But perhaps that's wrong. Perhaps editing is writing and writing is editing.

Chuck Wending writes:

At the end of the day, the actual execution of your editing process is writing. It’s you doing surgery and excising all the unsightly tumors from your work and filling in the gurgling wounds with better material: healthy flesh, new organs ... Sometimes it’s as simple as killing commas and adding periods. Other times it’s as complicated as dynamiting the blubbery beached whale that is your entire third act, picking up all the viscera, and filling in the hole with clean, pristine sand. Sometimes it’s a leeeetle-teeny-toonsy bit of writing. Sometimes it’s a thousand rust-pitted cauldrons of writing.

Writing is editing. Editing is writing.

Writing is rewriting. And rewriting. And rewriting.

I would encourage you to read the rest of Chuck Wendig's article, though I should note it contains mature language.

By the way, all quotations are from Chuck Wendig's post February 26, 2013 post unless otherwise noted.

What do you think? Is editing writing?

Other articles you might like:

- Looking At Plot: Urban Myths And What They Teach Us
- Write A Novel In A Year, Chuck Wendig's Plan: The Big 350
- The Importance Of Finding Your Own Voice

Photo credit: "la nebbia di settembre" by francesco sgroi under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0.

The Importance Of Finding Your Own Voice

Kris Rusch has written another awesome, inspirational, post: Out! All of You!

It was just what I needed. Over the past few days I've been getting back into the habit of writing after taking a break for my shoulder to heal and it's been tough.

Ignoring Your Inner Critic

Whenever I sat down to write all sorts of jabbering voices rose up like mushrooms after a rain, each telling me I was writing crap, that I would always write crap, that my crap was so crappy no one would read it.

Of course we have to care what other folks think about our work. After all, we need to pay the rent and eat occasionally. But it's easy to forget that the person we are writing for, first and foremost, is ourselves.

This isn't self-indulgence, it isn't ego. As writers, as creative beings, we need to stretch our creative muscles, we need to grow and continually develop our unique voice.

How do we do this? We write what our souls call us to write, regardless of what anyone else will think about it, regardless of whether anyone else believes what we're doing is valuable, or good, or even remotely sane!

Finding Your Own Creative Voice

In Out! All of you! Kris Rusch writes about finding your creative voice. She says that to have a long-term career, you need to learn to roll with the punches AND "you need to believe in yourself with a fierce passion. You need to know that your vision is the correct vision for you, and then you need to defend it."

Sally Field Fought For Her Creative Voice

Kris Rusch took the title of her piece--Out! All of you!--from a story Sally Field told in this short (4 min) video clip (starts around 2:45) during her interview on Nightline. It's an excellent video and Sally Field is wonderfully charismatic, it's well worth watching.

The point is that Sally Field believed enough in herself, in her artistic voice, to ignore the advice of her agents, her business manager and her husband and go her own way. And it paid off. She was right about herself. She succeeded.

Kris writes:

What disturbs me every teaching season is the way that writers wait for someone to tell them what box they fit in or what box they should go to. Every year, writers tell at least one of us that we need to give them better instructions. If we give better instructions, the writers insist, then they can write what we want them to write, so that we’ll be happy with them.

These writers entirely miss the point. The point isn’t for us to be happy, but for those writers to find their own voice. Sometimes they’ll fail an assignment and have to do it all over again from scratch. Oh, well. All that means is that they have to invest more time into their craft.

But for a certain type of writer, it means that they have screwed up completely, that they’ll never succeed, that they didn’t receive the help they needed to mold themselves into something someone else wanted.

We can’t help those writers. We try not to teach them, because we teach writers to stand on their own, defend their own vision, and become who they want to be, not who they’re told to be. It’s a tougher road to walk, because it means that there’s no one to blame when things go wrong.

Write For Yourself As Well As Others

Yesterday I wrote a 1,600 word short story in about 4 hours. For me that's good. I'll have to do another pass or two but I'm proud of it.

But I'll never, ever, publish it.

Why? Because it has to do with my father's death. It provided we with a way to say goodbye to him and to explore various issues that lingered, like ghosts, after his passing. (I did this as an unofficial response to Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenge: Write What You Know.)

I wrote for myself, and I learnt something about myself and my writing. It gave me new energy, it invigorated me.

Rather than ask a question today I want to issue my own challenge:

Writing Challenge: Find Your Own Voice

1. Write something for yourself. 

Perhaps, down the road, you'll publish what you've written, but don't write with that in mind. Write something for you. If it will help, here is something Chuck Wendig wrote for his Write What You Know flash fiction challenge:

I want you to grab an event from your life. Then I want you to write about it through a fictional, genre interpretation — changing the event from your life to suit the story you’re telling. So, maybe you write about your first hunting trip between father-and-son, but you reinterpret that as a king taking his youngest out to hunt dragons. Or, you take events from your Prom (“I caught my boyfriend cheating on me in the science lab”) and spin it so that the event happens at the same time a slasher killer is making literal mincemeat of the Prom King and Queen. (Write What You Know)

2. Keep it short, 1,000 words or less

The second part of this challenge is to make it a short piece of 1,000 words or less. (Don't worry if you can't keep it to 1,000 words. I shot for 1,000 words and ended up with 1,600, but that was the shortest story I've written for years and was thrilled.)

Try to finish your piece on or before March 2. If you want to share it, post it on your website or blog and leave the link in a comment, below. If it's too personal to share, I'd still love to hear about your writing experience. :-)

Other articles you might like:

- Write A Novel In A Year, Chuck Wendig's Plan: The Big 350
- Plot, Story and Tension
- Patricia Cornwell Vindicated In Court, Wins 50.9 Million Dollars

Photo credit: "To Beseech Thee" by The Wandering Angel under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0.

Write A Novel In A Year, Chuck Wendig's Plan: The Big 350

Yesterday’s gone the way of the dodo. You have one day, and it is today.
- Chuck Wendig

Chuck Wendig has written another terrific article, this time about how to write a novel in a year.

Chuck Wendig's Plan: The Big 350

This is a simple plan. There are only two rules:

1. Write 5 days out of the week.

2. On each day you write, complete 350 words.

That's it. If you do this you'll have 91,000 words by the end of the year. Chuck writes:

The goal is not to write a masterpiece. ... The goal is to finish a novel despite a life that seems hell-bent to let you do no such thing. It is you snatching snippets of word count from the air and smooshing them together until they form a cohesive (if not coherent) whole. It assumes a “slow and steady wins the race” approach to this book.

Chuck Wendig suggests using a spreadsheet to keep track of your progress:

Make a spreadsheet if you have to. Track your 350 words per day (you’ll probably end up writing more than that consistently and hitting your tally quicker, particularly with a spreadsheet to remind you — you will discover it’s actually hard to stop at 350 words).

I'll leave you with these words of inspiration from Chuck:

You can sneeze 350 words. It’s like a word appetizer every day. Some days it’ll take you 15 minutes, other days two hours — but you’re going to commit to those 350 words every day, whether you type them out, or scrawl them in a notebook, or chisel them into the wall of your prison cell. You will carve these words out of the time you are given.

You get 24 hours a day. As do I. As do we all.

Grab a little time to write a little bit every day.

Here is a graphic Chuck Wendig created and that he invited his readers to share:

The Big 350 by Chuck Wendig,
used with permission.

Do you write every day? Every week? If so, do you have any tricks or tips to share?

Other articles you might like:

- How to record an audiobook at home
- 6 Ways To Get Rid Of Infodumps At The Beginning Of A Story
- How To Write Short Stories

Photo credit: "Happy Girl Hopscotch in Strawberry Free Creative Commons" by Pink Sherbet Photography under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0.

8 Tips From Chuck Wendig On How To Read Like A Writer

Posts like this--How To Read Like A Writer--are why I love Chuck Wendig's blog.

Chuck Wendig has identified something I've felt in a hazy kind of way and shined a spotlight on it. (After reading his post I'm tempted to write 'shined a #@*#! spotlight on it'. Color me impressionable.) He writes:

You can’t just pick up a book, read it, and have its wisdom absorbed into you. Eating a microwave burrito doesn’t make you a chef. Sitting on a chair doesn’t make you a ... carpenter. And reading doesn’t make you a writer. (How To Read Like A Writer)

Makes sense! Of course the saying--A writer must read and write--is true as far as it goes, it's just not terribly helpful due to its generality.

Chuck Wendig gets beautifully specific.

Chuck Wendig's Tips On How To Read Like A Writer

1. Be present in the text

I have trouble with this. For instance, I'm currently reading Kim Harrison's latest book in her Hollows series--Ever After--and whenever I start reading it I'm sucked in.

Every time I try to snap out of the story and examine the words she's using--examine how she's able to submerge me in her world--I get sucked in again!

But, yes, being present in the text is something I strive for. Though, tragically, it is easiest to achieve when I'm reading a book I'm lukewarm about.

2. Read to understand; dissect the page

Chuck Wendig writes:

[A] chef doesn't just eat to enjoy. A chef watches how another chef operates. A chef wants to look at technique and then wants to see how that technique translates to the food on the plate: what ingredients are present? What textures and spices? What ancient shellfish from beyond space and time?

A Chef wants to understand how the other chef creates his culinary magic.

Chuck Wendig doesn't specify, in this section, what precisely he has in mind by 'dissect the page', but in his article 25 Things I Want To Say To So-Called “Aspiring” Writers, he writes:

And, when you do read something, you learn from it by dissecting it--what is the author doing? How are the characters and plot drawn together?

That reminds me of something I wrote down in my writing journal earlier today: Create a goal for your character that will eventually force them to deal with their unique weakness.

I think that's a paraphrase, not a direct quotation. It's from a three minute YouTube video about characterization: How To Make An Audience Care About Your Characters by John Truby. (The 3 minute video is excellent.)

So, for starters, I need to ask myself things like:

- What is the protagonist's weakness?
- What is her external goal?
- How will the protagonist achieving their goal resolve the character's weakness? (Sometimes the weakness is called the characters 'wound', or their 'internal goal'.)

I think that the stories I would rate as mediocre probably don't do the above well.

3. Read with questions in mind

Here are Chuck Wendig's suggestions:

- How did the author write this?
- Why did the author write it this way? Why did she choose the words she did?
- What is the ratio of dialogue to description?
- How does the author handle character? Setting? Action?
- How would you do it differently?

4. Read to critique

As Chuck Wending notes, a critique is an analysis. I came across an excellent article the other day about how to structure a story. One idea I had for a blog post was to take a classic short story--a very VERY short story--and analyse it in terms of character development, pacing and story structure.

I think doing that sort of analysis would benefit me more than reading any number of books solely for pleasure.

5. Read deeply

Chuck Wendig advises us to "look beyond the words".

- What themes are at work?
- What ideas are expressed?
- What were the author's childhood traumas? Look for the author's personal contribution to the unfolding story.
- What is the subtext?

6. Understand the interplay between writing and storytelling

This is another reason why I love Chuck Wendig's blog posts. This is SO true! But I can't recall anyone else ever saying it, at least not this clearly. CW writes:

Those are two separate skills (or crafts, or arts, or magical leprechaun incantations or whatever you want to call them) — the story comprises all those narrative components and the writing comprises the language that communicates those narrative components. Both have structure. Both utilize the other. Separate but then ask: how and how well do they work together?

7. Read from the screen

Be eclectic in your research, don't just read novels. CW writes:

Watch television. Films. Games. Get scripts. Read those. You’ll learn a lot about dialogue and description. You’ll learn the architecture of story.

8. Read beyond the walls of your pleasure dome

I'm bad at this. Atrocious. I read what I like, I should get recommendations from my writer friends and read those books even if they don't, initially, seem like my cup of tea. Chuck Wendig writes:

If all you do is read in the genre in which you write and/or enjoy, you’ve created for yourself a narrative echo chamber — your own authorial intentions are boomeranged back to you. You gain nothing.

Chuck Wendig ends his article by writing:

[I]f this writing thing is what you want to do with some or all of your life, then accept that reading is part of the job. And this job demands that all the lights in your brain are turned on, not dulled to a dim room in order to passively absorb the haw-haws and ooh-aahs of entertainment. Read like a writer, goddamnit.

Amen!

Do you read like a writer? What questions do you ask when you read?

Other articles you might like:

- Author Solutions: The New Carnys?
- Structured Procrastination: Procrastinate And Get Things Done
- Joanna Penn's Tips For Writing Realisitic Fight Scenes

Photo credit: "Week #1 "New" [1of52]" by Camera Eye Photography under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0.

Fleshing Out Your Protagonist: Creating An Awesome Character

I know I've said this before, but Elizabeth S. Craig has a great Twitter feed for writers (@elizabethscraig). Whenever I want to read a helpful article on the art and craft of writing I just browse Elizabeth's tweets. (Her mystery novels are great too!)

I wanted to remember to say that because I found the article I'm discussing today through Elizabeth's tweets: She's No Mary Sue: Creating Characters People Care About.

Chuck Wendig, Flash Fiction And A Horror Story

Yesterday I wrote my first horror story! I've been wanting to write one for ages but never had an idea that grabbed me, that made me think: that'd be a fun story to write.

The Power Of Writing Exercises

Honestly, I don't do a lot of writing exercises. I'd rather spend my time on my work-in-progress or developing a new story. But, as I say, I'd been wanting to write a horror story for some time but something was holding me back. It was difficult getting into the right head-space.

Recently I discovered Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenges. I haven't completed one, but it's fun plugging Chuck's categories into a random number generator and seeing what kind of story idea would pop out. Chuck gives 10 different subgenres, 10 different settings and 10 different things your story mush feature, then you either choose one thing from each category on your own or use a random number generator to do it for you.

Here are some of the writing prompts I came up with:

 Flash Fiction Challenge: The Wheel, Part Two (Part one is here.)
[Subgenre] in [conflict] [featuring ...]
- Bad girls in prison need to hide a body featuring a vengeful god.
- Lovecraftian revenge and a suitcase full of money.
- Alien abduction, a character being hunted and a mysterious stranger.

And, last but certainly not least, Chuck Wendig's latest flash fiction challenge features photos of places that look impossible but are actual landmarks. The challenge: Write 1,000 words inspired by one of the photos.

I decided to combine Chuck's last two challenges and write a horror story involving an alien abduction, a character being hunted and a mysterious stranger. Further, I decided it would take place here: The Crystal Cave in Skaftafell Iceland.

I also decided that the story would take me two hours to write and come in at just under 1,000 words.

Are you laughing? You should be! It took me around four hours and I blew way past the 1,000 word mark--I ended up writing about 3,000 words!

But that's okay. I now have the first draft of a story I'd like to read. And, for me, that's what it's all about. Sure, selling one's work is nice--we all need to eat--but a big reason why I started to write was that I wanted to create (or discover) the kind of stories I loved to read.

But now I'm at the stage where I need to develop my protagonist.

Fleshing Out Your Characters

At the moment my protagonist has a few bones, a more-or-less complete skeleton, but very little skin (metaphorically speaking, of course!).

Today, before I start work on the second draft, I need to put some meat on her bones and I do that by asking questions. A great resource I use regularly is Donald Maass' The Breakout Novelist Workbook as well as my notes from his workshops (see here, here and here).

Recently, though, I came across the blog post, She's No Mary Sue: Creating Characters People Care About, by Susan J. Morris. Susan points out that all stories are about a character with a problem and how that character solves, or fails to solve, that problem.

Give your readers a glimpse, early on, of your hero's eventual greatness

Also, and I thought this was a brilliant way of looking at it, Susan points out that, at the end of your story, chances are your character (unless it's a tragedy) will become kinda awesome. And that's good because they'll need to be awesome to conquer the villain and achieve their goal.

But at the beginning of the story your character is a long way from being awesome. This is both good and bad. It's good because every character--especially your main character--needs an arc. It's bad because characters who aren't good at something tend to be boring; and that's VERY bad, especially at the beginning of a story when you're trying to convince people your story would be all kinds of interesting fun to read.

The solution: give your readers a glimpse, early on, of your protagonist's eventual greatness. Susan writes:

Your character is going to be awesome. Once they get to page 275. Heroes rarely start out heroes. But generally speaking, the unformed hero has about as much dynamicism as a lump of clay. Even if you are writing an origin story for your hero, you have to figure out what defines your character, what makes them awesome, and give us a glimpse of it early so that we’ll stick around to page 275.

That sounds great, doesn't it? There is a problem. At the beginning of your story you probably don't know exactly how the story is going to end and your grasp of those traits which make your character the heroine they were born to be is going to be limited at best.

The solution? Write a scene where your character is awesome, ignoring whether the scene would fit in your story. This is about discovering who your character is and what she can do. Susan writes:

One way to figure all that out is to write your character’s quintessential scene—the scene that defines them as a character. Don't worry about whether it even belongs in the book! Just writing the scene will help you work through their character. The first scene in Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark is quintessential Jones. You learn he’s an adventuresome archeologist who is afraid of snakes, that he has a mean arm with a whip and a near-constant smirk, neither of which help him against his constant antagonist, and that he always recovers his hat.

Character Questions

As I wrote earlier, I love using character questions to help me flesh out my protagonist. I don't have a cut-and-dried method, but I find if I know the answers to these sorts of questions before I begin editing my first draft that the writing, and re-writing, goes much quicker.

1. What does your character want more than anything and what is stopping them from getting it?

2. What is the one thing they wouldn’t do to get it?

3. What does your character fear more than anything, and what would make it even worse?

4. What unexpected thing are they really good at?

5. What assumptions do people make about them that always make them angry?

6. What event has changed the way they look at life and why?

7. What is hardest for them to forgive?

8. What are three positive and three negative adjectives you could use to describe them?

9. If your character had a facebook, what embarrassing secrets could we dig up on them?

10. When your character goes to a party, do they under-dress or over-dress? Do they come and leave on-time, early, or late? Are they a wallflower or the center of attention? Are they excited or filled with anxiety? (She's No Mary Sue: Creating Characters People Care About)

How do you put flesh on your character's bones? Do  you ask questions? Freewrite? Do a character interview? Something else?

Other articles you might like:

- Dean Koontz And 5 Things Every Genre Story Needs
- How Plotting Can Build A Better Story
- Building Character: The Importance Of Imperfection

Photo credit: "Army Photography Contest - 2007 - FMWRC - Arts and Crafts - I Can See You Now"by familymwr under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0.