The latest draft of Souldancer is nearing fruition. I'm averaging a chapter a day, so at that rate I expect to finish in two or three weeks.
Since I'll have just finished redrafting, the book will need inspection by objective eyes. If you would like to be a beta reader for this project, please volunteer in the comments section below or by sending me an email expressing your interest. I know there are already a couple of people I can count on, but in this case more is more.
Thanks to everyone who's supported me in this enterprise.
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Monday, June 24, 2013
Friday, June 21, 2013
Prologues and Epilogues
Before I'm accused of closed-mindedness regarding supplemental novel materials, let me say that both of my manuscripts' first drafts had prologues. I was persuaded to cut them on the wise advice of my beta readers.
Prologues and epilogues have staunch defenders who point out major books by famous writers that have them (Robert Jordan and Neil Gaiman for instance). I cut my prologues for two simple reasons.
Since this blog sticks to advice for beginning writers from a beginning writer, I say in all bluntness: avoid prologues and epilogues. Make them your first and last chapters, integrate the material elsewhere in the book, or just cut them altogether. Again, the main reason for this rather crude approach is that 90% of agents and editors admit that a prologue negatively impacts their view of a manuscript. If you must include supplemental material, submit the MS without it and tactfully discuss adding it back in once the project's been accepted.
Prologues and epilogues have staunch defenders who point out major books by famous writers that have them (Robert Jordan and Neil Gaiman for instance). I cut my prologues for two simple reasons.
- Agents and editors hate them.
- I am neither Robert Jordan nor Neil Gaiman.
Since this blog sticks to advice for beginning writers from a beginning writer, I say in all bluntness: avoid prologues and epilogues. Make them your first and last chapters, integrate the material elsewhere in the book, or just cut them altogether. Again, the main reason for this rather crude approach is that 90% of agents and editors admit that a prologue negatively impacts their view of a manuscript. If you must include supplemental material, submit the MS without it and tactfully discuss adding it back in once the project's been accepted.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Organic vs. Outline
There are two general approaches to starting the writing process: outlining and organic writing. Both methods have advantages and flaws. Many writers use some combination of both. Which is best? The answer largely depends on the writer, but this brief overview should help.
Outlining
The writer undertakes extensive world building and planning before drafting begins. The overall story structure; plus major characters, themes, and plot twists, are outlined.
Advantages
Organic/Discovery Writing
The author gets an idea and just starts writing about it, letting the story develop organically.
Advantages
Flaws
For a more in-depth treatment of this subject, Writing Excuses has an excellent discussion on discovery writing and several on outlining.
Outlining
The writer undertakes extensive world building and planning before drafting begins. The overall story structure; plus major characters, themes, and plot twists, are outlined.
Advantages
- Reduces the likelihood of omitting important characters/scenes/plot points, etc.
- Gives the writer a road map to fall back on if the story goes astray.
- Theoretically speeds up the actual writing process, which can become as simple as filling in the outline.
- Minimizes the risk of wasting time and effort by becoming disenchanted with the story after writing several chapters.
- Can delay the start of writing by encouraging endless world building.
- Promotes excessive exposition on background concepts like magic systems, fantasy world history, character origin stories, etc.
- Runs the risk of turning the art of writing into a sterile, paint-by-numbers exercise.
Organic/Discovery Writing
The author gets an idea and just starts writing about it, letting the story develop organically.
Advantages
- Minimal risk of writer's block due to incessant world building.
- Easier to make changes rather than scrapping a whole story.
- Greater freedom to "follow characters" who take the plot in unexpected directions.
- Lowers the risk of scenes/characters/plot twists feeling forced.
Flaws
- No reference to fall back on. "Working without a safety net".
- Easier to forget important concepts/plot points.
- Increased risk of writer's block from lack of direction.
- Greater chance of a meandering, bloated narrative.
- Avoiding flow/pacing problems takes strong self-discipline.
- Higher risk of continuity errors.
For a more in-depth treatment of this subject, Writing Excuses has an excellent discussion on discovery writing and several on outlining.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Breaking the Law
I want to be a writer; therefore I write. Because I want to be a good writer, I read books (though not as many as I should), seek advice from other writers, and study writing techniques. These two pursuits often overlap, resulting in blog posts about guidelines for writing fiction.
Writing about the rules of fiction helps me to learn them. Hopefully my readers learn something too, or at least suffer no harm from my amateurish pontificating. In any event, my aim is not to dictate a set of immutable laws governing all literature. After all, I'm still learning. Like jazz musicians, the real fun only starts when you know the rules well enough to start breaking them.
If that's the case, why not ignore the rules from the beginning? Why bother learning them at all? The answer is that there's a significant difference between writing with hamfisted ignorance or lazy disregard for literary conventions and purposefully tweaking the rules in entertaining ways.
Let me illustrate my point by returning to that tried and true well of storytelling excellence: Christopher Nolan's Dark Knight. The film breaks a major rule of characterization and begins doing so immediately by never explaining the Joker's back story (a few self-professed origins are given but cannot be trusted for obvious reasons). Antagonists 101 states that the main villain must be fully fleshed out. The audience must understand the character and his motivations in order to identify with him and thus find meaning in his villainy.
Nolan directly transgresses this rule. Instead of a complex three-dimensional antagonist, he gives us a demonic agent of chaos with no personality beyond the scope of his crimes. It shouldn't work, yet it does--and brilliantly--because the director (and writers and actor) know how to break the rules.
Lesser artists would've wound up with a mustache-twirling cardboard cutout who ties women to train tracks. Ledger's Joker can get away with doing evil for evil's sake because his character is a walking commentary on breaking rules. He straddles the line between a human villain with intelligible motives and a destructive force of nature (as made explicit by Alfred's "Some men just want to watch the world burn" speech). That shift puts the conflict on a whole other level.
When the movie version of an "unfilmable" book earns critical praise, it's often because the filmmakers took advantage of the project's stigma to subvert movie and literary storytelling conventions. In fiction, one of the best ways to entertain an audience is to do the unexpected. Learning the rules your art relies on and then creatively breaking them usually catches people off guard.
What are some other books, films, etc. that defied conventions with entertaining results?
Writing about the rules of fiction helps me to learn them. Hopefully my readers learn something too, or at least suffer no harm from my amateurish pontificating. In any event, my aim is not to dictate a set of immutable laws governing all literature. After all, I'm still learning. Like jazz musicians, the real fun only starts when you know the rules well enough to start breaking them.
If that's the case, why not ignore the rules from the beginning? Why bother learning them at all? The answer is that there's a significant difference between writing with hamfisted ignorance or lazy disregard for literary conventions and purposefully tweaking the rules in entertaining ways.
Let me illustrate my point by returning to that tried and true well of storytelling excellence: Christopher Nolan's Dark Knight. The film breaks a major rule of characterization and begins doing so immediately by never explaining the Joker's back story (a few self-professed origins are given but cannot be trusted for obvious reasons). Antagonists 101 states that the main villain must be fully fleshed out. The audience must understand the character and his motivations in order to identify with him and thus find meaning in his villainy.
Nolan directly transgresses this rule. Instead of a complex three-dimensional antagonist, he gives us a demonic agent of chaos with no personality beyond the scope of his crimes. It shouldn't work, yet it does--and brilliantly--because the director (and writers and actor) know how to break the rules.
Lesser artists would've wound up with a mustache-twirling cardboard cutout who ties women to train tracks. Ledger's Joker can get away with doing evil for evil's sake because his character is a walking commentary on breaking rules. He straddles the line between a human villain with intelligible motives and a destructive force of nature (as made explicit by Alfred's "Some men just want to watch the world burn" speech). That shift puts the conflict on a whole other level.
When the movie version of an "unfilmable" book earns critical praise, it's often because the filmmakers took advantage of the project's stigma to subvert movie and literary storytelling conventions. In fiction, one of the best ways to entertain an audience is to do the unexpected. Learning the rules your art relies on and then creatively breaking them usually catches people off guard.
What are some other books, films, etc. that defied conventions with entertaining results?
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
There Is No Conflict...
...Or at least no conflict worth writing about that ignores certain dramatic conventions. Without conflict there's no story, so here are a few core principles to keep in mind. Thanks to Donald Maass for spelling most of these out.
Emphasize concrete stakes over abstract ones. Even if you're writing a metaphysical narrative, audiences will probably find the solid visible consequences of the story's conflicts more directly accessible than their transcendent implications. By all means give your conflict an ideological dimension, but use symbol and subtext to tie it into your theme. It'll have more impact that way.
Make conflict proximate. This one seems self-evident, but it's good rule to be conscious of. Every conflict should involve the affected characters as closely as possible. This approach heightens tension and ensures high stakes. (Killing characters off-screen is much less traumatic/satisfying than doing it right in front of the audience.)
Make conflict matter. Another common sense rule that's ignored all too often. Conflict is all about the stakes. Battles in which heroes effortlessly mow down cannon fodder are nowhere near as interesting as conflicts that make the protagonist bleed (the blood can be metaphorical, as in victory won at a moral or emotional cost).
Also, conflict should not leave a character back at the status quo. Life is conflict, and life is change.
Create exceptional circumstances. Really interesting conflict removes a character from his comfort zone. Take away the Jedi's lightsaber (or better yet, his access to the Force). If your hero relies on guns, cut off his trigger finger. Make the super scientist contend with a magical threat. By hobbling their strengths, you show what your characters are really made of.
Make conflict difficult. Proceeding from the previous two points, it should be clear that challenging conflict is engaging conflict. Only munchkins enjoy riding roughshod over the opposition, and even they don't much care for reading about someone else doing it. Not every challenge your hero faces should equate to disarming a nuclear device while blindfolded, but none of them should be a cakewalk.
Some beginning writers may chafe at this assertion, but raising the difficulty can and sometimes should extend to letting your characters fail. There are few better teachers than defeat. Just make sure you've thought out the consequences of failure and then stick to them.
Give conflict immediacy. The protagonist's struggles should be immediate in terms of timing and intimacy. Don't let the hero resolve the conflict at his leisure. Start the clock ticking. Make the consequences of failure clear right away (and make them dire). Just as importantly, the source of conflict shouldn't be anonymous or random. Make it personal and direct.
Conflict is more than just fighting. I've used mainly physical examples so far because combat is the most readily understood form of conflict. But since conflict is what happens whenever two or more opposing forces vie with each other, the concept admits of many forms. You can have a ritualized or symbolic battle with primarily philosophical stakes. Conflict can even be waged on a purely intellectual, emotional, or spiritual level. Characters needn't trade blows to be in conflict. They just have to be at cross-purposes. In fact, the opposition doesn't have to be a character at all.
To recap: write conflict that is concrete, proximate, meaningful, exceptional, difficult, and immediate. And remember that a character's struggle against his inner demons can be more compelling than a battle scene.
These are just the general guidelines. What do you think makes for an engaging conflict?
Emphasize concrete stakes over abstract ones. Even if you're writing a metaphysical narrative, audiences will probably find the solid visible consequences of the story's conflicts more directly accessible than their transcendent implications. By all means give your conflict an ideological dimension, but use symbol and subtext to tie it into your theme. It'll have more impact that way.
Make conflict proximate. This one seems self-evident, but it's good rule to be conscious of. Every conflict should involve the affected characters as closely as possible. This approach heightens tension and ensures high stakes. (Killing characters off-screen is much less traumatic/satisfying than doing it right in front of the audience.)
Make conflict matter. Another common sense rule that's ignored all too often. Conflict is all about the stakes. Battles in which heroes effortlessly mow down cannon fodder are nowhere near as interesting as conflicts that make the protagonist bleed (the blood can be metaphorical, as in victory won at a moral or emotional cost).
Also, conflict should not leave a character back at the status quo. Life is conflict, and life is change.
Create exceptional circumstances. Really interesting conflict removes a character from his comfort zone. Take away the Jedi's lightsaber (or better yet, his access to the Force). If your hero relies on guns, cut off his trigger finger. Make the super scientist contend with a magical threat. By hobbling their strengths, you show what your characters are really made of.
Make conflict difficult. Proceeding from the previous two points, it should be clear that challenging conflict is engaging conflict. Only munchkins enjoy riding roughshod over the opposition, and even they don't much care for reading about someone else doing it. Not every challenge your hero faces should equate to disarming a nuclear device while blindfolded, but none of them should be a cakewalk.
Some beginning writers may chafe at this assertion, but raising the difficulty can and sometimes should extend to letting your characters fail. There are few better teachers than defeat. Just make sure you've thought out the consequences of failure and then stick to them.
Give conflict immediacy. The protagonist's struggles should be immediate in terms of timing and intimacy. Don't let the hero resolve the conflict at his leisure. Start the clock ticking. Make the consequences of failure clear right away (and make them dire). Just as importantly, the source of conflict shouldn't be anonymous or random. Make it personal and direct.
Conflict is more than just fighting. I've used mainly physical examples so far because combat is the most readily understood form of conflict. But since conflict is what happens whenever two or more opposing forces vie with each other, the concept admits of many forms. You can have a ritualized or symbolic battle with primarily philosophical stakes. Conflict can even be waged on a purely intellectual, emotional, or spiritual level. Characters needn't trade blows to be in conflict. They just have to be at cross-purposes. In fact, the opposition doesn't have to be a character at all.
To recap: write conflict that is concrete, proximate, meaningful, exceptional, difficult, and immediate. And remember that a character's struggle against his inner demons can be more compelling than a battle scene.
These are just the general guidelines. What do you think makes for an engaging conflict?
Friday, April 12, 2013
I Don't Need Your Life Story
A common mistake among beginning novelists is to front-load the narrative with the main character's back story. I've been guilty of this rookie error myself.
There's a sort of flawed logic behind a new writer's tendency to deliver the protagonist's full personality profile, family background, and job history up front. These details are foremost in an author's mind when writing about any character (or they should be). Thus, withholding this information takes considerable discipline.
Some writers are adamant about making formal introductions right away. They worry that readers will have difficulty relating to the characters if their back stories are withheld. This fear is largely unfounded because it projects the author's inverted character priorities onto the reader.
Authors grow attached to their characters' personal histories because they spend copious amounts of time intricately constructing those characters' imaginary lives. Readers, on the other hand, engage with characters based on their responses to conflict.
One might object that foreknowledge of a character's past is required for truly gripping conflict since that's what determines how a character deals with challenges. I reply that this objection is, again, backwards. Detailed background isn't needed to enhance conflict. Conflict reveals background. Dumping half a page of character exposition into the narrative dilutes conflict and diverts reader interest.
When should character background be revealed? Later. After the story's central conflict has clearly emerged, authors can address the cast's back stories at leisure--preferably spread out over the rest of the novel like seed in a tilled field.
I learned that I'd fallen into this trap when several Nethereal beta readers reported difficulty getting past chapter two. When questioned they all agreed that the book's opening was strong, but the second chapter read like a text book. I looked again and saw that they were right. The narrative was bogged down with background minutiae that fascinated me but distracted my readers. Since I was establishing the first novel in a series I couldn't cut all of the exposition, but I did minimize it to the point of readability.
Any other thoughts on handling character background?
There's a sort of flawed logic behind a new writer's tendency to deliver the protagonist's full personality profile, family background, and job history up front. These details are foremost in an author's mind when writing about any character (or they should be). Thus, withholding this information takes considerable discipline.
Some writers are adamant about making formal introductions right away. They worry that readers will have difficulty relating to the characters if their back stories are withheld. This fear is largely unfounded because it projects the author's inverted character priorities onto the reader.
Authors grow attached to their characters' personal histories because they spend copious amounts of time intricately constructing those characters' imaginary lives. Readers, on the other hand, engage with characters based on their responses to conflict.
One might object that foreknowledge of a character's past is required for truly gripping conflict since that's what determines how a character deals with challenges. I reply that this objection is, again, backwards. Detailed background isn't needed to enhance conflict. Conflict reveals background. Dumping half a page of character exposition into the narrative dilutes conflict and diverts reader interest.
When should character background be revealed? Later. After the story's central conflict has clearly emerged, authors can address the cast's back stories at leisure--preferably spread out over the rest of the novel like seed in a tilled field.
I learned that I'd fallen into this trap when several Nethereal beta readers reported difficulty getting past chapter two. When questioned they all agreed that the book's opening was strong, but the second chapter read like a text book. I looked again and saw that they were right. The narrative was bogged down with background minutiae that fascinated me but distracted my readers. Since I was establishing the first novel in a series I couldn't cut all of the exposition, but I did minimize it to the point of readability.
Any other thoughts on handling character background?
Monday, April 8, 2013
How About a Magic Trick?
Is every masterpiece a deliberate result of its creator's intent? A discussion resulting from Friday's post grappled with this question. I think it presents what catechists call a "teachable moment".
Where do groundbreaking works get their emotional power? Opinions on this subject fall into two broad categories. Fans of auteur theory credit all of a story's emotive resonance to the storyteller. In this view crafting a compelling game, novel, or film is a matter of talent and skill.
The concept of developer/author/director as a work's primary interpretive key was challenged by Roland Barthes' essay "Death of the Author". Barthes argued that an author's intent and background are totally insignificant to a work's meaning and emotional impact. According to this theory one could say that no creative expression is ever singular. Instead, each work exists simultaneously in three forms: the story in the author's mind, the story as it exists in writing (or as data or on film), and the story as it takes form in the audience's mind.
In effect, there are far more than three versions of every story because a new one springs into being with each new audience member. How often have you seen the film version of a favorite book and said, "That's not how I pictured that character/setting/prop"? Everyone who saw the movie after reading the book probably felt the same way because each reader invests the story with his own experience and preconceptions.
Personally I don't fully buy into either auteur theory or post-structuralism. The fatal flaw of each is a tendency to be too reductive. John C. Wright charts a sensible middle course between both extremes, likening a story to a magic trick. An author is like a magician who fools the reader into accepting a fiction that would prove absurd under the least bit of scrutiny. Like prestidigitation, lulling someone into full suspension of disbelief takes skill honed by practice.
But all the sleight of hand in the world is wasted if the story behind the smoke and mirrors doesn't emotionally resonate with the audience. Striking an emotional chord is the quality most associated with breakthrough fiction. Yet it is the audience who supplies the required sensibilities and life experience.
There are ways to maximize a story's chance of resonating with its audience, such as constantly escalating conflict built around widely-shared themes. However, aligning a story so as to evoke that dizzying "car with no brakes" feeling often happens through blind luck.
I'm sure you have a favorite game, book, or movie that no one else likes. On the other hand, I bet there's a universally lauded work that you can't stand. In either case, please share.
Where do groundbreaking works get their emotional power? Opinions on this subject fall into two broad categories. Fans of auteur theory credit all of a story's emotive resonance to the storyteller. In this view crafting a compelling game, novel, or film is a matter of talent and skill.
The concept of developer/author/director as a work's primary interpretive key was challenged by Roland Barthes' essay "Death of the Author". Barthes argued that an author's intent and background are totally insignificant to a work's meaning and emotional impact. According to this theory one could say that no creative expression is ever singular. Instead, each work exists simultaneously in three forms: the story in the author's mind, the story as it exists in writing (or as data or on film), and the story as it takes form in the audience's mind.
In effect, there are far more than three versions of every story because a new one springs into being with each new audience member. How often have you seen the film version of a favorite book and said, "That's not how I pictured that character/setting/prop"? Everyone who saw the movie after reading the book probably felt the same way because each reader invests the story with his own experience and preconceptions.
Personally I don't fully buy into either auteur theory or post-structuralism. The fatal flaw of each is a tendency to be too reductive. John C. Wright charts a sensible middle course between both extremes, likening a story to a magic trick. An author is like a magician who fools the reader into accepting a fiction that would prove absurd under the least bit of scrutiny. Like prestidigitation, lulling someone into full suspension of disbelief takes skill honed by practice.
But all the sleight of hand in the world is wasted if the story behind the smoke and mirrors doesn't emotionally resonate with the audience. Striking an emotional chord is the quality most associated with breakthrough fiction. Yet it is the audience who supplies the required sensibilities and life experience.
There are ways to maximize a story's chance of resonating with its audience, such as constantly escalating conflict built around widely-shared themes. However, aligning a story so as to evoke that dizzying "car with no brakes" feeling often happens through blind luck.
I'm sure you have a favorite game, book, or movie that no one else likes. On the other hand, I bet there's a universally lauded work that you can't stand. In either case, please share.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Writing Antagonists
I already discussed protagonists and their vital narrative role. Now on to the flip side of that coin: antagonists.
If the protagonist--the main character in pursuit of a goal--is the most important character in a story, the antagonist comes second by a hair's breadth. Conflict drives plot. The antagonist provides that conflict by opposing the protagonist's goals.
Let's examine two common claims about antagonists.
1. Purely evil "mustache twirling" characters are poor antagonists.
The truth of this maxim rests on the kind of story you want to tell. The Wicked Witch of the West would strike a dissonant tone in Heat, but she's right at home in her own fairy tale fable.
The antagonist should fit the genre. A story with a gritty realist tone demands a fleshed-out antagonist. Conversely, fairy stories are cautionary tales at heart. The villain of a morality play can embody one vice or another because he's more of a symbol than a character.
2. Antagonists have to be people.
This misconception is easily disproved by glancing at the canon of literature. A protagonist can find a worthy foil in an inhuman monster, in nature, and even in himself.
The Dark Knight aptly illustrates this point because it includes every kind of conflict to some degree. The Joker isn't really a character. Christopher Nolan has explained his decision against filming the Joker's origin story by saying that he wanted the character to be elemental--a force of nature.
The closest that The Dark Knight comes to having a classic antagonist is Two Face, but only after Harvey Dent loses his own man vs. himself conflict.
To sum up, the antagonist is the character and/or force impeding the protagonist's attainment of the story's main goal. One-dimensional antagonists are okay for morality tales, and they can be impersonal social or natural forces.
Tales striving for greater realism (including sci-fi and fantasy) should have antagonists who are just as fleshed out as the main character is. They should also be people who want something--directly opposed to the protagonist. If you're smart, your antagonist's ends and means will be fully justified; at least to himself.
If the protagonist--the main character in pursuit of a goal--is the most important character in a story, the antagonist comes second by a hair's breadth. Conflict drives plot. The antagonist provides that conflict by opposing the protagonist's goals.
Let's examine two common claims about antagonists.
1. Purely evil "mustache twirling" characters are poor antagonists.
The truth of this maxim rests on the kind of story you want to tell. The Wicked Witch of the West would strike a dissonant tone in Heat, but she's right at home in her own fairy tale fable.
The antagonist should fit the genre. A story with a gritty realist tone demands a fleshed-out antagonist. Conversely, fairy stories are cautionary tales at heart. The villain of a morality play can embody one vice or another because he's more of a symbol than a character.
2. Antagonists have to be people.
This misconception is easily disproved by glancing at the canon of literature. A protagonist can find a worthy foil in an inhuman monster, in nature, and even in himself.
The Dark Knight aptly illustrates this point because it includes every kind of conflict to some degree. The Joker isn't really a character. Christopher Nolan has explained his decision against filming the Joker's origin story by saying that he wanted the character to be elemental--a force of nature.
The closest that The Dark Knight comes to having a classic antagonist is Two Face, but only after Harvey Dent loses his own man vs. himself conflict.
To sum up, the antagonist is the character and/or force impeding the protagonist's attainment of the story's main goal. One-dimensional antagonists are okay for morality tales, and they can be impersonal social or natural forces.
Tales striving for greater realism (including sci-fi and fantasy) should have antagonists who are just as fleshed out as the main character is. They should also be people who want something--directly opposed to the protagonist. If you're smart, your antagonist's ends and means will be fully justified; at least to himself.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Endings and Beginnings
Since most stories are told from beginning to end, it seems logical that they should be written that way. This is wrong.
Once again, I invoke the wisdom of Kurt Vonnegut in advising writers against drafting in chronological order. I don't meant that you should write backwards from the ending. What you should do is figure out what the story's climax is: where the conflict between the protagonist's goal and the antagonist's interference comes to a boil. That's the heart of the story.
Many people think that a story's ending is the point when the plot is resolved. This isn't necessarily true. Ending a story is less of a problem than it's often made out to be, and most stories have several possible exit windows. The key is to know when your themes are resolved.
When you've got your protagonist and antagonist, you know what they want, you know the point of greatest conflict between them, and you know the ideas which will inform that conflict, it's time to start writing.
As you know, a beginning is a delicate time. The most helpful piece of advice I've found on starting a story is Chekhov's Razor: "First, throw out the first three pages." Doing so will weed out your initial fumbling attempts to find a narrative thread.
I've found Vonnegut and Chekhov's advice on endings and beginnings indispensable. If anybody else has tips for tackling the bookends of a story, feel free to share.
Once again, I invoke the wisdom of Kurt Vonnegut in advising writers against drafting in chronological order. I don't meant that you should write backwards from the ending. What you should do is figure out what the story's climax is: where the conflict between the protagonist's goal and the antagonist's interference comes to a boil. That's the heart of the story.
Many people think that a story's ending is the point when the plot is resolved. This isn't necessarily true. Ending a story is less of a problem than it's often made out to be, and most stories have several possible exit windows. The key is to know when your themes are resolved.
When you've got your protagonist and antagonist, you know what they want, you know the point of greatest conflict between them, and you know the ideas which will inform that conflict, it's time to start writing.
As you know, a beginning is a delicate time. The most helpful piece of advice I've found on starting a story is Chekhov's Razor: "First, throw out the first three pages." Doing so will weed out your initial fumbling attempts to find a narrative thread.
I've found Vonnegut and Chekhov's advice on endings and beginnings indispensable. If anybody else has tips for tackling the bookends of a story, feel free to share.
Friday, March 1, 2013
Writing Protagonists
I'd like to share a simple concept. If your protagonist sucks, your story will suck.
The engine that drives every story has three parts: a protagonist, something the protagonist wants, and an antagonist (human, environmental, psychological, etc.) who obstructs the protagonist's attainment of that goal. When you relate what the protagonist does to overcome the obstacles in his way, you are telling a story. Since so much rides on the protagonist, he'd better be interesting.
Here are a few tips for writing protagonists who engage and interest readers.
Goals: as I and writers far better than myself have said before, a protagonist must be properly motivated. There must be some goal that drives him through to the end of the story. Passive characters that events just happen to are dull.
Pseudorealism: note that I didn't say realism. That's because I write genre fiction. Fully realistic characters are preferred for interpretive fiction or nonfiction. For sci-fi and fantasy the idea is to give your characters (especially the protagonist) enough believable personality traits to balance the crazy make-believe elements.
Luke Skywalker is a space shaman prophesied to destroy an intergalactic empire. If someone approached you today and made the same claim, you'd rightly doubt his sanity. However, we suspend our disbelief in Luke's case because we also see that he's a working guy lamenting his frustrated dreams. That brings me to...
Relatability: a protagonist's mindset and motivations should be intelligible for the most part. This doesn't mean that you have to spell everything out. In fact, an touch of mystery is good for sci-fi stories. However, if your main character is inaccessible to common human experience, readers will have trouble vicariously inserting themselves into the tale through him. That in turn leads us to...
Sympathy; not Pity: the key to engaging readers is to ease their acceptance of the protagonist as a vehicle for their own vicarious experience. They must live the story through the main character. There is a spectrum of audience reaction to certain characters that runs from empathy to sympathy to pity.
Empathy means actually feeling what someone else feels. If your characters reach this stage (which I doubt is possible for fictional sub-creations), you've missed your exit and should turn back. If on the other hand the reader feels sorry for the protagonist with an undercurrent of contempt, you've engendered pity; not sympathy.
It's easier to describe what sympathetic characters are not instead of what they are. They don't have to be perfect. Protagonists can even have genuinely rotten flaws such as flagrant bigotry and past murder convictions. As long as the character has at least one redeeming virtue and expresses at least tacit remorse for past wrongdoing, he can earn our sympathy.
These are just a few qualities of effective protagonists. Can anybody think of more?
The engine that drives every story has three parts: a protagonist, something the protagonist wants, and an antagonist (human, environmental, psychological, etc.) who obstructs the protagonist's attainment of that goal. When you relate what the protagonist does to overcome the obstacles in his way, you are telling a story. Since so much rides on the protagonist, he'd better be interesting.
Here are a few tips for writing protagonists who engage and interest readers.
Goals: as I and writers far better than myself have said before, a protagonist must be properly motivated. There must be some goal that drives him through to the end of the story. Passive characters that events just happen to are dull.
Pseudorealism: note that I didn't say realism. That's because I write genre fiction. Fully realistic characters are preferred for interpretive fiction or nonfiction. For sci-fi and fantasy the idea is to give your characters (especially the protagonist) enough believable personality traits to balance the crazy make-believe elements.
Luke Skywalker is a space shaman prophesied to destroy an intergalactic empire. If someone approached you today and made the same claim, you'd rightly doubt his sanity. However, we suspend our disbelief in Luke's case because we also see that he's a working guy lamenting his frustrated dreams. That brings me to...
Relatability: a protagonist's mindset and motivations should be intelligible for the most part. This doesn't mean that you have to spell everything out. In fact, an touch of mystery is good for sci-fi stories. However, if your main character is inaccessible to common human experience, readers will have trouble vicariously inserting themselves into the tale through him. That in turn leads us to...
Sympathy; not Pity: the key to engaging readers is to ease their acceptance of the protagonist as a vehicle for their own vicarious experience. They must live the story through the main character. There is a spectrum of audience reaction to certain characters that runs from empathy to sympathy to pity.
Empathy means actually feeling what someone else feels. If your characters reach this stage (which I doubt is possible for fictional sub-creations), you've missed your exit and should turn back. If on the other hand the reader feels sorry for the protagonist with an undercurrent of contempt, you've engendered pity; not sympathy.
It's easier to describe what sympathetic characters are not instead of what they are. They don't have to be perfect. Protagonists can even have genuinely rotten flaws such as flagrant bigotry and past murder convictions. As long as the character has at least one redeeming virtue and expresses at least tacit remorse for past wrongdoing, he can earn our sympathy.
These are just a few qualities of effective protagonists. Can anybody think of more?
Monday, February 25, 2013
The Composition of a Composition
When I first got serious about writing, I knew that producing a novel-length manuscript would take a lot of discipline. My initial approach was to transcribe the story exactly as it existed in my head. I didn't stop to ask if this was the best approach.
Since then I've learned that there's more to drafting a manuscript than single-minded pounding at a keyboard. Trial and error taught me what I could have learned from more experienced writers if I'd thought to ask. The following list of composition methods should save you some time.
Write in Drafts. Like I mentioned before, composing and editing are two different processes. My rookie mistake was trying to perform both operations at the same time. The result really slowed my progress.
Instead of editing as you go, write one whole draft at a time. Then go back and revise. The idea is to find a writing groove that will maximize your creativity. Don't get bogged down worrying about mistakes. You can fix them later.
Add chapter breaks later. A corollary to writing in drafts is to avoid breaking the first draft up into chapters while writing. If you wait till the revision phase, you'll already know where the natural pauses and cliffhangers are. Insert chapter breaks accordingly.
Or compose in chapters. I know some writers who draft in chapters and save each one as a separate file. This is the method I use because it makes revisions easier (I don't have to search through a whole 500 page manuscript to find a typo that one of my readers pointed out). Instead I can just open the ten page document containing that chapter. Then I copy and paste each chapter into the final manuscript doc.
I'm always looking for ways to improve my writing. What are some of your favorite writing tips?
Since then I've learned that there's more to drafting a manuscript than single-minded pounding at a keyboard. Trial and error taught me what I could have learned from more experienced writers if I'd thought to ask. The following list of composition methods should save you some time.
Write in Drafts. Like I mentioned before, composing and editing are two different processes. My rookie mistake was trying to perform both operations at the same time. The result really slowed my progress.
Instead of editing as you go, write one whole draft at a time. Then go back and revise. The idea is to find a writing groove that will maximize your creativity. Don't get bogged down worrying about mistakes. You can fix them later.
Add chapter breaks later. A corollary to writing in drafts is to avoid breaking the first draft up into chapters while writing. If you wait till the revision phase, you'll already know where the natural pauses and cliffhangers are. Insert chapter breaks accordingly.
Or compose in chapters. I know some writers who draft in chapters and save each one as a separate file. This is the method I use because it makes revisions easier (I don't have to search through a whole 500 page manuscript to find a typo that one of my readers pointed out). Instead I can just open the ten page document containing that chapter. Then I copy and paste each chapter into the final manuscript doc.
I'm always looking for ways to improve my writing. What are some of your favorite writing tips?
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Art and Additional Materials
Visual art seems to enjoy pride of first place among the aesthetic fields. One of the primary reasons for its universal appeal is probably its immediacy. Anyone can get the gist of a drawing or painting after even a cursory glimpse, but extracting the meat of a literary piece takes significantly more time and effort. Artists, therefore, seem to achieve recognition more easily than writers.
If you want a practical example, try finding a comic book publisher who's accepting unsolicited script submissions. Even bigger studios periodically have open calls for new artists, but unless a story is accompanied by finished pencils at least, good luck getting it in the door.
An interesting observation I made during my unsuccessful bid to launch a web comic is that, while many authors (myself included) openly admit that they can barely manage artwork equaling grade school notebook sketches, every artist I've ever spoken to judges his writing to be on par with his art.
Having been rebuffed by pencilers who already had stories to go along with their artwork, and thus no need for me, I resolved to abandon comics for the time being in order to focus on novels--an medium dedicated entirely to the written word...or so I thought, until I came upon a common clause included in many standard book contracts imposing upon the author the obligation of providing additional materials, including original art.
Since, as I stated, I can't draw, the obvious answer was to include no artwork in my book, other than the front and back cover, which are the publisher's problem. However, I soon discovered that the standard contract specifies that the inclusion of additional artwork is at the publisher's sole discretion. If I do get a book deal, the publisher can demand interior art. Now, publishers know very well that there's every chance a particular author can't draw or paint as well as he can write (a rare combination despite what many artists seem to think), so they add a clause stipulating that the author will be forced to pay for the services of a third-party artist (or even the publisher's own art department).
Usually the publisher will just go ahead and farm out the production of additional materials for the novel, including permissions and indexes (or even maps made by actual cartographers) in addition to original art. Then they'll charge a debit to the author's account which, like the advance, is recoupable via royalties.
Long story short, if you're an author with a book deal on the horizon, make sure to renegotiate these generally unfavorable provisions of most standard literary contracts.
If you want a practical example, try finding a comic book publisher who's accepting unsolicited script submissions. Even bigger studios periodically have open calls for new artists, but unless a story is accompanied by finished pencils at least, good luck getting it in the door.
An interesting observation I made during my unsuccessful bid to launch a web comic is that, while many authors (myself included) openly admit that they can barely manage artwork equaling grade school notebook sketches, every artist I've ever spoken to judges his writing to be on par with his art.
Having been rebuffed by pencilers who already had stories to go along with their artwork, and thus no need for me, I resolved to abandon comics for the time being in order to focus on novels--an medium dedicated entirely to the written word...or so I thought, until I came upon a common clause included in many standard book contracts imposing upon the author the obligation of providing additional materials, including original art.
Since, as I stated, I can't draw, the obvious answer was to include no artwork in my book, other than the front and back cover, which are the publisher's problem. However, I soon discovered that the standard contract specifies that the inclusion of additional artwork is at the publisher's sole discretion. If I do get a book deal, the publisher can demand interior art. Now, publishers know very well that there's every chance a particular author can't draw or paint as well as he can write (a rare combination despite what many artists seem to think), so they add a clause stipulating that the author will be forced to pay for the services of a third-party artist (or even the publisher's own art department).
Usually the publisher will just go ahead and farm out the production of additional materials for the novel, including permissions and indexes (or even maps made by actual cartographers) in addition to original art. Then they'll charge a debit to the author's account which, like the advance, is recoupable via royalties.
Long story short, if you're an author with a book deal on the horizon, make sure to renegotiate these generally unfavorable provisions of most standard literary contracts.
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