Do you talk a lot about yourself, or are you the bottled-up type?  Which is better?  Which type of person do you suppose is easier for others to know?

Talking a lot about yourself doesn’t necessarily mean that we know the real you.  By the same token, being tight-lipped could well make you easy to read.  Neither personality type is better, ask me, it is only a matter of how easily, and how well, we sense who you are.  What you’re feeling.  How you see things.

Thing is, we want to know you.  Share your experience.  Connect.  Find out what we have in common.  Know that we are not alone.  Are you willing to let us in?  Do you feel safe doing so?  If you’re an open book, that’s great.  If you need time to reveal yourself, that’s fine too.  The point today is to understand yourself because how comfortable, and how quickly, you open up is connected to how you handle your characters on the page.

When reading a story, what we want above all things is to connect.  Exciting plots and lofty prose are nice in a novel, but the deepest involvement we feel comes from those moments when our hearts fuse with your protagonist’s, and when something happening in the story feels like it is happening to us.

What happens in a story is not happening to us, of course.  What characters are going through can seem like it is magically transferred to us but, actually, it’s not.  What we read stimulates in us recognition.  We associate story experiences with our own real lives and the wealth of feelings that we’ve banked.  When an association is strong, we naturally—although incorrectly—ascribe what we feel to the story.  Readers make comments such as, “It’s like the author was writing about me!”

Obviously not, but let’s focus on what produces that “as-if” feeling in readers.  Back in November here on WU, Dave King gave us a terrific post on immersive POV, in which he edited a scene in which a wedding photographer is coaxing spicier shots from her bride-and-groom subjects.  Dave shaped the passage to emphasize the photographer’s thought process, thereby immersing us more completely in her POV.

Today, my question is: How much immersion is effective?  What’s the right balance of interior thoughts and feelings versus outward action?  This question is often posed as show versus tell.  That’s an accurate way to pose it, to a point, but framing the issue as show versus tell leads us to a false value judgment.  Either showing or telling must be inherently better, right?  (Mostly show gets the nod.)

The truth is that neither is superior, what matters is the effect you are having on your reader; whether your reader is experiencing recognition.  Spelling out interior thoughts and feelings can do that, but so can implying those through outward action.  However, not just any thoughts and feelings or action will work.  There is a trick.  Let’s turn to a couple of examples to examine both the benefits and pitfalls of either approach. [Read more…]

Once in while, a new idea clobbers the brains of physicists and mathematicians.  Suddenly, they are forced to look at the universe in new and sometimes counter-intuitive ways.  Relativity.  Quantum physics.  Game theory.  Chaos theory.

Abstruse stuff like that isn’t just parlor entertainment for members of Mensa.  It has practical applications.  Nuclear energy.  Space travel.  Computers.  Even if we don’t get binomial distribution and math equations look to us like the number and letter stickers that my son has randomly plastered on his bedroom door, we should pay attention.  Physics explains strange phenomena.  Math orders what seems chaotic.

In the 1960’s, a French mathematician named René Thom came up with a way of understanding and describing sudden change.  It was a breakthrough because ordinary math presumes that things are fixed and solid like number lines, triangles and cubes.  Even the math of motion, calculus, conceives of moving bodies following smooth curves.  Throw a stone or fire a rocket into the air and it follows a predictable and elegant path up and back down.

But not everything that happens is so smooth and elegant.  The car ahead of you brakes sharply.  A corn kernel in a pan of hot oil suddenly pops open.  An old wall cracks.  Such events may seem unpredictable, measurable only as probabilities.  But every sudden change occurs in a particular moment.  Think of a dome with a marble perfectly balanced on its apex.  That marble isn’t going to stay there for long.  At a certain moment, the marble will suddenly start to roll in one direction or another.  Wouldn’t it be nifty to know when that moment will occur?

Okay, maybe knowing the precise second when a marble will begin to roll off a dome isn’t all that exciting.  But what if math could tell us ahead of time when an airplane engine will fail, the day on which a depressed individual will commit suicide, or when prisoners will riot, or when a government will go to war?

René Thom came up with math which might predict such sudden changes, which he called catastrophes.  His insights stirred hope that math could predict the previously unpredictable even in soft-science realms such as biology, psychology and social science.  Catastrophe theory, it was thought, might illuminate things as diverse as animals’ territoriality, corporate decisions to raise prices, and humans’ behavior in paying taxes.

The key was Thom’s application of topology which, in plain English, considers what happens to invariant points when the set of which they are a part bends or stretches around that point.  According to Thom, there are seven types of unstable curves, simple or three-dimensional, that show how a point will move “suddenly”—but predictably—according to how various forces are warping around it.

The seven types of unstable curves Thom named fold, cusp, swallowtail, butterfly, hyperbolic umbilic, elliptic umbilic, and parabolic umbilic.  Don’t stress.  There won’t be a quiz.  Just have a look at this cusp catastrophe diagram that predicts when a tax scofflaw will suddenly decide to pay his or her taxes:

What you see above is that the space around a point (“A”) can bend and fold as different pressures effect it.  When the fold becomes extreme enough, point “A” suddenly leaps from one spot to another.  Point “A”, the tax scofflaw, in a startling instant becomes Point “B”, a dutiful taxpayer.

What Thom showed was that such behavior is not random, meaning that it will either happen or not.  It will happen, math proves it, but to you and me the change that happens will look sudden and without immediate cause.

So, what has all of that to do with characters in fiction?  Well, consider this: characters change.  [Read more…]

Are you hiding something?

Did I just see you flinch?  I won’t tell.  In fact, you don’t even have to tell me what it was that just flashed through your mind.  It’s enough that I know it’s there.  You are carrying a burden, a weight that much of the time you can ignore but which nevertheless never completely goes away.

Guilt is like that.  It persists.  It’s a stab that doesn’t stop.  Until it is spoken and absolved, confessed and forgiven, it remains real.  Now, what’s that you say?  You insist that you have nothing about which you feel guilty?  Why do I not believe you?  If that is true, which I doubt, then you have lived a life that is either lucky, pure or blameless.  Either that or you have no conscience or empathy, in which case go seek public office.

Sorry, cheap shot.  Back to guilt.  It’s a primary emotion, primary meaning not only important but universal.  We’ve all felt it.  If our greatest offense was big enough, even if was committed long ago, we feel it still.  The stab.  What we have to feel guilty about may be something we said or did, or it may be what we failed to say or do.  Remaining silent when a shout is called for can be as damning as anything.

What I’m talking about today is not the wound we feel, but the weight we bear.  Characters too.

The Wound of late has been much discussed in the realm of fiction writing.  It’s the backstory hurt or injustice that has shaped a character into who he or she is in the present.  It is the root of yearning, the yawning hole, the empty bucket to fill, the unmet need that shapes and drives a character, producing a false belief and an anguish that demands relief.

The Wound is a fine and important aspect of character development, one entirely fitting for our era.  The hurts we feel must be healed, and when met by a lack of understanding, ownership or apology, those hurts do not go away.  They burst forth as anger.  Those treated unjustly demand justice.  They shout.  They march.  Our current Age of Resentment has its origins in complaints both direct and indirect, sharp and long-standing.  The public clamor going on these days, ask me, is healthy.  It is our society trying to heal.  It’s our collective story and a fundamental aspect of the stories we tell.

The Weight is different.  The Weight drives us in other ways.  The Weight may lead to avoidance and denial, or it may cause us to project our own guilt onto others.  If you have ever gone on a bender, taken a joy ride, or run away from a situation, or have too quickly pointed an accusing finger at others, then you have felt the displacement of The Weight.  Guilt spills over, like water when a stone is dropped into a brimming beaker.  Guilt has to go somewhere, and that usually that is into blaming others.  Our hope is that when the burden of guilt gets strong enough, it will lead to change.  If you have ever resolved to be a better person, then you have felt that effect. [Read more…]

In fairy tales, characters are extreme.  Heroes are very, very good.  Villains are very, very bad.  This suits the sensibilities of the audience for fairy tales: children.  Black and white works for them.  It’s simple.  As adults, we know that people aren’t so simple.

That is not to say that we adults sometimes do not cheer for—or, for that matter, write—black and white heroes and villains.  Think of superheroes.  Think of Conan.  Alex Cross.  Jo March.  Nancy Drew.  Arya Stark.  Clarice Starling.  Solid gold heroes and heroines are strong, noble, moral, smart and plucky.  Their appeal is enduring.  We aspire to be like them.  They are perfect.  They are pure.

Still, as grownups, we know better.  People aren’t like that.  People aren’t pure and to the extent that we try to perfect we will be unhappy and probably fail.  For characters in fiction to resonate with us, they can’t be simplistic.  For that human reason, perhaps, as well as historical ones, the tide of 20^th Century fiction ran in the direction of anti-heroes: flawed, suffering, alienated, cynical.  They are still written today.

If characters like that become heroes or heroines, those roles are often accidental or unwilling.  They may also be characters to whom things simply happen, making such heroism a matter of endurance.  Phillip Marlow.  Holden Caulfield.  Yossarian.  Thomas Covenant.  Roland the Gunslinger.  Esther Greenwood (The Bell Jar).  Carrie.  Lisbeth Salander.  Katniss Everdeen.  The list of protagonists who are in some way disaffected is very long.

Beyond that we have post-modern heroes and heroines: morally neutral, self-mocking, ironic, utterly contemporary.  Slothrop (Gravity’s Rainbow).  Jack Gladney (White Noise).  Odilo Unverdorben (Time’s Arrow).

More recently we have, ask me, entered an era of multi-cultural or rainbow protagonists.  Such characters challenge us to dwell in different contexts and gain a different understanding of what is heroic.  Sethe (Beloved).  Oscar Wao.   Sue Trinder and Maul Lilly (Fingersmith).  Kimberly Chang (Girl in Translation).  Binti.  When such heroes or heroines shine it is not just because they are different but because in their different worlds they stand out.  They are extraordinary.

Thus, heroes and heroines can be good, gray, enduring, different…really, anything at all.  They can be pure or imperfect.  They can be proactive or set-upon.   They can be hopeful, cynical or indifferent.  They can be admirably virtuous or abdominally the opposite.  There is nothing in the makeup of a characters that automatically qualifies or disqualifies them as heroes or heroines.

What, then, is at the core of heroism?  Are there universal defining qualities which cause us to feel that characters are heroic, regardless of their natures?  When strength, goodness, smarts, esteem, good looks, great purpose or any other qualities commonly called heroic are not required for heroism, then what is required?

Is there a secret formula?  [Read more…]

I’ll admit, that’s a strange post title for a site called Writer UN-Boxed.  But stick with me.  In certain circumstances, you may want to write inside a box.

By that, I do not mean a box of expectations, as in slavishly following storytelling “rules”.  Strict adherence to genre rules, for instance, might seem to please genre fans, but actually only results in cookie cutter novels.  Universal story templates such as the Hero’s Journey or three-act structure are meant to inspire but, treated too rigidly, can also constrain.  Really, any kind of imitation results only in  routine novels.

To be effective, fiction must to some degree be original.  Thinking outside the box is helpful, no question.  That said, I sometimes meet writers who are overwhelmed by their choices.  They have a buffet of possible projects and a plethora of intentions.  They agonize over what to write and swim in a sea of directions in which to take their stories.

For such writers, there are too many possibilities.  They are paralyzed, unable to choose.  They have fallen prey to a phenomenon that social scientists call maximization.  It’s a kind of fear: the fear that there are better options.  Examining every last possibility might seem to be a virtue, a smart sifting, but while agonizers do tend to make better decisions they also are less satisfied with what they ultimately select.  They are haunted by the possibilities still lingering.  What if they missed out on a better choice?

(If you’re interested in the science behind the common sense, you can find it here.)

In daily life, the solution to drowning in possibilities lies in determining what is the minimum positive outcome of a given decision.  More simply, instead of wondering what would be perfect, instead decide what would be good enough?  [Read more…]

Have you ever had a character take over?  I wouldn’t be surprised.  It’s a commonly reported phenomenon: My protagonist wouldn’t listen!  She did what she wanted to do, not what I wanted her to do!  That can be a good quality.  Acting in ways honest and human is what psychologists—and literary critics—call being authentic.

Realism is necessary in order for readers to participate in a character’s story, experiencing it “as if” it is their own experience.  By contrast, poor motivation and forced actions create stories that aren’t believable.  We groan and roll our eyes.  Inauthentic characters—what WU contributor David Corbett calls Plot Puppets—may obey their authors and fulfill the requirements of plot but do not connect with readers.

On the other hand, plot is important.  For story to be satisfying, things must necessarily go a certain way.  Stories impose on characters’ problems beyond the ordinary and complications more plentiful than we readers endure even on our worst days.  Protagonists must make mistakes, do wrong, be shadowed by past shames, and have flaws to overcome.  Where we may avoid our own ugliness, protagonists must face it.  Where we may dawdle, delay and avoid what is difficult or unpleasant, protagonists must act.

Plot is the author’s design.  It not only enacts the author’s intention but illustrates the author’s point.  Without it characters can chase their own shadows.  Stories without a strong design can feel realistic yet without force.  Without an author’s strong hand on the wheel characters can race around in circles, their stories becoming self-indulgent, stuck in low gear.

How, then, does authorial design dovetail with characters’ free will?  Who really is, and should be, in charge?  Is there a balance of power?  Are the realms of authority, perhaps, in which the author imposes conditions and throws events at protagonists while protagonists for their part respond naturally and humanly?  Authors are in charge of what’s big; character are in charge of what’s small?

Is an author God?  Do characters exist mainly to be tested?  Or, is it the reverse?  Should authors think of stories arising mainly from frail characters’ hidden needs?  Is outward plot most effective when it’s a reflection of an inner journey?  What comes first, the arc or the covenant?

Does it depend on the type of story you’re telling?  Are thrillers licensed to plot, while women’s fiction flows with the human heart?  Are the plot patterns of timeless storytelling in conflict with our modern yearning for connection?  Are outline and authenticity in permanent opposition, the yin and yang of storytelling?

I believe it’s unhelpful to think of it that way.  Storytellers don’t have to choose.  Authenticity and outline may not only co-exist, they can be polymer-bonded and become a material stronger then either one is alone.  The bonding happens inside the storyteller.  When story intention and compassion for characters are fused a story can have both a steel skeleton and a heart that we feel hammering as hard as our own.

How is that effect achieved?  The solution involves transforming yourself into both Story God and the Story God’s subject.  The Story God is wrathful and compassionate; by turns gracious or harsh.  The Story’s God’s subject—your protagonist—is flawed but defiant, sunk by human need but lifted by divine-given strength.  Let’s practice. [Read more…]

Have you ever felt impatient listening to a co-worker, friend or spouse relate a story?  While you were listening, did you mentally drum your fingertips and think to yourself, get to the point!

If you’ve had that feeling, then you know how I feel while reading many middle scenes in many manuscripts.  They can be flabby.  They stall around.  They take their time.  They work up to something, or try to, and sometimes that something is less than terrific.  Dialogue meanders, interrupted by pointless pencil twirling and tone of voice emphasis.  There’s plenty of discussion but little tension.  Instead of mood there is fog.  Twists and turns lack centrifugal force.  Revelations occur in mid-paragraph.  The POV character could be anyone.

WHERE PROCESS GOES WRONG

Why do middle scenes fall into a coma?  Is it because such scenes inherently lack drama?  Is it because the point of such scenes is not action but something else?  Is it because the purpose of the middle is to deepen dilemmas and build rising tension, especially the inner peril of protagonists?  Actually, I think middles scenes suck not because of content but because of process.  Middle scenes often are written not with the intention to create a planned effect, but out of a need to discover the scene’s point in the first place.

You can tell that’s the case when a scene wanders in.  We get what in movies is called an establishing shot: a picture of where we are.  The protagonist or POV character enters.  The action—such as it is—is described visually, as if we are watching through a camera lens.  Where dialogue should commence, a discussion starts.  What a protagonist or POV character wants isn’t clear or gets lost.  The big revelation feels more like repetition.  Surprises may snap open like Christmas crackers, but the pop fades as we must slog through a few more pages.

What’s happening is that the author began writing the scene with a mental picture of what’s happening, then proceeded in linear fashion through the next twenty or thirty story minutes, trying to twist a chronology of that duration into a tight dramatic event.  That approach mostly doesn’t work.  Twenty or thirty minutes of real time are not all dramatic.  The same goes for twenty or thirty minutes of fictional time, and certainly not for twelve to fifteen pages of manuscript time.

A NON-LINEAR APPROACH

The solution is not to make chapters short, although there is—trust me—not a middle scene in any manuscript which could not afford to lose a few words.  One solution, rather, is to take a non-linear approach, building a scene from the inside out.  Knowing the purpose, point and effect of a scene in advance isn’t necessary.  It’s okay not to know much about a scene before writing it but transcribing a video tape of twenty or thirty imaginary minutes will probably only reveal a lot of words that you don’t need.

Instead, try discovering the elements that make any scene dramatic in advance, thinking ahead instead of hacking through.  What makes a scene dramatic?  If a middle scene is not action-packed, then much of the work is done by dialogue.  Tension arises not because of physical danger but in the transaction between two people.  Asking and resistance.  Appeal and denial.  Seduction and succumbing.  Orders and mutiny.

That’s what we see on the surface.  However, when any two people talk with each other there are hidden agendas.  There are extra layers, meaning that what humans believe they want is not the same as what they actually are seeking.

Dialogue is a dance.  Who is leading, who is following?  Who has power, begs, insists, demands, denies, manipulates, twists, entices, teases, plays games, speaks from the heart, dodges responsibility, submits to a whipping, or rises to the moment?  What is your protagonist really asking for?  What is his or her opposition actually hoping to get?

TRUE SUSPENSE

The mild tension in flabby middle scenes often derives from pure worry.  Plot problems are okay, don’t get me wrong, but hand-wringing about them is the weakest form of tension.  More electric than what is happening externally in a story is what is happening to a protagonist.  The uncertainty of our existence—who we are and what that means for us—is the greatest form of suspense.

Strong middle scenes are not reported from the outside but experienced from the inside.  Close third person POV takes us part way there.  Immersive, experiential POV, though, does a more thorough job.  Suspense is strongest not when we see through another’s eyes, or hear through another’s ears, but when we feel a character’s fear and wonder, especially when those feelings are handled in a way that’s fresh.

WHAT CHANGE REALLY MEANS

Stories are about long-term change; scenes enact temporary change.  There are many ways to make temporary change.  Realizations about self or others.  Insights into a situation.  New information, especially when that information goes against what we expect.  Still, information is just information.  What gives it impact—the force of surprise—is its timing, delivery and import, meaning its meaning.

Anything that suddenly alters the story circumstances, or what must be done, or which switches, distorts, deepens, turns, reverses or explodes a protagonist’s understanding of anything, is a surprise.  Big or small, without some type of surprise a scene will fall flat.  On the other hand, properly placed a surprise will feel to readers like the scene’s point.  In the surprise, the reader will sense meaning.

What triggers surprises?  Surprises can drop from the sky or can well up from inside.  It’s fine when they’re delivered like pizza but are most effective when characters reveal things that they previously kept hidden—even kept hidden from self.  What’s nice about that is that the supply of self-revelation is inexhaustible.

Unreliable narrators aren’t needed to shock us.  Surprise can arrive in a box from anyone who has much to learn about the world, others, self and what the hell is really going on. [Read more…]