Mind swap

Congratulations to all you NaNoWriMo writers! Whether you made your word count or not, you worked hard, and I’m guessing you have lots of new material to fuel your writing for the year. Kudos to you!

If you’re going to be in the vicinity of Tarrytown, New York, this Saturday, I’m signing. Check out the details on my website. If you come, I’ll just be signing, not reading or speaking, but I expect to have plenty of time to chat. If you come, please let me know you read about the event on the blog.

On July 29th, 2011, Emma wrote, This comment is really just food for thought, but I wondered what you and the bloggers would think. You see, my brothers were watching a Myth Busters episode called “Mission Impossible Mask” where Jamie and the other guy were trying to use a mask to fool people into believing that they were each other. However, their mannerisms gave them away so they had to have an actor teach them how to behave like one another. More recently I watched an episode of “Gilligan’s Island” where everyone got mind-swapped, and it was hilarious because they were all acting like each other and you could clearly tell who had been swapped with whom. All of that got me thinking: is there any way to make our characters and their mannerisms that recognizable? I tried a writing exercise just for fun where my MCs got mind swapped, and it’s really hard because you can’t actually see them. Do you think that’s a bad thing?

That’s a wonderful prompt, which I’ll hold for the end.

Everyone has mannerisms, some people more than others, some mannerisms more pronounced than others; everyone can be impersonated. Each way of speaking, each physical presentation, is unique. The bits that we do, our personal shtick, are myriad, so many and so slight that they’re hard to write and catch them all but obvious to see and hear. Whenever I see myself in a taped interview I’m amazed. I move around so much, like a puppet. I tilt and bob my head; my voice is breathy, which I never hear as I’m speaking. Aaa!

Here’s a prompt early in the post. List every element of physical description you can think of. Just a list. Don’t do anything with it. Here are a few items to start you off:

round shouldered
bow-legged
soft voice
baby talk
a lot of hand gestures
small eyes

See if you can get a page or two in your list, a few words to a line. Add to the list whenever you think of something or observe something unusual. Watch people over the next few days with your list in mind. Notice that I included in my starter list both characteristics that have nothing to do with the personality inside the body, like small eyes, and characteristics that are mutable, that would change in a mind swap, like the hand gestures. Include both kinds of characteristics in your list, which can become a resource for you whenever you write physical description.

I was on the New York City subway yesterday. Sitting across the train car from me was a woman who managed to look up at me beseechingly even though our eyes were at a level. How did she do that? She said nothing; she wasn’t crying. But I got a sense of sadness and need. Was it the blue eye shadow, the bags under her eyes? I don’t know. I do know that she sat pigeon-toed, and the turned-in toes added to the woe somehow. The eyes and the toes would go on my list.

Here’s another prompt: Take a look at a story you’re working on. Find the spot where you introduced a character. If the physical description is solid, terrific. But if it’s a little vague, drop in something from your list.

Mannerisms are particularly useful because they reveal character as well as help the reader see the physical person. But we have to watch out and not succumb to stereotype. A slouch, for example, can mean a bunch of things. May mean Nathan feels too tall. Or his father always told him to stand straight, so, rebellious by nature, he trained himself to slouch. Or he admires an actor who slouches. You try it (another prompt): List three possible psychological explanations for Nadine’s almost inaudible speech.

Sometimes it can feel awkward to introduce physical qualities and we have to plan how to bring in the information. We can make Norman, the gesturer, do something, as in, He gestured so wildly he knocked over a Ming dynasty vase valued at $300,000. Or Nancy can say to him, “Are you swatting a fly?” Or Ned can think, Norman uses his hands a lot as if his words need extra help. These are the three ways I can come up with for inserting physical information: action, dialogue, and thoughts.

The POV character is a special case. Nellie, the narrator, can easily show other characters’ looks in her thoughts. She can also think about her own appearance and mannerisms, but she has to have a reason or she may seem vain or self-involved or self-critical – which, of course, she can certainly be. But if not, she needs an excuse. Maybe she’s about to meet new people, and she’s preparing herself by imagining how they’re going to view her. A little self-involved, but it’s a special occasion. And you still have action and dialogue. Nancy can make the fly-swatting crack to her. Nellie can knock over the Ming vase.

But we may not want to give Nellie a lot of odd characteristics or the reader may have trouble identifying. We may want her to be a blankish slate, so the reader can slip inside. If she keeps licking her lips, if she shrugs every few minutes, if she starts almost every sentence with, “Sorry, but,” the reader may find her unappealing. I keep saying “may” because you may want such a character, and some of the most endearing main characters in literature are odd. So if you want to, go for it.

Once we introduce a mannerism we don’t want to keep bringing it up. An occasional, very occasional, reminder is plenty or the reader will get irritated. And that’s what makes the mind swap harder for a writer than for an actor. When we’re watching a movie, the character’s presentation is always before us. He’s always slouching, always gesticulating, always speaking softly. Those lucky actors!

So now for the mind swap.

∙ Pick two characters in the story you’re working on and write a mind swap scene. Or pick three and make it a round-robin swap.

∙ Swap the villain from one of your stories with the villain from another and rewrite the climax. Swap the villain in one story with the hero in another.

∙ Invent new characters for your mind swap. Think of characters who wouldn’t be happy to be inside each other’s selves. For example, someone who’s terrified of heights wouldn’t do well in the body of a sky diver. You can make the switch happen right before a jump. The sky diver might be bored to death in the body of a writer.

∙ Swap the minds of two characters from books you love. For me, I’d switch Jane Eyre and Elizabeth Bennett from Pride and Prejudice. Then, in a separate effort, with Jane and Elizabeth back in their proper bodies, I might try exchanging Rochester and Darcy. The possibilities are endless: put Hamlet in Macbeth’s place; trade Sherlock Holmes and Peter Pan; Anne of Anne of Green Gables with Jo of Little Women. Or whatever you like.

Have fun, and save what you write!

To Delve or Not To Delve

On July 26, 2011, Emma wrote, …I’m wondering how much, um, delving is necessary? That may not be the right word, but (this is the only example I can think of right this second) on Food Network Star, the judges are always telling the Food Network wannabees to show the viewers more personality and more of their background. They say they can’t get enough of it when they learn more about each hopeful and, well, do you think our readers are the same way about our characters? Or would they be fine if we just went through the series of actions without bothering to really do some soul searching? This sort of seems like a rambling post, but it’s the only way I can think of to put it. If you can decipher what I’m trying to say, do you have any advice?

Emma, you’re completely clear. Alas, as usual when it comes to writing, there’s no conclusive answer. For starters, reader taste varies. In the old movie, My Dinner With Andre (for adults), two characters spend an evening in conversation, and personality is revealed by chat. I could barely sit through it. I wanted to scream at the actors (in the movie theater), “Stand up and do something!” But the film is beloved by many and has become a classic. Same with books: opinions differ. If you concentrate on your characters’ thoughts and feelings and revelations of backstory, some readers will be delighted, others impatient. You can’t please everyone.

So you might as well please yourself. (You can repeat this phrase to yourself often: You might as well please yourself. Hang it over your work space, write it in your notebooks in bubble writing or calligraphy, because it applies to just about every aspect of writing.)

Think about what you enjoy. Do you like to elaborate on your characters’ thoughts? Do you revel in soul-searching dialogue? If you’re fascinated, many readers are likely to be, too. And you can field test what you’re doing when you show your work to a friend or to your critique group. If they tell you to dial it back, if you hear from more than one reader that it’s too much, then you can start cutting. This tends to be my way. I put in too much introspection that I have to trim in revision.

If you prefer to write action-action-action, indulge yourself and see what your critique buddies say. If they tell you your characters’ activities seem motiveless, then you need to build in more thought, feeling, dialogue, and maybe backstory.

The decision also depends on the character you’re working with. If Inga is not introspective, she won’t be doing much deep rumination on the page no matter how much you want her to. You’ll be stuck with her actions, her limited thinking, what other characters say to her about herself and what they say about her when she’s not there. However, if Inga revels in exploring her feelings and her reasoning, then you need to give the reader at least a taste of this or more than a taste if you like.

Genre also influences how much “delving” you do. An adventure story, for example, is likely to be action-oriented. Thoughts, feelings, backstory may be introduced, but the story won’t linger on them. Terrific examples of action novels are the books by Richard Stark (high school and above), pseudonym of the late Donald Westlake. I haven’t read one in years, but I used to inhale them in one long gasp.

As soon as I wrote the paragraph about adventure stories I thought of Hamlet, which I’d call an action play since it has a ghost, suicide, and murder all going on. But it’s also supremely introspective because Hamlet deliberates and vacillates constantly on his proper course of action. Like Shakespeare, you can do both, write an action story that’s rich in thought and feeling or a character-driven tale full of excitement.

In stories, character is everything or almost everything. A pile-up of events won’t draw a reader in (taste doesn’t vary on this, I don’t think) if the reader doesn’t know who the players are. These characters don’t necessarily need to be sympathetic, but they have to be understandable, which probably calls for some indication of thought and feeling.

And action is a tool of character development. In A Tale of Two Castles the ogre, Count Jonty Um, isn’t the POV character, so we don’t experience his inner life and he doesn’t say much. The reader gets to know him mostly through his actions, his generosity, for example. He buys a humongous meal full of rich delicacies for Elodie, the POV character, who only once before tasted an expensive treat – because it had fallen on the ground and been partially stepped on.

Real people express themselves through action. We say something about ourselves every second: the way we eat, what we do in our spare time, how we get ready to leave the house, our little rituals. Many of these acts are so ingrained we perform them without thought, certainly without being conscious that we’re every second making a personality declaration. I would even argue that these characteristic actions say more about us than even our thoughts and feelings, which are fleeting.

I’ve never watched The Food Network. Maybe there isn’t scope there for revelation through action. Maybe it all comes through telling, by participants talking about themselves. If that’s the case, what a limitation! No wonder they encourage the soul searching. But maybe I’m way off base. Sorry, Food Network!

Here come three prompts:

∙ Lately I’ve been reading health and science articles about people in hospitals in what they call a “vegetative state,” and now there’s starting to be evidence that some of them, who can’t speak or move, can think and are thinking and have an emotional life. Scary! So your character, Irene, is in a coma. She can hear and think. Write a story about her. You can include the sounds she hears from the activity around her. Unaware of her alertness, people may say things they would keep to themselves if they thought someone was listening.

∙ Ira is studying to be a mime. His teacher tells him and the other students in his class that they aren’t allowed to speak for a week. Write about part of that week or the whole week. Oh, and you can’t write in first person, and you have no access to Ira’s thoughts, only his actions. Give him something important that he has to communicate.

∙ Character X is chasing Character Y through a shopping mall. Don’t give them names or thoughts or feelings and very limited speech, but put in lots of close calls and narrow escapes. Don’t even decide which is the hero and which the villain. See what happens.

Have fun, and save what you write!

Cheering Up

Before I start the post, I want to let you know that a poem of mine for adults (pretty sad, about the death of my mother) is in a collection of short poems called Bigger Than They Appear, which just came out. This isn’t a book for kids. So far I’ve read only a few of the poems, so I can’t vouch for language or subject matter for young readers. But if you’re in high school and above and interested, here’s the link to the publisher’s site where you can get a copy: http://www.accents-publishing.com/biggerthantheyappear.html. My poem is called “This Is Just to Say.” For those of you who recognize the title, my poem is based on a poem with the same name by William Carlos Williams.

On July 25th, 2011, Farina wrote, I mostly write fan fiction, usually one-shots, but today I looked back at my work and realized most of it was tragedy. I almost always follow the same pattern (and even sometimes with the same characters!) one side of the love interest gets hurt/dies. Funeral/waiting for help/backup scene or touching scene about how they can’t stop and abandon the mission. Surviving character goes into deep depression and seclusion, if other one survives, (it’s usually the male that goes into the depression) looks like she has it all together but is also depressed, 1) Committing suicide, 2) Ends with them crying/sighing/just sitting there sadly. How can I break away from tragedy and violence? (because while I’m too young to use sexual themes in my stories, I do use an awful lot of violence) Because I enjoy, however morbid it seems, a character’s hopelessness, depression, and loneliness, however, not many, if any, readers enjoy that sort of thing. I also don’t have a problem with death at all (though some of my stories have made me cry) and enjoy writing death scenes (I have one for every character I’ve written about) and love writing about topics like insanity and death. But when I try to write funny, happy stories, I reread them and I realize there is a definite ‘Fake Smiling’ air to them. How can I write happier stories without seemingly trying too hard?
This may be tragic (joke) to say, but what you’re writing right now may be what you need to write right now. In a year or two you may be effortlessly heading in another direction.

And in defense of what you’re doing, it’s excellent to be thorough. If you go deep into a character’s unhappiness, if you make it believable and specific to that particular character, you’ve achieved a lot. If your suffering character is sympathetic, your reader will be with him. She may cry, but she’ll be engaged.

Still, if you’re determined to change, here are a few ideas:

Push on after your ending. If your hero Lance is depressed but hasn’t committed suicide, write the arc of his recovery. You can make this slow and detail all his slumps back into misery, but the trajectory should be upward toward a better life. You can end then on a hopeful note. If he has killed himself, continue on to his survivor, his sister Leslie, for instance, who has to come to terms with the loss and find her way to happier days.

Get interested in minor characters who aren’t miserable. Let Lance be despondent. Go to town on him. But also develop some other characters who are cheerier. Think of people you know and how they don’t let adversity destroy them. Even think of yourself, merrily writing wretchedness.

Impose a quota on misery. Allow yourself one episode of doldrums per story, which can be at the beginning, middle, or end. The rest has to be something else, which doesn’t have to be jumping-up-and-down joy – can be action, anger, intellectual reasoning, dialogue, relationship-building, whatever.

Remove the reason for the depression. Don’t kill off the love interest. Have the two quarrel instead, or have the love interest be captured, so the hero has to act not mope.

Go even further and make it funny. Have Lance meet Lily, an equally depressed person, possibly a new love interest. Let them get so enchanted with their sadness that they create new causes for it. Have them slash their stuffed animals, or, if you go over to the dark side, do worse. If you push it enough, it will be funny, and your readers will be laughing and wanting more.

Explore other genres. The alternative to tragedy isn’t necessarily a smiley face or a happy-ending love story. There are thrillers and mysteries and historical novels and adventure stories. Try one of these.

Often, the problem with the smiley face, in my opinion, is sentimentality, and sentimentality often comes from generalizing, from statements like, “I knew she would always be there for me,” or “I realized how special we both were.” Detail takes out the sentimentality. What do you do when you’re happy? What does your best friend do? Maybe you hug someone, but maybe you get uncomfortable and make fun of the feeling because it’s too good. Maybe your best friend gets quiet because she has to absorb the news, because joy is new to her. Maybe your cousin keeps his happiness secret because he’s afraid people will be jealous. Lance can do any of these too, if he emerges from his funk, and the reader will understand if she knows Lance. None of these will feel fake because they’re rooted in detail and character.

Also, it usually doesn’t work to dwell on happiness. I bet we’ve all experienced this in books we’ve read and loved: we adore the characters and follow them through vicissitudes of every stripe. Finally they win out, and two pages later the book ends. Unfair! Four hundred pages of trial and struggle, two of triumph. We want more! We want to wallow in their success. We want to revel with them. But that part quickly falls flat. So even if you want to write happier, you’ll still probably need to keep the joy short.

A few prompts:

∙ Pick the happy ending of a book you adore, one that made you want to bathe in your beloved characters’ joy. Indulge yourself and write a final chapter that is solid good times, good feelings. Put in action, a real scene, but no suspense, no worry. I suspect this may be hard, but I think it can be done. Maybe it will even improve the actual book. Try it.

∙ Lance’s friends and family plan an intervention to blast him out of his depression. The intervention doesn’t merely have to be a meeting; it can be anything. Have the other characters reveal themselves in the ways they use to reach Lance, in the appeals they make. If you’re not Farina, you can have them fail or succeed, whatever you like. But if you’re Farina, Lance has to cheer up. And whoever you are, avoid the fake smiley face feeling if Lance does come out of his doldrums.

∙ Departing from this prompt and building on Jenna Royal’s question from the end of last week, write a story in which one of the main characters never makes an appearance. She is there only in the thoughts and feelings and dialogue of other characters. Give her depth and individuality. Make the reader know her as well as the characters who are present.

Have fun, and save what you write!

On tiptoe

On July 20, 2011, Jenna Royal wrote, quoting, but I no longer know where the quote came from: “Are there parts that might offend someone? Did you tiptoe around those aspects of the story even without realizing it?”
How do you handle this situation? It’s something I worry about often enough. The story might need the element, but is it worth the risk of offending someone?
And along similar lines, welliewalks wrote, My question has something to do with Jenna R’s. Most of my characters, especially my MCs(!), are like me, in their skin color and build (white and really thin). I’m afraid that I’ll end up insulting someone- like what if they read my stuff and think “She obviously doesn’t like people of other races or overweight people, because none of her characters are ever those.” Because it’s NOT true (my sister is adopted and 50% of my friends are of different race, from Indian to Chinese). I just use those characteristics because it comes naturally to me and I feel so comfortable with these. Do I need to change things up and use different races and builds? Oh, and I never write anything against the characteristics of build and race.

If you are lucky enough to be widely read, you will offend someone, guaranteed, no matter how hard you try not to. Someone may even be annoyed that your work is too bland, that you seem to take too much trouble not to offend. Some people – I’ll bet you know one or two – look for reasons to be affronted, aren’t satisfied until they find a cause for righteous anger. You will never escape their fault-finding no matter how hard you try.

In Princess Sonora and the Long Sleep, Sonora, who talks in sentences soon after she’s born, tells her mother she doesn’t want to be breast fed and calls the practice cannibalism. I got into trouble with a few people for that. In fact, I favor breast feeding or whatever is best for a particular baby, but my character opposed it for herself. In another instance, somebody was mad at me for making Hattie and Olive plump and for giving Hattie thin hair, which surprised me because I have thin hair and I struggled with my weight all through my childhood and into my twenties.

It’s worthy to provoke thought. Ideas change, and you can be the instrument of that change. Some beliefs that are accepted today were on the fringe or even despised in the past. The arts are at the forefront of the growth of a society. Impressionist paintings, beloved today, were derided in the beginning. Same thing for rock music. My husband’s grandfather used to say, “When I’m hearing rock and roll I’m being annoyed.”

Think of racial equality and women’s rights. Important books helped change opinion in both cases. Louisa May Alcott, for instance, showed women (sometimes) as more independent than was widely accepted in her day. Her ideas about education were also very new. Through Black Beauty, Anna Sewell ended the use of the bearing rein or checkrein on horses that had been widespread – and painful. Even the notion in Ella Enchanted that obedience is a curse goes against some people’s and some culture’s convictions.

If you do tiptoe around everything that might be the slightest bit controversial, you risk your originality, and originality is one of the pillars of art (I’m not sure what the other pillars are!). And you may inhibit your voice and even your ability to keep going. So I think you should push through your worries and write what you want or what your story demands. In fact, I think the inner voice of censorship may just be part of the internal chorus of self-criticism that most of us hear (I do) sometimes when we’re creating.

In general, I’m not crazy about preachy books, books that push a point of view, even if it’s a point of view I endorse. I don’t go to fiction to be lectured to. I want a good story. But if, wound into that good story, are snippets of history or surprising facts or an exploration of complex ideas, or all three, I’m triply entertained.

I don’t mean writers should push buttons just to push them. I think I’ve written on the blog that I put the “N-word” in the original manuscript of Dave at Night. The usage was in dialogue and was appropriate for the situation, but I took it out. The book didn’t hinge on the word; I didn’t need it, and it’s hurtful, so it went. I had a little queasy feeling that I was censoring myself, but I think I made the right decision.

welliwalks, I’ve thought about your question in my fairy tale books, which come out of a European tradition. Originally, in the classics like “Snow White” and “Cinderella” the characters would have been white and the readers or listeners would have been too. But in my adaptations there is no Europe. The kingdoms are invented, so I decided people can be light-skinned and dark, and there needn’t be racial disharmony. Some of my characters are light, some dark, but without the usual connotations of race. Skin color is merely a characteristic, like height or hair color and no more significant. One reason for including dark-skinned characters is that I want to be inclusive. I don’t want to raise obstacles that will keep readers from feeling they can enter my stories.

More challenging for me than skin color is height. I’m very short. I like to imagine being tall, so I enjoy writing tall characters, but it’s a stretch (hah!). I suggest you take the challenge of inventing characters whose body type is different from your own. You’ve said you’re thin. You could deliberately write an overweight character and you could decide what attitude your character has about his weight, from untroubled to very troubled. Think about how being thin has affected you and speculate on what the effects would be of being fat. You can decide how heavy this character is, could be a little or a lot. To make yourself comfortable, you could try making this a kind character, someone who won’t mind how you portray him. Or make him female and just like you in every way except for this one thing. It’s often good to push out of the comfort zone.

Here are two prompts:

∙    Take one or more of these widely held ideas–
        talking is good for a relationship;
        people should think before acting;
        selfishness is bad;
        dogs love people–
and examine it from every angle. Then base a story on the opposite of the idea or on a new interpretation of it.

∙ Give a character in a new story or in one already in progress a prominent physical characteristic you’ve never tried before. Let that characteristic affect the character’s behavior. A fabulous example of this is the play Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand. The modern movie adaptation, Roxanne with Steve Martin, is also great.

Have fun, and save what you write!

Ouch!

On July 16th, 2011, Ella wrote, So I’ve finished my novel and I’ve to shown it to some people and let them critique me. However, I’ve never been very good at taking criticism, and I’m having a hard time using their comments. It just sort of makes me queasy when someone says there’s something I should change about my precious book, and I get so worried about what they say that I want to give up, or at best, overcorrect. I guess all I’m really asking is if you or the bloggers have any advice on accepting criticism and using it to your advantage. Thanks!

Great question!

Criticism is hard. Tomorrow I’m going to meet with my critique buddy, the wonderful kids’ book, YA, and science writer Karen Romano Young, to discuss my work-in-progress and hers, and I will be scared. I’m scared already, even though we’re friends and she’s a really nice person and her criticisms have been very helpful. I’ll be so scared I’ll want to talk about her book first and then ease into mine.

Although it’s hard and sometimes torture, criticism is essential. Few writers (but definitely some) can revise entirely on their own and turn in prose that needs only a light editorial dusting. The early chapters of Beloved Elodie have big boring patches. I’m hoping the pages I gave Wren (Karen) this time are tighter, but they may not be, and I have to know. She may see other problems, too, that I’m not aware of, which will be especially useful to learn about.

You don’t have to process criticism right on the spot, and you probably can’t. It may be impossible. A great line when you’re getting criticism is, “Thank you. I’ll think about that.”

Later, in the privacy of your room or office, you can go through the five stages of grief (classically applied to the response to a diagnosis of terminal illness, but no hyperbole is too extreme when applied to writing criticism!):

∙ Denial — The manuscript is fine exactly as it is!

∙ Anger — My writing pal is just jealous!

∙ Bargaining — I can change this paragraph on page 75 and the second sentence on page 112, even though I spent seven hours on each one, but if I revise them, I won’t have to rewrite the entire middle section.

∙ Depression — My story never was any good, never will be, and I might as well trash it. (Some of you, I suspect, skip the first three stages and go right here. If you must, you must, but try not to inhabit this step for long.)

∙ Acceptance — Hmm, hmm, hmm. If I make my villain more likeable, as my writing buddy suggests, then the conflict with the hero will have more tension. Oh, this is cool! I see how I can make everything better.

The best strategy for getting comfortable with a dose of criticism is to sit with it for a while. Let your readers’ suggestions percolate in your brain without making judgments. Take a walk, pet the dog, play with the cat, bake muffins. Let a few hours go by. If you find self-hatred settling in – if you think the criticism also means you’re a terrible person – remind yourself of your virtues and the people who love you.

I’m talking here about constructive criticism. My advice is different if what you’ve been told is global and non-specific, as in “Sorry, I just didn’t like it.” Or, “I hate it when you give me something to read. I always hope it will better but it never is.” Or, “I think you should take up another hobby.” When you get this kind of thing, ignore it and show your story as quick as you can to someone else and never to this frenemy again.

Constructive criticism is criticism you can use. I’ve mentioned on the blog that editors have responded to my manuscripts in the past with criticism that my heroines aren’t likeable. These editors have meant well, but that statement isn’t helpful all by itself. I haven’t intentionally made my heroines unsympathetic. What I need are specifics. What did my character do or say or think or fail to do or say or think at which moment in the manuscript to convey that she isn’t likeable? Show me the places: which action, which line of dialogue, which paragraph of thought. Then I can fix.

Your critics may not be gifted at helpful criticism. They’re probably not professional editors, so they may be vaguer in their ideas than you’d like. In this case, after your period of silent absorption of the criticism, you can ask your readers questions, the questions that have come to you while you contemplated.

When you get specifics, when you know the problem is that the action drags in the second chapter, for example, then you may stop feeling overwhelmed. You start to think that you can cut half a page of dialogue and you don’t have to name every book in your main character’s bookcase. And instead of thinking your manuscript is bad, you can start thinking how great it can be.

I’ve written about this before, but when I started out as a writer, I used to take all criticism. After my first writing course ever I formed a writing group. We were all beginners making our best guesses about what would improve our pals’ stories. I tried whatever was offered, figuring I would learn and I could always go back if the suggestion didn’t work (I saved my old versions even them). This strategy helped, because I did learn. Plus, it desensitized me by taking me out of the realm of hurt feelings. I didn’t have to decide in a vacuum about the validity of a comment. I could try it out and see if it held water.

Of course this goes back to the need for specific criticism. It’s hard to try out a broad suggestion like, “Make it more exciting.”

You can show your revisions to your readers and ask if you’ve addressed their concerns and if new things are bothering them. If you’re in a critique group, you can come back and back with the same pages until you’re satisfied.

I no longer take all the criticism that comes my way, but when I ignore a suggestion I always have a reason. My character wouldn’t do this. Or, this idea doesn’t jibe with the tone of my story. Or, this is factually incorrect. If I’m not sure, I usually try the suggestion.

It may help with your criticism aversion to know that every writer gets criticism. Nobody writes a perfect book. And everybody has to take her share of hurtful criticism, criticism that isn’t well-intentioned. It comes from friends or reviewers in the media or on Amazon.com. We take it, and sometimes we stew for a week or a decade – there was one miserable review of The Two Princesses of Bamarre that I can still quote word for word – but we keep writing.

Finishing a first draft is an achievement worthy of whooping and dancing and shouting from the rooftops. So is finishing a revision. Make the good, useful criticism your friend. Make it a reason for gratitude and celebration. You’re getting help with what you love. Hooray!

Here are three prompts:

∙ Snow White cooks and cleans for the seven dwarves while they’re digging in the mines, but they’re never satisfied with the results. Write about how she deals with their constant criticism. Write several versions for several different Snow Whites, if you like.

∙ Through magical intervention, your main character, Marcia Masters, who yesterday was a ninth grader, is now a teacher and her students are her former teachers reduced to children. Write how her teaching goes over the course of a class or a few days.

∙ Your main character, Michael Monroe, is working on a project with his father. Michael is eager for this, but nothing he does pleases Mr. Monroe. Write the scene.

Have fun, and save what you write!

Real reacting

Before I start, just a word to the NaNoWriMo writers: You are heroes! Sleep, eating, family, TV, normal life are all overrated. Go for it! Have fun!

On July 10, 2011, Lexi wrote, My MC in the real world is kidnapped by some strange-looking people. They kidnap him to protect him, but my MC doesn’t understand that at first so he should be freaked-out by them. The problem is, the characters who kidnapped him are good so I have a hard time making my MC dislike them. How do you make the main react realistically?

I’m thinking a lot about realistic reacting as I’m writing Beloved Elodie, not only for Elodie and the other POV characters (I’m writing from several points of view), but also for the secondary characters.

Of course I haven’t seen your story, Lexi, so I can’t be sure, but you might approach this by sticking close to events. For some reason or no reason, I’m thinking of these kidnappers as aliens, so I’ll give them alien names: Fllep and Yunk. Suppose Fllep and Yunk enter Keith’s house in the middle of the night and tie him to his bedstead. They leave him, and a minute or two later he hears bumps and crashes from his younger sister’s room. The situation seems clear, at least to him. They’re baddies, and, depending on his personality, he’s terrified or angry, or, I suppose, if he’s evil too, amused. Or amused if he happens to have some secret weapon or if he knows his sister can handle an alien duo. The possibilities multiply fast even in the simplest situation.

Now, suppose before leaving Keith alone, Fllep and Yunk bring his stuffed elephant over from the bureau for him to cuddle with. What’s Keith’s realistic reaction to this? Could be confusion. The reader is likely to be unsure how to understand this surprising development. Keith can have other responses here too, depending on his nature. For instance, he could be annoyed that these aliens think he’s so babyish that he needs his elephant – even while he clutches it to his chest.

So, realism depends on action and personality and probably a few hundred other factors, like, for example, what else has been going on in the story. Obviously, if we’re in the middle of the tale, Keith is likely to have some ideas about the aliens.

I often interview my characters to learn their take on events. In this method I might do this:

Me: What do you think of the beings who just broke into your home and strapped you to the headboard of your bed?

Keith: I’m terrified. They weren’t wearing masks so I can identify them. What are they going to do to me? I’m freezing even though it’s warm in here, and I can’t seem to put two thoughts together. I wish I could untie knots with my toes.

Or,

Keith: Some costumes on those dudes! Wait till Sis sees them. She’ll laugh her head off while she’s decapitating them. I hope she remembers to check on her big brother afterward.

If it’s early days for your story and you don’t know Keith well yet, interviewing can flesh him out. He may answer your questions in surprising ways that will help. So you can ask him how he’d feel and what he’d do in a Fllep-Yunk situation.

Interviewing characters doesn’t always work. Nothing works every time, but usually this is a good technique for me. Characters who lie in my story don’t lie in the interview; they know we’re having a behind-the-scenes conversation.

When interviewing a character fails, I can ask myself how I would respond in Keith’s place, knowing what he knows and doesn’t know. If he’s anything like me, I can be a reasonably reliable guide. And I can ask other real people. When I was writing The Two Princesses of Bamarre the character of Addie, who’s very shy, sometimes eluded me, so I would ask my writing buddy, Joan, who’s also shy, and she’d tell me how a particular situation would affect her.

Character responses take three forms, or I can’t come up with more than three: emotional, thinking, and physical. In Keith’s first reaction, he says he’s scared, his emotion. He’s cold in a warm room, a physical reaction brought on by emotion. He says he can’t think, which is thinking, likewise wishing for more flexible toes is thinking. You don’t have include all three each time, but remember the possibilities.

You’ve set up the situation that creates the reaction. A question you may want to ask yourself is whether you’ve given Keith enough information to go on. Maybe the aliens have deposited him somewhere. He’s gagged, blindfolded, and tied up. He’s frightened, yes, and you can write about that, but it can’t go very far without external input. What clues are you giving him (like the stuffed elephant, also possible sounds and smells) to build a response on? It’s these clues, the objective data, combined with Keith’s personality that will get you a realistic response.

And realistic doesn’t necessarily mean predictable. Keith may be happy when one would expect him to be scared. He may be thinking more about something surprising a classmate said that day than about the aliens.

Beloved Elodie, many of you know, is a mystery, and my secondary characters have hidden motives and backstories that are unknown to the reader and to Elodie, and these motives and backstories come into play. What’s more, I’m not entirely certain who my villain is, although one particular character is looking more and more likely. In any given situation I’m asking my characters how they would respond if they’re innocent and how if they’re guilty. I’ve been suspecting that the solution to the whole story hinges on realistic reactions.

Masteress Meenore, the dragon detective, presents a special challenge when it comes to realistic response, not only because IT’s a dragon but also because IT’s brilliant. Can I think of everything IT would? Am I drawing all the conclusions IT would? This is another case of the character’s nature shaping a response.

Enough about me. Prompts time. When you do these, think about including all three kinds of reaction, physical, emotional, and thought.

∙ Let’s start with Keith, tied to his bedstead, elephant on his lap, bangs and crashes reverberating through the house. Write three different reactions for him and make each one believable.

∙ Fllep and Yunk enter Keith’s sister’s room and find her wielding a sword, waiting for them. How does each alien react? Remember, they’re good guys.

∙ Erisette arrives for the second week of her training as a scout for King Aldric and is told that she’s been dropped from the cadre. Write three realistic responses from her. If you like, choose your favorite and keep going.

∙ Victor’s best friend, Caylie, texts him that he’s never there for her, that he’s selfish, and thoughtless, and everyone agrees with her, and she doesn’t want anything to do with him anymore, and he shouldn’t even text her back. Write three responses. Again, if you like, pick one and finish the story.

Have fun and save what you write!

Character in the round

Early in July, M.K.B. wrote, ….Sometimes I feel some of my characters don’t have enough volume and they don’t feel as real to me as some of my other characters. I was trying to formulate a system to create characters. Do you have any suggestions?

And Lexi asked a related question: I know everything about my characters; there are reasons for the jobs I chose for them and backstories that explain their personalities. I just don’t know how much or how to tell my reader. How do you pack in as much information as possible without sounding stilted, and how much is too much?

In Writing Magic I offer a character questionnaire that is a kind of character-development system. (I just looked at it and was embarrassed to discover that, although I asked about appearance, I didn’t specifically mention apparel, a sad omission.) If you answer most of the questions, your character will be quite rounded – in the questionnaire. How to get all that information into your story, and whether you need to, are other matters.

There are real-life people, people I’ll bet you’ve known almost always who still surprise you. An elderly friend of mine, let’s call her Betty, pampered from childhood on, who doesn’t cope well with ordinary vicissitudes, has been battling cancer for the last five years, and about the cancer she is uncomplaining. I would never have guessed. If she were a character I would have had to give her cancer to find out.

And yet we size people up in two seconds. Someone – let’s call her Hetty – called in to a talk radio show I was listening to recently, and I disliked her by the time she’d spoken three sentences. Her hearty voice (too hearty, in my opinion) seemed to my warped ears to proclaim, Look how delightful I am. I didn’t even see her! I don’t know if she kicks her cat or volunteers at a nursing home, and even if I learned she does volunteer and is unfailingly kind to animals, I’d have to recite her virtues in my mind over and over to get past that voice.

So let’s make me and Hetty minor characters in a story. Hetty’s overbearing voice and overconfidence establish her, at least partially. My dislike of a boaster sets me up too – let’s change my name to Bonnie for this post. The reader, Lenny, who knows nothing more about these two, feels that he’s encountered two complicated people. He hasn’t read much about them, but the little suggests that more is there.

If they’re minor characters, that’s all we need. In fact, it may be too much. It’s too much if Lenny is distracted, if he wishes the story would veer off and have Hetty and Bonnie meet in person and develop their relationship. Sometimes all you need is a long, trailing scarf or an interesting name. And sometimes characters aren’t important enough even to warrant a name; male or female and old or young may be sufficient. We don’t want to burden Lenny’s brain with characters he doesn’t have to remember.

Or Hetty and Bonnie may be fine with the amount of detail provided. Lenny appreciates how we populate our stories with intriguing oddballs.

What reveals character?

Hetty has an unpleasant voice, so voice helps define a character. Along with voice, there’s dialogue. What does Hetty say and how does she say it? Does she interrupt people? Does she disagree with whatever is said to her, or does she always agree? How’s her enunciation? Her grammar? And many other speech possibilities.

Bonnie’s thoughts show her to be a tad prickly or sound sensitive; thoughts bring character to light. Of course we have access to the thoughts of POV characters only – unless we’re writing in third-person omniscient.

Lenny may be a writer as well as a reader. If he becomes a character, and if his writing enters the narrative, then it will help reveal him. Introducing a character’s writing, a diary, for example, is a way to slip in the thoughts of non-POV characters.

What else?

Those aspects of appearance that a person can control, which covers a lot of territory. Bonnie, for instance, is short (I am). Does she wear three-inch heels or flats? Does her erect bearing suggest a taller person? Lenny sports a goatee and chooses to wear glasses rather than contact lenses.

Clothing. One could write about this forever. Not only clothing itself, but also about clothing in a setting. Does Hetty wear a suit to the company picnic?

The setting that a character controls, Lenny’s house, his room if he’s too young to have a house (forget the goatee in this case). What’s his taste? Is he neat or sloppy?

These seemingly little things, Hetty’s bedroom with the martial arts posters, the free weights in the corner, the biography of Helen Keller on the desk, or Lenny’s goatee or Betty’s weighty painted beads around her neck and the four bracelets on each arm, suggest developed, deep characters.

Actions, which may be more important than anything else, define character. Hetty listens and calls in to a talk show. Bonnie just listens. Betty calls her son and complains, but never about the cancer. Lenny reads.

Everything is subject to interpretation. Does Hetty listen and call in out of loneliness? She lives alone and likes to hear voices on the radio. Then she gets so caught up she has to respond. Or does she call for some other reason? Does Lenny have a goatee and glasses because he wants to appear professorial? Or is the goatee hiding a weak chin, and he wears glasses because contact lenses seem vain to him? Or a thousand other reasons. If Lenny moves from reader to important character, we may learn what his motivations are. We learn motivation from further action, possibly from his explanations in dialogue, from his thoughts if he’s a POV character.

I’m not sure about backstory. If the backstory doesn’t move to the front story, I think it’s more for the writer to know than for the reader. Backstory will influence a character’s actions, but Lenny doesn’t have to know that Hetty’s father locked her in the cellar when he was in a bad mood – unless the father or the cellar or something directly related comes into the story.

Coming into the story is the key to what character development to put in and what to leave out. If you need it for the plot, then include it. If you don’t and the information makes the story drag, leave it out. If you don’t need it but it’s fascinating in its own right and Lenny doesn’t get bored, it’s up to you and the kind of story you’re writing. You can’t please everybody. Lenny may like an embellished story but his brother Lonny may prefer his fiction stripped down to action action action.

Only one prompt today:

Betty, Bonnie, Hetty, and Lenny, strangers to one another, all attend a reading by the famous teenage fantasist Tammy Millhart. At the end she announces that before the event she hid a talisman, an ebony ball, somewhere in the local amusement park. She chooses three teams, one of one of them comprising our characters, to look for the ball. Whichever team finds it will be given a far more serious mission; the entire population of a mid-size city will be at risk. Write our quartet’s search while developing each one as a complex personality. Do all of them want their search to succeed? Tammy can be an important character too if you like. She can attach herself to your team or wander from team to team. Is she helping or getting in the way?

Description galore

On June 27, 2011, Agnes wrote, When I write a story the writing process goes like this. I have an idea, so I think about it and act it out until my plot has a basic shape. Then I start writing it down, my problem is that my descriptions get way too long. How can I stop this?

Acting your story out is a terrific idea!

I wouldn’t worry about the length of your descriptions while you’re writing them. Just keep going. When you’re finished, you can see what you need and what you can do without.

When you go back, regard your adjectives and adverbs with suspicion. Test your sentences without them. If nothing is lost by removing the word lovely, for example, delete it. Usually, the adjectives and adverbs that we can’t do without are the ones that convey information, like green, hot, wobbly, sparsely.

More general adjectives sometimes have their place. For example, I used the word terrific above in a sentence of less than spellbinding prose. If I had been going for something better I might have written that acting your idea out ensures that your story has tension and feeling. Terrific is a summary word, and in this case I wanted speed. I wanted to convey approval, not necessarily the reason for the approval.

Generally, nouns and verbs should do your heavy lifting. Better than “Don’t eviscerate me with that long weapon,” he said softly would be “Don’t eviscerate me with that saber,” he whispered. Better and shorter.

I’ve said this before: Take care with words that weaken, like almost, slightly, somewhat. Occasionally they’re essential, but often they reflect an unwillingness to take a stand, as in Hilda felt almost jealous. Let’s let her go lime-green with envy.

More broadly, think about what you want your description to do. Description sets the movie going in your reader’s mind, so you need to provide enough to let him see and possibly hear, touch, and smell his surroundings. When Hilda goes into her bedroom and the reader sees it for the first time, he needs to know more than that there’s a bed in there, but he doesn’t need a raft of specifics. He probably should be told if the bed is a bunk bed. Let’s suppose it isn’t. Let’s suppose the room is fussy. There’s a dust ruffle around the bed, which is an antique reproduction of Benjamin Franklin’s bed (I have no idea if this is possible). Roses are stenciled on the bureau. Atop the dresser, real roses fill a rose-colored vase, and under the vase, a doily. The walls are covered with William Morris wallpaper. The floor sports two braided rugs. A quilt in a classic pattern hangs on the wall.

The poor reader doesn’t have to be burdened with all this; a few details will do. But I’d like him to know who decorated the room, especially if Hilda chose everything, and she’s seven years old! Seriously, because then the description reveals character, and that’s cool.

As a sidebar, the reader doesn’t have to know what William Morris wallpaper is. He’ll get the idea, or he can look it up. You don’t have to worry about his comprehension in such a little matter. If William Morris wallpaper is exactly what you want, keep it in. You can even make up a kind of wallpaper if you like, Millicent Popper paper, say, and no one will ever discover more about it than you reveal.

Another consideration is what’s going to happen. Suppose there’s a rocking chair in the room, and Hilda is about to rock so enthusiastically that it falls apart, which will be the last straw for her foster parents, and they’re going to call Social Services. Then the reader has to know there’s a chair, probably before she sits down in it.

Description can convey feeling. Hilda is sent to jail, maybe for bad home decorating decisions. You want your description to convey how bad the prison conditions are: the stink, the chill, the iron bed, the single blanket, the cockroaches. If this is a comedy, the lack of art on the walls. Then Hilda is released. Again, you may want to describe her new situation for contrast. But you don’t want to go too far. Enough to let the reader experience the place, not so much that boredom sets in.

You can use description to heighten suspense. Hilda’s foster parents tell her that she can’t live with them anymore. The scene takes place in the kitchen. Everyone is waiting for the social worker to come. Hilda spends the time noticing the abundance of food in the kitchen, the bowl of fruit, the cake cooling on the counter, the soup pot on the stove, the fridge with its automatic ice dispenser, the spice rack, the branch of basil hanging by the window. The reader gulps and wonders when Hilda will experience such abundance again.

Often we put in a lot of detail so that we know where everything is and we can see the movie. When we revise, we need to ask ourselves what purpose our description is serving.

•    Is it creating the movie?
•    Is it revealing character?
•    Is it making a mood?
•    Is it conveying feeling?
•    Is it heightening suspense?

This may not be an exhaustive list. If you can identify some other objective your description is fulfilling or if it’s serving one of the ones I’ve listed, then it deserves to live. But if not, or if it has a purpose but you’ve gone on too long, that’s the time to cut.

Sometimes we fall in love with our words and it’s hard to give them up. I particularly like the doily under the rose-colored vase, but if the reader wants to shred it and flush the bits, then it’s doing no good, and it should go.

Of course, it can be hard to tell what should stay and what should be deleted. For that, you need the usual resources: time away from the manuscript to give you objectivity, helpful criticism, and experience. The more you write the better you’ll get at this one particular thing. I guarantee it.

Time for prompts:

• Hilda has taken refuge from her foster family with the seven dwarves. It’s two months after Snow White left. The dwarves have gone to the mines for the day, and she’s alone in their cottage. Describe the cottage through her eyes.

• After deliberating a while, Hilda makes some changes to the dwarves’ home. Their cottage can be in the middle of a village of dwarves’ cottages with shops and so forth, or it can be alone in a forest. Describe what she does.

• Describe what happens when the dwarves return.

• Put what you’ve written aside for three days.

• Now look at it all again. What can you cut? What do you need to add? Revise.

Have fun, and save what you wrote!

The Gap

Before I start, hope to see some of you this weekend in Rhode Island. If you haven’t seen where I’ll be, check the Appearances page of my website.

Josiphine, whose first question I discussed last week, had a second: …any tips on rewriting would be extremely appreciated.

In thinking about my response, I remembered a post on the subject and looked it up. My post of November 18th, 2009, is all about revision. If you read it and have further questions, please ask.

Along the same lines, Ella wrote, I’m the kind of writer that plans everything out before I write. When I come to the few spots that I didn’t plan, I skip over them and go on. But now I’m revising and I have to fill in those gaps, and go back and add details and emotions, but it’s really hard. Any tips?
Let’s go to pre-revision. In your next story, which you may be working on now, I suggest not skipping these unplanned parts. Since you’re a planner, when you reach such a place, try planning it out and writing it then and there in your first draft.

It’s possible that these spots don’t fit into your overall story scheme. They may reveal plot problems that get worse if you just soldier on. When you fill in later, the emotions may not feel genuine because you’re forcing your characters to act according to your outline, not according to how they’d actually behave in the situation.

You may discover that these junctures are the keys to your story. They may take it in directions that surprise you but represent, or represent more effectively, your underlying theme.

Now let’s fast forward to revision, to the situation you asked about. You’ve got these gaps. It’s too late for the first draft. What to do?

First off, do you need these scenes? If not, cut them and problem solved.

Do they need to be scenes? Or do they merely represent information that needs to be conveyed, which you can tuck into the narrative or dialogue in another scene? Suppose, for example, that main character Eliot’s uncle has just died, which is important because he was going to pay Eliot’s college tuition. We don’t need the death scene. We may not even need the scene when Eliot finds out. What may be important, however, is his blow-up at his girlfriend Amy because he’s distressed that his education, his hoped-for career, his entire future, is now in doubt. After the argument, during the making up, if he wasn’t too horrible for a reconciliation, he confesses what’s really eating him. Amy and the reader find out together.

If your omissions do have to be scenes, why not plan them even at this late date? (Remember that I’m not a planner and am just guessing how planners make their magic.) Look at where your caesura (If you don’t know the word, look it up!) fits into your outline. Reread what went before and what comes after. Think about how your characters, acting according to their natures, can bridge the gap. How can they express their feelings through thoughts, action, dialogue? What can you find that interests you, that will make the process fun? Is there some aspect of Eliot, for example, that you haven’t explored before? Has the reader experienced his sense of humor or his intellectual side? Can you bring one of these into the new scene? Outline and then write.

Do the new scenes take place in old settings? Can you move the action somewhere else, somewhere you may enjoy describing? Or, can you highlight unexplored aspects of your setting? Eliot will have needs in this scene, or his girlfriend Amy will. Suppose their argument happens in her bedroom. She’s chilly, so she opens the door to her closet where her sweater and tee-shirt shelves are. Above the sweaters is a shelf of stuffed animals that she’s outgrown but can’t bring herself to throw out. She touches the nose of her stuffed penguin for comfort. The stuffed animals and the gesture brings Eliot to his senses, and he realizes how much he’s upset Amy and how adorable and sweet she is.

I’ve exhausted my ideas on this aspect of revision, but I’d welcome follow-up questions.

So, changing the subject. I’m a radio addict. I love to listen to programs that I can learn from, and one of these is Freakonomics Radio, which applies economic theory to surprising topics. I recently listened to a podcast about quitting, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. The economists who narrate the show have a position, that quitting is good. They advocate quitting – anything! – and quitting quickly.

I’ve been mulling over the program’s ideas as applied to writing, and I think the good economists left out a lot of complexity. Naturally, they’re arguing against the prevailing idea that quitting – being a quitter – is always bad.

Questions come in to the blog sometimes about not finishing stories, and I always say it’s okay not to finish, because we learn from everything we write, fragments as well as completed stories – as long as we keep writing. Many of you are about to participate in NaNoWriMo, and you’re resolved not to quit. In a month you’ll have a big first draft, and then what?

Since they’re economists, the podcasters talk about costs, in this case two kinds of costs relating to quitting or not quitting. There’s opportunity costs and sunk costs, and they’re kind of opposed to each other. You finish your NaNoWriMo book. Maybe you’ve met your word count, maybe not. Doesn’t matter. You start revising and the going gets rough.

The opportunity costs start beckoning. Every hour you devote to revision is an hour you can’t spend starting a new story – or eating, sleeping, studying for your Physics exam. You think about quitting, but you remember your sunk costs. You’ve sunk a month into this book, a month when you could have been eating, sleeping, or studying for your Physics exam. If you walk away, you may have wasted that time and energy and creativity.

I’ve been working on Beloved Elodie for a dauntingly long time. I’m finally making progress but I don’t think I’m even at the halfway point. Should I have quit, maybe after my second false start?

Possibly, but I guess I’m a sunk-costs type. If I had quit I wouldn’t find out where the story goes. I would find out what other tale was waiting for me, but that other tale isn’t as alive for me as the one I’m butting my head against.

Actually, I did quit. Each time I started over I abandoned the storyline that wasn’t working and I’ll never know if I could have pushed on and made it succeed. This hurts. There were good aspects to each attempt, one in particular that I wish I could have figured out.

I guess this is where I wished for more complexity from the radio. There’s loss when you quit, even when quitting is right. And there’s loss when you continue and don’t write whatever else you might have. And there are gains on each side. We have to weigh one against the other. The only certainty I have is that there’s no disgrace in either decision.

Now I’m quitting. Time for prompts:

∙ Find a time gap in one of your stories, a day, a week, whatever. Invent a new scene that takes place during the gap. When you’re finished, ask yourself if you’ve you discovered anything new that will deepen the reader’s understanding of what’s going on.

∙ Write the dust-up between Eliot and Amy. Decide how he would pick a fight. What’s he like when he argues? Show him at his worst.

∙ Now write Eliot’s journal entry about his uncle’s death and his behavior to Amy.

∙ Think of the fairytale “The Twelve Dancing Princesses,” which we discussed at length in a long-ago post. If you don’t remember the story, look it up. At the end, the soldier chooses the oldest princess for his bride. Let’s imagine that she can accept him or quit being a princess. She’s hardly met him and has hardly been kind to him. Write the scene in which she decides. Write the scene following her decision.

∙ Yes, Cinderella inexplicably continues to obey her stepsisters and stepmother in the original story, not my version, but they also continue to torment her, which cannot be good for their self-esteem. Write a version in which one of the stepsisters decides to do something different, to quit her role. What happens?

∙ Rewrite the tall tale of John Henry and have him quit pounding his hammer and live. What happens next?

Have fun, and save what you write!

Dreams, glimpses, and other tantalizing story morsels

To start, I’ll be speaking and signing books in Rhode Island on Saturday, October 15th, along with a bunch of other terrific kids’ book writers. You can find out where and when on my website. Hope to see some of you!

And, a few questions have come in about my Disney Fairies books and about Writing Magic and others. If you want to ask me about any of my books, please let me know and I’ll answer in a post – if I can. Sometimes I forget what I had in mind when I was writing and sometimes ideas pop out of nowhere and I can’t explain them.

And, puppy Reggie is almost nine months old and got his first haircut. My husband has posted new photos on the News page of my website. My fave is the one with his best friend, Sage, in which Reggie is revealed as a supremely happy maniac.

Now for this week’s post topic. On June 25th, 2011, Maddie wrote, ….I keep on getting very vivid “glimpses” of stories, but I don’t know anything about the characters or plot besides what is in the “glimpses.” Can you help me with this? I think that I can probably start working on a story if I can get past this.
Also, I had a dream a few months ago, and since I wrote it down, I’m thinking about basing a story off it. Do you have any suggestions?

And on July 2nd, 2011, Josiphine asked a related question: ….I’m an aspiring writer and have completed several books. But my problem is making my books book-length. Most people I know say that each time they do a rewrite they cut back so their novel isn’t as long. I’m in the opposite predicament. My books are never long enough, a short story, or a novella at a stretch.
Do you have any suggestions about making my books the right length? I know that my plots have enough meat to last…I just can’t make them do so.

Some fairytales remind me of dreams. Putting a pea under twenty mattresses to test potential princess is dreamlike in its lack of logic. I love to work with these kinds of fairytales. The ones that make complete sense, like (in my opinion) “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves,” offer less fodder for fooling around. So I say, Maddie, go with your dream.

You can begin with the events that lead up to the dream. These are some questions you might ask yourself:

∙ Who is the main character in the dream? Is it you? Or someone else?

∙ Who are the other characters? Describe them.

∙ What is the world of the dream?

∙ What happens after the dream ends?

∙ What is the conflict?

∙ What scenes can you write to dramatize the conflict, extend it, deepen it?

∙ What concrete, specific details can you include in your scenes to make the dreamscape real?

If you make your reader aware that the story is a dream, he may not get emotionally involved, so I would avoid this. Likewise, I suggest you not end your story by having the main character wake up, which usually results in a reader feeling cheated. In other words, the dream should be the story’s reality.

Same approach for your glimpses. Ask yourself questions to flesh out what you have. What went before the glimpse? What can come next? What’s the conflict? Write the answers in notes. Try writing the glimpse, fragmentary though it is, not in notes but in story form. Just the writing may elicit more.

As I suggested in an earlier post, think about your other glimpses. Can you string them together to make a fuller story? Is there anything else you can bring in? A memory? A myth? A news item?

Suppose you try, and you write part of a story then can’t go any further. I say, count this as a victory. Save your pages, of course. Maybe the fragment needs something for completion that you can’t get to yet, something you’re going to write next month or even three years from now. Or maybe this bit will seed a seven-book series. Or you’ll cannibalize it in five other stories – or for the rest of your life.

Josiphine, my most helpful writing teacher used to say there was no right length for a story, which needs to be as long as it needs to be. I’d add that padding isn’t the right technique for achieving length.

Having said that, my suggestions for Maddie may work for you, too,. Look at your conflict. Have you come up with a variety of ways to reveal and intensify it? In Ella Enchanted, for instance, I kept devising ways to have obedience make Ella suffer. She loses a friend because of it early in the book and then, when she’s older, is forced to give up Areida. The ogres show the physical side of the obedience curse, the parrot Chock the humorous aspect, and so on. If your reader cares, she won’t tire of new ways for your main character to struggle.

Are you including your main character’s thoughts and feelings? Leaving these out will speed up your scenes, but in a bad way, because the action is likely to fall flat. Adding them will probably engage the reader more deeply and may involve you more, too. You’ll know your main better, and that inner understanding may suggest follow-up scenes that you hadn’t thought of before.

Consider your setting, too. Our goal is to start a movie in the reader’s mind. Have you put in enough detail to get the movie going?

Look at your transitions. Have you filled in the movement from one scene to the next? Are there any leaps of logic that leave the reader flummoxed? Are you jumping from plot point to plot point?

Last, you may get the best help from a reader. Ask a fellow writer (the best choice, if possible), a friend, a teacher, a librarian, a relative to read one of your stories. Then ask this person if anything seems to be missing, if your tale seems truncated. Ask her to be as specific as she can be. Then, if you want a second opinion, ask someone else as well.

Here are three dream prompts. First, I offer two of my dreams to turn into stories if you can. For these prompts you’ll need to do a lot of expanding.

∙ This is a recurring nightmare. I’m climbing the subway stairs in New York City and my legs become very heavy. I can’t drag them up. The people behind me are angry and I’m terrified because I don’t know what’s happened to me. That’s it. It hasn’t visited me lately, maybe because I turned it into a pantoum (a poem form), which appeared in a book of short horror fiction for kids called Half-Minute Horrors (because each one can be read in thirty seconds).

∙ I’m at a dinner, a wedding or some other celebratory event. I know that if I eat the shrimp I’ll turn transparent. I don’t serve myself any, but they appear on my plate anyway. Use this any way you like.

∙ Write down your own dreams for a week. Keep a pad next to your bed. Use one or all of your dreams in a story.

Have fun, and save what you write!