Special post

This extra post is to announce an appearance in hopes that some of you  reading this are in Connecticut or thereabouts.  I will be speaking and signing at  on Monday, March 15th at 5:30 in the Johnson Room of the library at Eastern Connecticut State University, 83 Windham Street, Willimantic, CT 06226.  My talk is free and open to the public, and, as a teaser, I’m going to reveal a little-known secret about each of my books!  I would LOVE to see you there! If you come, please be sure to introduce yourself.

Talk, darn it!

January 28, 2010, F posted this question:  …what do you do if you have too LITTLE dialogue?  I sometimes have to force myself to insert dialogue in a scene….  I’ve heard that there shouldn’t be too much non-dialogue in a piece of writing, because that will turn off readers. But in some scenes there just does NOT seem to be place for it!!  Your thoughts?

And the next day, Arya wrote,  …I fear I have the same problem as F.  And if I do have a moment where dialogue comes natural then I write it where almost every time someone says something I explain what they’re doing:  running fingers through their hair, staring out the window, pacing the room, biting their nails, touching someone’s shoulder).  Is this a problem or a good thing?

One reason readers like dialogue, which I discuss in Writing Magic, is that it creates white space on the page, because speech paragraphs are usually shorter than descriptive ones.  A page with just a single paragraph, for example, looks daunting.  You may have seen textbook pages like this.  My reaction is, Whoa!  I don’t know if I can handle this.  But a page with ten paragraphs of mixed dialogue and description looks much friendlier.

You can achieve comforting white space with short paragraphs, a good technique when a character is alone.  But when two or more characters are together, there’s a more important reason for them to talk than mere white space.  It’s relationships.  Put two people together, even briefly, even strangers, and there’s a relationship.

Not all situations lead to dialogue, of course.  I grew up in New York City, where people are smooshed together, often more than they like.  So in the subway and on the street they frequently guard themselves against contact with silence.  But even in crowded New York City, talk erupts surprisingly often.  Once, a woman on the subway, out of the blue, couldn’t keep herself from telling my husband that he has a beautiful nose!  If a subway train gets stuck between stations, riders may complain to one another.  If the delay is prolonged there will certainly be conversation, and sometimes friendships are formed.

Imagine three characters are scaling a wall at night.  The enemy is on the other side, and silence is required.  No dialogue, but lots of thought, and some of it about the other characters.  Take away the enemy, and they will almost certainly talk.  Okay, maybe the task is so hard that they have no breath left over for speech.  Suppose it isn’t that hard.  Suppose it’s a beginner-level wall in a fitness program, but suppose the characters have never met before.  They’re just thrown together for this task.  Still, each has a personality, and they’re unlikely all to be silent types.

Maybe one is the leader.  She’ll likely feel she needs to give some instruction.  One is scared.  Depending on who he is, he may reveal his fear in dialogue or camouflage it in different dialogue.  Or hide it in silent teeth gritting.  And maybe one is the silent type and won’t speak unless the leader checks on him.  They may not be talking much, but they’ll be talking.

Of course it’s up to you.  Don’t let any of them be silent types.  The leader may be naturally friendly.  Another climber may be given to putting herself down out loud, as in, “There’s no way I’m good enough to climb this wall.”  The third may be curious and may have a series of questions for the leader.  Or he may be nosy and be angling for dirt about each of his companions.

In most scenes your characters won’t be strangers, and they’ll have feelings about one another and be connected in various ways.  If you think about their feelings and what each wants from the others, you are likely to find dialogue inevitable.  What a character wants may be a tiny thing.  A character may even just want conversation for its own sake.  He may looking for reassurance that the other person doesn’t dislike him.  He may feel that social convention demands speech and he can’t be silent.  He may not be comfortable with silence.

Near the beginning of the mystery I’m working on now, which is in early stages and has no title yet, several of my characters are on the deck of a boat watching a dramatic sunset.  The dragon, Masteress Meenore, says,

    “Some would call it a portentous sunset,” IT said.
    Evil portents?
    “But rational creatures do not put any faith in auguries.  One can deduce nothing from them, and common sense reminds us that no sunset is the same.”

IT – the dragon – starts talking only to show off ITs intelligence.  What follows is a discussion of magic.  Some characters disagree with IT.  There’s a dispute but no real anger.  These characters are being sociable, passing time on a boat where the opportunities for action are limited.  And they’re debating ideas I want to introduce into the story.

When one person speaks, in fiction and life, another often wants to respond, to agree, disagree, ask for clarification, steer the conversation another way.  If you ask yourself what the other characters think and feel about an initial statement, you can open the dialogue floodgates.

Now for Arya’s question:  Generally it’s good – terrific! – to include movement along with dialogue if you don’t overdo it.  These little acts can reveal character or show where people are physically, and they break up solid dialogue, just as you want to break up solid narrative.  The nail biter and the pacer may be anxious at the moment or anxious as a constant state, and the reader will get that.  The character who touches the shoulder of another person may be showing dominance or reassurance or demonstrating his touchy-feely nature.  My example above would be improved by a little physicality.  This would be better:

    “Some would call it a portentous sunset.”  White smoke rose from ITs nostrils in a wide, lazy spiral.

The reader knows that smoke spirals mean IT’s happy, so information has been revealed.  The other advantage is that I can cut “IT said,” which now takes up unnecessary space.  We don’t want every dialogue paragraph to be accompanied by a gesture, but many can be.  You can always take a few out when you think you’ve gone too far.

Here are two prompts:

The first is to go back to a scene, or more than one, in one of your stories that seems dialogue weak.  Think about the characters in the scene and how they feel toward one another, what they want, what their thoughts are, and what their thoughts might move them to say.  When one character speaks, see what another might say in response.  Put in as much dialogue as you can create.  You can delete the excess later.

The second prompt takes us on a hike through beautiful countryside in a national park.  No danger is looming.  There is no need for the characters to talk, but they do.  Try one or more of these possible groups of hikers.  In each case, limit the number of talking characters to no more than four.  Mix gestures in with the conversation.

•    A group of campers and two counselors.

•    An elder hostel group with a younger tour guide.

•    A family group.  You make up the members.

•    Participants in a program for troubled teenagers and two counselors.

•    Bird watchers.

•    Scientists engaged in finding and tagging wolves.

After you’ve written a page, have one of the characters say something that shocks everyone else.  Then write another page of dialogue.

Have fun and save what you write!

On another subject, several weeks ago Priyanka asked about writing from the perspective of characters much older than she is.  I am weeks from tackling this, but I read an excellent article in yesterday’s (March 2nd) New York Times in the Science section that has bearing on the topic.  Priyanka and anyone else who feels uncertain about inventing older characters may find the article helpful.  The title is “Old Age, From Youth’s Narrow Prism.”  I’m sure you can access it online.

Describing and Thinking Too Much

On January 28, 2010, Wendy the Bard wrote, What about too much description and thought?  Any words on that?

In writing this blog I’ve often thought of the old song “Dem Dry Bones.”  I’m making up the bones to fit writers, but it goes something like, Your finger bones connected to your hand bones, your hand bones connected to your wrist bones, and so on, with a strong beat.  In writing, everything is connected to everything else.  So description and thoughts are connected to point of view (POV) and to voice and to all the other elements that make up a story.

If you’re writing in first-person POV or in a third-person POV that’s not omniscient (all knowing), only the main character’s thoughts can be reported and only what she sees, hears, smells, touches can be described.  Suppose she’s a landscape painter and sees herself as a colorist, she’s going to be alert to the hues wherever she goes.  You will certainly want to emphasize the colors in each setting she enters.  She may be emotionally tuned to colors too, so she might be distressed in certain environments.  She might even like or dislike someone according to the color scheme in his house or his clothes.  She may be too fascinated by the blue tones in the ocher mud caked on the green linoleum kitchen floor to conclude that the floor is dirty.

But she may not be sensitive to sounds.  She may not hear the ticking clock or the teakettle hissing as it approaches a boil.  Despite the hiss, she may jump when the whistle starts.  If there is something auditory you need the reader to know about, you may have to make it deafening, or you may need to have another character mention it.

So, thinking about who is telling the story will help limit your descriptions to only what this character would notice.

However, if your main character is, for example, a detective who notices everything, the task is harder.  He sees the mud on the floor and the footprints tracked through it and the teakettle and the absence of tea in the cupboard and all kinds of things as well, the pack of matches under one leg of the kitchen table to steady it, the frog refrigerator magnets, the wildlife calendar turned to the wrong month.  Some of these observations may be important to the mystery and others may not.  You will probably want to mix the irrelevant in with the relevant to mislead the poor reader, but you still won’t want to go on too long.

How to stop?  Your detective can be interrupted.  Someone can ask him a question or enter the room.  His cell phone can ring.  Even his thoughts can change tracks.  Suppose your detective is falling in love.  The orange tablecloth can be the same color as his girlfriend’s scarf, and his thoughts can go briefly to her.  If he’s thinking too much already, you may not want to opt for this, though.

People think differently, too.  Some think in grammatically correct paragraphs, some in phrases, some in a word or two, some in images.  When a character has a problem it may cycle endlessly through his mind.  An argument can do this too, as he thinks of all the cutting remarks he could have made.  Or if he was told something that stunned him, just a few words may echo over and over.

If your character is a loquacious thinker you can bring in the same devices to stop the thinking as you used to cut off the description.  When I’m caught on a thought treadmill in real life, I often turn on talk radio to shut myself up.  Your character can do the same, or she can watch TV or listen to music, whatever will distract her.

You can switch to telling as well, as in, I stayed up half the night going over Dylan’s words.  Then the next morning comes and the story moves on to other things.  Or, Sheila couldn’t stop thinking about the secret.  Maxie came by.  They talked, but the thinking wouldn’t go away, like the crawl under the television news.  By informing the reader that thinking is taking place, you don’t have to reveal every thought.

If you’re telling the story from an omniscient third-person POV – by a narrator who’s outside the story – the narrator’s voice can help limit description.  A no-nonsense voice will not let you spend many words on the Venetian blinds in the kitchen.  It will hurry to the boy peeking through the slats to see if the class bully is waiting outside the house.

A more lyrical voice may linger, which is fine, as long as you keep the reader in mind.  You can spend a whole page on a lovely picnic scene if the reader knows that an approaching airplane is having engine trouble and may crash land there.  In fact, in such a situation, more may be better.  Show the reader the budding dogwood trees, the girl with the five-week-old puppies she hopes to find homes for, the artist sketching the family of picnickers, and the old man sleeping with the newspaper over his face.  You can even zoom in close enough to reveal the newspaper headline about improved air travel safety.

Having said all this, you may still write too much description and too many thoughts.  I recommend not worrying about this in your first draft and maybe not even in your second, not until your story is solid.  Before then you can’t be sure what you need and what you don’t.

When you’re revising, try cutting sentences and paragraphs of description and thoughts – but before you cut, save the version and continue in a new version so you don’t lose what you had before.  If you’re working longhand, cross out in pencil.  See how the slimmer version reads.  Is it better?  Or do you and the reader need at least some of what you took out?

To help guide you in your cutting, ask yourself if the part you’re thinking of cutting contributes to character, setting, mood, plot.  Even if it does, question whether those elements are already established enough without these passages.

This is my prejudice:  Don’t cut humor unless it is out of place or works against your scene.  Few readers mind extra sentences that make them laugh.

Remember, you don’t need a machete to cut.  A nail scissors works fine too.  You can cut a third of a story or even of a book with a snip here and a snip there.

F and Arya, originally I thought I would get to your questions about too little dialogue, but I failed, so next week I will.

Here are prompts:  Describe a room in your house and give the accompanying thoughts from the point of view of one or more of these:
•    a burglar who has broken in at 2:00 am;
•    a teenager who’s come along with her parents on a house-hunt;
•    the family dog or cat;
•    a grandmother who’s just moved in with her daughter’s family;
•    an interior decorator who’s been invited to redo the room.

Restrict yourself to no more than two pages for each.  Then revise and see what you can do very well without.  Have fun and save what you write!

Flatly Bored

January 20, 2010, F said,  For me, what happens is, I do not want to skip ahead and write any other scene, and prefer to write in order, like the whole book in one go. I have difficulty in ‘feeling’ for my characters. If there is a scene I look forward to, I wait until I come to it. And all those scenes are the ones I am actually proud of when I read back. The others, I can definitely see that they need fixing up. Is there any tip you can give us which can help us to stay ‘in tune’ with our characters and plot, and not get bored? I really like my plot, but lack the motivation to write some (most) of the times, since my characters feel just the little bit too flat, and too listless.

I’m picking up three separate questions: writing in order, flat characters, and being bored.

Starting backwards, sometimes I get bored too.  My story can make me so sleepy that I have to do something else to keep my head from falling into the keyboard.  When I’m more awake I go back to work, until I have to stop again.  For me, the early stages of a book are especially torpor-inducing.  Often my drowsiness has no bearing on the quality of what I’m writing.  A particular chapter may be terrific, despite the fact that it’s putting me out.  So don’t assume that what you’re writing when you’re bored is boring.

If I didn’t sleep well the night before, or if the blood has left my brain to help digest my lunch, I get bored.  But even when I didn’t sleep enough and it’s right after lunch, I’m almost never bored if I’m revising, which leads me to suspect that there’s a worry component to the boredom.  I’m a confident reviser but not a confident first-draft writer.  When it’s revision time the hardest work is over.  Before then, though, I can still louse everything up.  You may be most confident about the scenes that appeal to you, not so much about the others.  I don’t know any better answer for boredom than to cope as well as we can.  I write a few sentences, walk to my office window, write a few more sentences, pour myself a cup of tea, write a little more, hope that the boredom will pass, which it often does as I push on.

Occasionally, my boredom indicates a story problem.  I’ve lost my way, and my characters are just wandering around.  Or I’m pursuing an idea that I love and I’m pushing the story where it doesn’t want to go.  I may blunder on this way, bored, for weeks before I realized what’s going on.  Often then I have to find a better path for my story, which I usually locate through notes.

Boredom can be connected to writer’s block, so it may be helpful to go back to my post on the subject, called “Playing with Blocks” on October 28, 2009 or to look at the chapter in Writing Magic called “Stuck!”

It is not a crime to abandon a story that is boring you.  You can come back to it if and when you have a new idea.  Or you may be able to move the parts that interest you to a different story you’re working on.  Or you can use these parts as the basis of an entirely new tale.  The only writing crime is not writing.

Moving on to the writing-in-order question:  I write in order too, although I admire writers who can hop around and sew everything together later.  I discussed the question with a writer friend who does leap from scene to scene out of sequence, and she suggested you try her method and see what happens.  It is possible that writing the scenes you’re eager for may help you discover what you need to do to tie them together, and you may become more interested in the in-between scenes.

If you stick with your method and mine, you might try slowing down the scenes you want to just get through, which may help with deepening your characters too.  Suppose, for example, that your main character, Marka, is a runner.  The scene that interests you most is the big race at the end of a summer of preparation.  You have it all planned out:  the perfect running shoes that go missing, the substitute shoes, the best friend running on Marka’s right, her enemy on the left, the leg cramp.

Maybe a few scenes interest you along the way:  an argument with the enemy, shopping for running shoes with the best friend, a practice run when a new boy in school runs too.  And that’s it.  You hurry through the rest.

This may be the root of the flat-character problem.  You may not know your characters well enough because you haven’t thrown them into a variety of situations.  Look at the boring scenes.  Maybe you can bring conflict into them too.  Suppose you need a scene with the running team and the coach, but you’re not interested in it.  Try thinking about some of the peripheral characters:  Coach Bumbry, the slowest runner on the team, the girl who’s fast but her crazy form is incomprehensible.  How does she move with her knees almost hitting her chin?  What’s up with Coach Bumbry?  Suppose she seems to care about every character on the team except your Marka.  How does Marka deal with being ignored?

Take the slowest runner.  Why is she on the team?  How does she relate to Marka?  Does Marka help her, stay away from her as if slowness might be catching, spy on her?

The girl with the weird form.  What might Marka do with her?

You may want to expand your story.  Maybe there’s some home conflict.  Marka’s mom might be convinced that the time Marka spends running is the reason she’s flunking English.  Marka’s dad may be irritable because he’s quitting smoking.  Marka’s older brother may be applying for college and sucking up every scintilla of parental attention.  Whatever.  How does Marka react to all this?

If you throw Marka into lots of situations, if you complicate the boring scenes, you’ll know more about her when the climax arrives.  Her actions are likely to be more layered; her thoughts will be surprising.  And you may enjoy the writing more, too.

Prompt:  Add three new scenes to one of your old stories or to a story you’re working on now.  Put your main character into an. unfamiliar setting.  Have him spend time with a minor character.  Make someone he trusts surprise him in an unpleasant way.  See what he does.  If you need to adjust the rest of your story to accommodate the new scenes (if you’re happy with them), go for it.  Have fun, and save what you write!

Setting Set Up

On January 14, 2010, Gail Zuniga posted this comment:  I’m wondering when you are writing a novel do you have to describe where it takes place in the first chapter or can you drop little hints here and there and later on go into detail of what the town or city looks like?

In general I like the hints approach.  I worry that loading down a first chapter with description will prevent a reader from getting engaged in the story.  But there are many exceptions.  You may want to start with description to create atmosphere or to set a mood.  Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt starts this way.  The entire book turns on a first descriptive chapter, and I love it.  The first chapter of Hawaii by James Michener (not for children) is devoted to the geological development of the island.  Many readers adore this chapter, but I never managed to drag myself all the way through it, although I enjoyed the rest of the book when I read it decades ago.

A setting may be intrinsically fascinating, and knowing it may be critical to reader understanding.  For example, suppose your story starts in a tunnel that’s inhabited by giant spiders whose webs are works of art and a bunch of eco-tourists is entering the tunnel, then you may want to go into some depth (no pun intended) about the tunnel and the webs, and I’d guess the reader will be happy.  I certainly wouldn’t toss a book for going on about spider art.

Of course the kind of story you’re writing has some bearing on how much setting you include.  If you’re working on a thriller or an adventure story, and you want action-action-action, you may need to keep setting to a minimum.  The reader gets only the details he needs.  If there’s a bicycle chase, the reader will probably need information about the bikes.  The villain on a lightweight racing bike will have an advantage over the hero on a mountain bike, unless a mountain is involved.  And you’ll probably want the reader to see the bikes – possibly shiny red for the racing bike and rusty green for the mountain bike.  The reader will need to know if the chase is in a city or on a rural dirt road, and maybe or maybe not that it starts in front of the courthouse.  Almost certainly the reader will not have to know that there aren’t many free parking spots along the street – unless that’s important.

Everything depends on everything else.  In a thriller or an adventure story, the author may decide to skimp on other elements in addition to setting.  Thoughts, depth of characterization, dialogue, relationships among characters, all may be streamlined for the sake of a fast pace.  I’m not making a judgment.  I like a story that gallops.  And other kinds of stories, too.

Sometimes setting is a tool for character development.  When the reader sees Kevin’s bedroom, for instance, she learns something about Kevin or his parents.  The route Kevin takes to school, if he has a choice, will be revealing.  Maybe he likes to pass a particular house because his old math teacher used to live there.  The author may want to linger at the front gate and show what Kevin cares about.

Setting can be an instrument of plot.  In my novel, Dave at Night, Dave is sent to an orphanage so forbidding that he is desperate to get away.

This is the beginning of Fairies and the Quest for Never land, which will be out in June:

    “Gwendolyn Jane Mary Darling Carlisle,” Grandma whispered, putting down her teacup with trembling fingers, “you are Wendy Darling returned to life.”
    For her seventh birthday, Gwendolyn had come to breakfast wearing a white dress trimmed with eyelet lace.
    “Fetch the scrapbook from my dressing table, dear,” Grandma said.  “I want to see.”

I never tell the reader whether breakfast is eaten in the dining room or the kitchen or what the room looks like or even what Gwendolyn or her grandmother eat.  I do happen to mention orange juice in passing, but that’s it.  However, later, I tell the reader about Gwendolyn’s street of row houses because the information is momentarily necessary in the story.  I provide much more detail about Fairy Haven on Never Land, both because the place is central to the plot, and also because it’s central to Gwendolyn herself.

Setting isn’t an issue only in the first chapter of a book.  Stories move.  We have to reveal setting continuously.

So how do you present setting to your reader?  As it comes along for the most part.  If you’re writing from a single viewpoint, whether in first person or third, you can show the reader the sights, sounds, and smells as your main character encounters them, even in a place he knows well.  It’s always handy when a main character is in a new place, though.  If Kevin starts a new school, he’ll be paying attention, and the description will come delightfully naturally.

Sometimes it’s hard to work in setting information.  Say Kevin visits his friend Julie, which he’s often done in the past.  They sit  in the living room where there’s a fish tank.  The fish are going to be part of the story, so the reader needs to know about them, because you don’t want fish erupting out of nowhere.  I don’t like it when writers convey information in an unnatural way.  I’m opposed to having Kevin say, “So, Julie, I see your dad is still keeping the fish tank.”  Kevin wouldn’t say that, because they both see the fish tank and know it’s Julie’s dad’s hobby.  But he might say, “I always think the fish are staring at me.”  Or you might describe the room in Kevin’s thoughts.  Since he’s been there before you need a hook, not much of a hook, something small, like, The room always looked heavy, as if its gravity could sink the house.  Two long sofas, five chairs, the fish tank, the cabinet full of china, the thick drapes.  If Kevin has a poetic mind he might think that even the air, with its dots of filtered sunlight, have weight.  And there, nestled in with the other details, is the fish tank.  This method is particularly effective if you don’t want the reader to linger on the fish.  Suppose you want the fish event, whatever it is, to be a surprise.  You’ve informed the reader that the tank is there, but you’ve emphasized something else, the somberness of the room.

Setting is a big topic, and this has been a long post.  If you have more questions on the subject, please post them.

Here’s a prompt:  Your main character has lost something.  She (or he) backtracks to search for it.  In the time since she was there, even if that was only five minutes before, the place she goes to has become haunted.  This place may not be a house or a graveyard.  Go!

Save what you write, and have fun!

Both Feet in the Story Door

On January 13, 2010 Maybe a Writer definitely wrote, What I can’t seem to get, is what happens right after my beginning.  I sometimes don’t even know where I’m taking the story, but I have a tiny idea for a plot. The story I’m working on is the most well-planed out I have, but I’m still on page three. Any ideas?

Alas, I’m having the same problem right now, and this will be my twenty-first book, counting just the published ones!  I’m on page thirty-one, not three, but I haven’t figured out how to move further into my story.  What I think I’m working on is a fantasy mystery sequel to an old Gothic story that involves embodiments of the south wind and the king of a river.  The issue may be that I haven’t made either of them real in my mind yet, so they’re not working as characters.  So far I haven’t even introduced them into the story.

I haven’t run into this particular problem before, although I’ve written about all sorts of creatures.  I don’t believe in fairies, but I’ve had no trouble making them come alive on the page.  I’m writing notes to figure out how I’m stuck and where I can go next.

For you, Maybe a Writer and anyone else who shares our predicament, there may be something inside your story that’s stopping you.  In 1993 I wanted to write a novel based on Cinderella, but the fairytale itself got in my way.  Cinderella is so disgustingly good and so incomprehensibly obedient that I didn’t know what to make of her, and I didn’t like her.  I couldn’t get started until I thought of the curse of obedience.  When I had that, I understood her and I was able to write about her.

If your trouble is inside your story, try my method and write notes about it.  But notes don’t work for everybody, and they don’t always work for anyone.  You can talk to a friend or relative about the way your story might go.  You can even talk out loud to yourself about it.  It may also help to look at my post of October 28, 2009 about writer’s block.

This prompt comes from a writing book called What If?, which is full of terrific prompts.  (Kid alert:  Most of this book is fine for writers and readers of any age, but some chapters are for high school and above.  Check with a parent or a librarian.)  The prompt comes from the book’s title.  Take whatever you’ve got as a beginning and ask yourself “What if?” about what might happen next.  Ask this repeatedly and write down the possibilities, whatever ideas come to you no matter how crazy they are.  As in, What if the girl in the green dress who is all alone at a party sees a framed photo on the mantelpiece and recognizes one of the people in it as her sister.  Or what if she starts writing on a wall of the living room where the party is happening.  Or what if she interrupts two dancers and starts dancing with them.  And so on.

Write ten what-ifs before looking them over.  Try the one that appeals to you the most and see where it takes you.

This is a variant on another prompt in What If?:  Write ten beginning scenes without thinking about what might come next, and make the scenes at least three pages long.  The purpose is to get away from anxiety and think only about what will grab a reader. 

When you’re finished, pick five and write another scene for each.  Next, pick three out of the five and write another scene for each of them.  Then see if you want to continue with any one of them.

I generally write in order, but you don’t have to.  You might try taking the characters from your first scene, those three pages, and write another scene for them, out of sequence.  If there are no characters yet, this is a good time to invent some and take the pressure off plot.  The new scene could be something you have in mind to happen later in the story, or it could be something that went before.  Or it could simply be an exploration of the characters’ relationships with one another.  Write the scene in the world of the story.  If the story takes place in the kingdom of Wohadfub, keep it there.  If the story is set in your home town, keep it there, too.

If you’re a kid, under twenty-one, say, I don’t think you need to worry about finishing stories.  The problem will take care of itself if you keep writing.  You will eventually start a story that you can finish.

If you’re over twenty-one, you probably shouldn’t worry either, because worrying does no good.  But for me there is always some gritting of teeth to get myself to the end of a book.  And stubbornness.  I’m utterly unwilling for a book to get the better of me.

I’ve mentioned that I’m writing poetry for adults, and I’m unpublished as a poet.  While I would very very, as many verys as can be, like to be published, there is freedom in not being.  Nobody cares what my poems are like, because nobody (except a few other aspiring poets) is reading them.  Little is at stake.  I can take chances and be outrageous.  If you aren’t published, I hope you will use your freedom.  And I hope you’ll have publishing success too.  But for now, experiment!  Have fun! And save whatever you come up with!

Goodbye Dialogue Land

On January 4th, 2010, Inkquisitive asked, “...do you have any help for those of us who seem to live in Dialogue Land? I know you have touched on this a little before, but do you have any suggestions on how to convert a conversation-heavy scene into more action? My book is starting to look like a play (which I do not want) with bits of narrative strewn among a majority of conversation. Thanks.

Here are some suggestions for getting from Dialogue Land into Action Land.

Suppose your main character’s objective is to restore a friendship.  In real life and fiction that’s usually achieved with words, but this time your job is to get there with minimal dialogue.  Consider how your main character, James, can win back Hanna’s trust with few words, and not a letter either.  You don’t have to retreat into wordlessness, however.  James can be thinking like crazy.  In addition to thinking, what can he do?

Or, write a story with a main character who is not a talker.  She may not even be much of a verbal thinker.  She expresses herself by action.  Make her mad at someone.  How does she deal with her anger without talking or screaming or explaining her feelings?  Bring in more characters and stick mainly to action.

Silence can pack a huge emotional wallop.  In life and in fiction when one person stops talking to another, you have explosive tension.  Friends doing something together without a word – walking in the woods, cooking, sitting by a fire – can convey companionship and peace.  Setting can help, and so can body language.  Two people slumped in chairs in a hospital lounge suggest grief or hopelessness.

Think of a retreat in which the participants have vowed silence.  In spite of the silence, however, relationships are formed, feelings conveyed.  Try writing about a main character at a silent weekend retreat.  Make her want something that is counter to the intentions of the retreat.  How does she go about getting what she wants?  One way to approach this might be through humor.

Maybe this can’t be done entirely without words, but what fun it would be to write – or read – a mystery set in a place of silence.

When you find yourself locked in dialogue, think of it as being stuck on the phone.  Your cousin has called.  You love him, but he’s a chatterbox, and after a while you remember that you’ve eaten nothing for eight hours or a light bulb needs changing or you promised to mow the lawn, so you look for a friendly, unhurtful way to get off the phone.  Try the same technique in Dialogue Land.  Think of a reason for one of your characters to end the conversation.  Break everybody up and move the story to a different location.  Make the next scene a solo one.  Your main character is alone.  He has no one to talk to.  What does he do?

Radical cutting also may help.  Do all these words need to be said?  Can some just be eliminated?  Suppose your characters are talking about an event that they all witnessed.  Try showing the event.  Your characters can have thoughts about it, but let the action unfold as it happens.  If one of the characters missed the occurrence, you can just say in narration that he was told.

I have not done this recently, but it might be a good idea:  Watch an old silent movie.  In silent movies there were occasional speech lines shown on the screen, but almost everything was accomplished without them.  Observe how it was done.

Look through picture books.  Granted, these are simple stories, but they might be useful anyway.  See what the images convey, because you can write in images.  You can write about facial expressions and reduce the necessity of having someone say what he’s feeling.

Often the motivation for dialogue is to develop character, and dialogue is wonderful for that, but think how your characters can reveal themselves without words.  We learn a lot about Kirby if he combs his hair in a mirror while Kathleen weeps on the sofa a yard away.

I’ve saved the most obvious for last, because it is obvious.  Write an action story:  a chase, an escape, a natural disaster.  These can be dialogue heavy too, but don’t let yours be.  When your characters start getting chatty, make the roof cave in or the bad guys show up.  Tie your characters up with tape across their mouths.

Prompts are scattered through this post.  Here they are, collected:

•    Restore a friendship in a scene.  No more than ten words may be spoken.

•    Write a story about a main character who isn’t a talker and isn’t a verbal thinker either.  You may want to get her mad at someone.  Or do something else with her.

•    Set a story at a silent retreat.  Your main character wants something and it isn’t silence or spiritual growth.  What happens?

•    Watch a silent movie (I love Buster Keaton) or read a bunch of picture books.  Use one of them as the basis of a story with little dialogue.

•    Write an action story about a chase or an escape or a natural disaster.  Or all three!  When any of your characters speak, don’t let the speech go beyond a single line.

Have fun and save what you write.

Keeping On Keeping On

On December 28, 2009 the Tenth Muse posted this comment:  When I write, I have two issues with finishing. My first is that I almost write the story up in my head, and when I attempt to put it to paper, it feels tedious and I usually leave it unwritten. My next is most likely born from the first. 🙂 It’s that, after I’ve written the whole thing down or put it together inside my head, I realize I also want to do something else with the story. Then the new idea begins to take over, and I start second guessing my original ideas. And then I feel extremely lost!

Some authors (not I) won’t talk about their works in progress because talking saps their urge to write.  They believe that they use the same process to talk and to write.  When they return to the writing, they feel they’ve already done it, and they’re not interested in repeating themselves, so then they’re stuck.  Tenth Muse, it sounds as if you may run into the same difficulty just by thinking about your story.  Fascinating.

Of course you have to think.  I believe detail may be the problem, not thought.  I can talk about the books I’m in the middle of because I never achieve the level of detail in a conversation that I need when I’m bringing a scene to life on a page.  Tenth Muse, I’m working only from your question, so I may be miles off base, but I wonder if, when you get to the writing, you’re telling a story rather than showing it to a reader.

Here is a true tale from my family history, which, alas, doesn’t show my relatives in an exemplary light:  My great aunt, whom I no longer remember and whose name I don’t know, was plump plus, and so was my grandmother.  Both were relatively poor, very economical, and not very ethical.  They lived in New York City, where I grew up.  In those long-ago days a subway ride cost a nickel, and they didn’t want to pay two nickels when one would do.  So they put a single nickel in the slot and squeezed into the turnstile together.  And got stuck, and a policeman had to come to get them out.

This anecdote caused hilarity at family gatherings whenever it was trotted out.  It’s a good story, but how much better it would be if it were fleshed out by a fiction writer.  For example, what if the sisters were in the middle of an argument when they got stuck, or one blamed the other for their predicament.  Was it winter or summer?  Were they working their way out of winter coats when the cop arrived?  Did one of them need to go to the bathroom?  Suppose they had purchases that they’d slid under the turnstile ahead of them, which someone now could steal – or did steal, costing a whole dollar, rather than a nickel.  The story can become funnier or more serious.  Suppose this were the 1930s, the Depression, and the purchases were a week’s food.

A story in the writer’s head or transcribed from the writer’s head isn’t likely to be fully realized.  We haven’t grappled with what’s happening inside the story.  In the family yarn above, as I thought of possibilities, new possibilities suggested themselves.  If I wrote it as a real story, I’d start by thinking about what each character was like, their relationship, circumstances, where they were coming from and going to.  As soon as I had them talking to each other, the narrative would start to go down a certain path.  More ideas would come, but some ideas would become impossible because of what went before.  I might turn into a dead end and have to delete back to the beginning of the dead end.

Tenth Muse (and everyone else), coming up with new and divergent ideas sounds positive.  Suppose I thought the story would end up in my aunt’s fifth floor walk-up apartment, but then it seemed better to end with my aunt on a date with the arresting officer.  We can explore those ideas.  The key is to explore them through detail, using narrative and dialogue.  If you slow your story down for detail the tedium may go away or at least diminish.  Oddly enough, slowing down is likely to pick up the pace for the reader, who will get involved with the characters you are revealing.

As for feeling lost, that may be the sensation I hate most when I’m writing and the one I experience the most often.  You and I need to develop a tolerance for it.  For me, finding a story is like picking my way through a jungle.  I know that on the other side of the vegetation is a parking lot and a van with The End painted on the side, but the only trail markers are occasional notches in the stems of a species of meat-eating plant.

To continue through the jungle – rather than standing still and howling, or jumping on the first helicopter out – is hard.  It may help if you get interested in the details:  the fauna and flora around you, the bird whose cry sounds amazingly like popcorn popping, or the flower with petals the color of a sunset.  You’re still lost, but you’re entertaining yourself as you inch along.

This week’s prompt: Take a family story, or take my family story (please!), and retell it with details, probably invented details.  Don’t think that you have to stick to the real events.  Use the ones that appeal to you and toss the rest.  You can rewrite history and send the anecdote in a new direction.  You can be funny or serious.  Teach the reader about your Uncle Matthew and Cousin Isabel.  Let him see the old-fashioned kitchen with the iron sink and the water that comes out in spurts, smell the bread baking or the cabbage boiling, hear the loud voices or the whispers.  Have fun, and save what you wrote!

The Challenge of Length

On 12/23/09, Asma posted this comment:  I was actually referring to the process of beginning to write, after an idea has formed in your mind. I have attempted your advice to start in the middle, but usually I don’t know where to go from there or where I’ve come from. If I try to begin at the beginning, I usually don’t know where to start, get bored, or become obsessed with perfection. I usually don’t have this problem with short stories (my reference to length) as the entire plot is so short as to have fully materialized in my mind, and all I have to do is write it down. Longer pieces are my real difficulty.

This is excellent timing, because I’m poised to start on a new book.  For me, writing a beginning is the end of the phase that I hate most, which is shaping in my mind and in notes enough of a story to get going with.  A non-writer friend was surprised that this stage wasn’t fun, more fun than anything else – fooling around, trying one plot notion after another, being creative.  Instead, I feel like I’m in a big empty house with no windows, and I whirl from room to room, facing only blank walls.

Eventually, an idea glows out of a white wall, and I write it down.  With maddening slowness, more ideas emerge.  I’ve called them forth, of course, but it doesn’t feel as if I’ve done anything.  It feels more like all the ideas in the world are off at a party, and occasionally one of them hears my plaintive voice from a hundred miles away, and it condescends to visit me.

Here’s how I’m getting started, in generalities:  I want to write another mystery with some of the same characters from the last one, and I want to associate it with a fairy tale.  So I reread a bunch of fairy tales and wrote notes about what I might do with some of them.  With each I reached a point of stuckness and couldn’t go any further in my imagination.

Finally I found a tale that fits the setting I have in mind and decided to write a mystery sequel.  By now I’ve written eight pages of notes, and I still don’t know who the villain will be and how the story will work itself out.  It’s not bad not to know who’s evil in a mystery, because I won’t telegraph the answer to the reader.  Still, I like to have a dim idea of an ending to aim toward.

Then I thought of a larger problem that I can wrap the tale in, and I know, more or less, how the larger problem should end, so I’m ready to begin, even though most of the story is a muddle.

I lost my way writing both Fairest and The Two Princesses of Bamarre, and I wandered in notes and wrong directions for months or more before I found the story.  This was very painful.  I don’t want it to happen again, but it may, and it may on this next book, and if it does I will be miserable, probably for a long time.  So far in my writing career I haven’t gone astray enough to abandon a book before finishing it, but even that could happen.

This kind of misery is the lot of many writers.  We try beginning after beginning.  We start in the middle and then slowly figure out what went before.  We get bored (I do).  We get trapped trying to make a little piece perfect.  Then we slog on.

The most important quality for a writer to cultivate is patience.  A long piece of fiction is the work of months at the very least.  Sometimes a ten-page scene will take a ridiculous time to straighten itself out.  We put up with this because we belong to the insane writing branch of humanity.

The second most important quality is kindness to self.  Poor me (for example), suppose I need to write at least a page today, but nothing is happening.  Maybe I’ll feel better if I stare out the window or take a shower.  Poor me, I am so dumb that I made a mistake in Chapter Three that makes Chapters Four, Five, and Six impossible.  But I forgive myself, because otherwise I will have to leap out of my skin.

The third quality is doggedness.  I am going to finish this expletive-deleted story no matter what.

Specifically about story shape – I like compact ideas as the basis for long novels.  Simple plots don’t have to turn into short stories; they can become big books.  Robin McKinley wrote the novel Beauty and Donna Jo Napoli wrote the novel Beast, both based on the fairy tale “Beauty and the Beast,” which is only fifteen pages long in the version I own.

I love to work with an uncomplicated tale, because then I can embroider and heap on details and twists.  My The Princess Test comes from “The Princess and the Pea,” which is one of the shortest of fairy tales.  I thought, Well, who could possibly feel a pea under all those mattresses?  And what was she doing, soaking wet at the castle door?  Why did the king and queen invent a pea-mattress test as proof of princess-ness?  How many other crazy tests can I add?  Answering these questions produced many pages of story.

So here’s a prompt.  Take a rudimentary story, like Rumpelstiltskin, or a nursery rhyme like this one:

    Little Miss Muffet
    Sat on a tuffet,
    Eating her curds and whey;
    Along came a spider,
    Who sat down beside her
    And frightened Miss Muffet away.

and write about it.  If these don’t interest you, pick your own.  I’m not saying you should write a novel, although it would be cool if you did.  Just write about how you might add depth to the stories and complicate them.  Take Miss Muffet for example.  The spider sits next to her.  Is it the same size she is?  Is the rhyme about an invasion of giant spiders?  Aaa!

Have fun and save what you write!

The Mystery Puzzle

Before I start, I want to point out a new link on the page, right below the two websites, which will take you to an interview with me.  I hope you’ll check it out – and then come back.
This week I’m combining two questions.  On December 11, 2009 Amanda posted this comment:  I’m thinking about writing a mystery novel but I’ve never written a mystery before. Do you have any tips on how to write one?
And on December 23, 2009 Curious Mind wrote:  I like a bit of mystery in my writing, but cannot seem to hold back information very well, and there is no suspense.  Any suggestions?
Taking the second question first, a lot can be fixed in revision, so putting everything in is fine in the first draft.  Sometimes I include information simply because I need to know it, and I’m discovering it on the page.  When the story is written, or when I’m far enough along to tell what’s necessary and what’s not, I prune.
Heaps of background can bog a story down, without a doubt, but suspense and withholding information aren’t necessarily the same.  Sometimes the more the reader knows about a problem the more worried he will be.  Giant spiders in the house are scary, but giant spiders who can find their way through a maze faster than a rat are scarier.  Throw in a main character who is deathly allergic to spider bites, and the reader should be wringing her hands in fright.  I don’t want to keep this information to myself, and I particularly don’t want to whip it out at the last minute.  The reader should have time to stew in fear.
Lawrence Block writes a mystery series about a crime-solving thief, Bernie Rhodenbarr.  I don’t like Block’s technique of skipping over details that help Bernie solve the crime and then letting the reader in on them later when the truth comes out.  Unfair! I yell at my book – and continue reading, because the story is too much fun to put down.
Amanda, I have written only one mystery, so I’m no expert.  Right now, I’m writing notes and exploring what may be my second.  I’m feeling at sea, the way I usually feel at this stage of any book.  I don’t even know what the mystery will be yet.  I have an idea who some of my main characters will be, but I don’t know which are good and which are evil.  At least two will have secret identities, but I don’t know which character will attach to which secret identity.
Some mystery writers have it all plotted out before they start.  I’m sure they’re initially confused – or I hope they are – but they wait for certainty and an outline before they begin the narrative.  Others just plunge in.  I’m in the middle but closer to the plungers.  Still, I need more of a direction than I have so far.
Ambiguity about who’s bad and who’s good can work in your favor and mine in a mystery.  A character can act with kindness and then turn around and do something terrible, leaving the reader mixed up.  You can maintain the uncertainty and push the character to finally reveal himself – and then you can cover up the revelation so your reader doesn’t even notice it.  For example, suppose something very valuable goes missing and your villain is a thief.  Suppose also that the owner of the object has just moved and the movers put boxes everywhere, kitchen boxes in the den, bedroom boxes in the kitchen.  Throw in that the owner is super forgetful and could have put the precious thing in any box or have left it behind in the old house in a dark corner of a closet.  To make matters worse, the owner has a new puppy who’s prone to eat almost anything.  By now there’s enough dust in the reader’s eye to conceal a league of thieves.
At the heart of a mystery is a who question, of course.  Who committed the crime?  The crime can be anything from murder to a stolen cupcake to a betrayed friendship.  In the mystery I just finished, A Mansioner’s Tale (tentative title), the crime that starts the mystery off, the theft of a dog, isn’t the main crime.  The first is a precursor to the second, but Lodie, my main character, doesn’t realize that.
Underlying the who question is the why question.  Why was the crime committed?  What was the motive?  It’s probably possible to find out who without ever learning why.  I bet this happens often in actual crimes, and I suspect it’s frustrating for a jury.  Still, I think a successful whodunit might be written without ever answering the why question.
In most cases, however, the why question is answered.  In the mystery I just finished, the victim is hated by many.  There are legions of suspects, and the reader doesn’t know whom to trust.  But you could go the other way.  The deceased could be beloved by everyone.  Who would hit such a saint over the head?
You can pile on puzzles and possible clues.  In A Mansioner’s Tale several characters wear rings and bracelets made of twine.  Lodie wonders if the wearers belong to a secret society that has it in for the victim.  A character who presents herself as poor is seen haggling with a jeweler over an expensive bracelet.  A honey-tongued man speaks harshly.  A gate is left open.  An ox is mauled.
It’s fun to confuse the reader.  Going back to Curious Mind’s question, extra information can add to the confusion.  Your main character can hear gossip about someone that may be entirely false.  Or the gossip can be contradictory.  Or the intelligence can be true, but the source can be a known liar.
You can fool around with all the elements, not just who and why but also how, as well as opportunity, alibi, ability (a small woman overpowering a big man, for example).
Even in stories that aren’t primarily mysteries, there are likely to be puzzles.  Somebody dislikes the main character, and he wonders why.  He gets straight As on all his Chemistry tests, yet the teacher gives him a C on his report card.  His sister keeps coming home late from school.  His mother has begun to sew although she used to hate domesticity in any form.
For a little more on this subject, you may want to revisit my post of May 27, 2009 called Mystery Mystery when I wrote about another aspect of mysteries. 
Here’s a prompt:  Think of someone you know but not very well.  Invent a secret for this person, one that goes with your idea of her.  It can be a dark secret or not.  Turn her into a character.  If she were going to commit a crime, what would it be?
Now do the same for four more people.  If you are inspired, write a mystery story involving one or more of them.  Have fun, and save what you write!