novel writing

How To Avoid Overpopulation, part 2

by Ramona DeFelice Long

Yesterday, we left off with a stranger opening the door to our pretend character party. Strangers can be important in a story—or not. Looking at the function of a stranger is a good way to illustrate the point of this post.

With the exception of a regular cast in a series, each character is a stranger to the reader. It is the author’s job to pull off a stranger’s mask and reveal the interesting and engaging person inside.

The trick is deciding how much to reveal about characters without overloading the reader will unnecessary information. Who gets a name? Who gets a description? Who needs background? Who has tics and habits? Who performs a single function that could, possibly, be performed by someone else?

Overpopulating causes the reader extra work. Every character introduction takes up brain space. Every detail has to be stored. Every name processed. If a writer puts too much of that in the front of the story, it impedes the reader’s ability to make an emotional attachment to the primary character or situation. There’s too much extraneous stuff using up the reader’s brain power.

Think about it. At a party, if you stand before a round table of people who introduce themselves by name, how many of those names do you remember five minutes later?

When too many characters are thrown at a reader, it’s tough to tell which are the important ones, so all of them lose some measure of importance. The bigger the crowd, the harder it is to focus on an individual.

How does an author make judicious choices about a story’s population?  Here are some simple questions.

1 ~ What is this character’s function in the story?

2 ~ Can the plot move forward without this person’s involvement?

3 ~ Can someone else perform this function?

4 ~ How much page time or detail does this character require?

If the answer to #3 is yes, and the plot does not hinge on a particular character’s presence, the question becomes, keep or toss?

Any schmuck can open a door. If the schmuck does nothing else, he doesn’t need a name. If the schmuck is going to turn up in the wine cellar with a bottle of chardonnay imbedded in his right temple, maybe he should open the door with a smirk, or a nervous laugh, or call the new guest by the wrong name. In short, if the stranger is going to reappear in the story in a big way, remove some of his mask and start the revelation process. If the schmuck is going to disappear into the crowd, don’t bother describing him.

But what about the people in stories who make small appearances that move a a story along in some small way? Life is full of encounters by people we know by name but are not necessarily important to our lives, but add color and detail. Does the same apply to a story?

Yes, and no. If characters appear for local color, that’s fine. Learning about setting through a unique character certainly works. The lady who mans the counter of the fish market and wears crawfish claw earrings—she should get a name. It’s better if she’s friendly and sees everyone in town, so she probably knows all the dirt.

But the checkout girl who is blah and never engages anyone in chit chat? If all she does is perform a single, uninteresting function, does she need to be more than the checkout girl? Probably not.

Which leads to a problem solving question. If you suspect your story is character heavy, think about combining characters. Can crawfish claw earring lady also run the register at the fish market? One interesting character trumps two flat ones every time.

Last time, I asked a word problem type question about Daniel and the pharmacist. For folks who like mathy things, here’s a simple formula to help control your story population:

Character function + importance + interest = degree of detail.

It’s tough to depopulate a story, but if a character doesn’t add something memorable, strike them from the guest list.

Ramona

Tomorrow’s topic: Sunday is a day of rest. Monday’s topic will be How To Run a Free Write

How To Avoid Overpopulation, Part 1

by Ramona DeFelice Long

What is Overpopulation?

In a story, Overpopulation means there are too many characters; or it can mean too many characters are introduced at one time; or it can mean the prose is cluttered with unnecessary details about throwaway or stock characters.

Entering the world of a new story is like walking into a party. Maybe you are acquainted with the host (protagonist) and his/her spouse (sidekick/love interest) because you been to their home (read about them) before. Maybe they are new to you. For the sake of this post, let’s pretend you’re walking into a book party and you don’t know a soul.

Who greets you at the door and invites you inside? There are four possibilities:

  1. The host ~  At the book party, this would be the protagonist or main character (MC). The MC is your guide through the story. As a guest, you want to get to know your host, so you would notice this person’s speech, clothes and manners; you’d listen attentively to their anecdotes; you’d observe their interaction with other guests.
  2. A greeter ~ At a party-party, this would be a butler, doorman, or a relative assigned to the task; at our book party, this person would be a minor or secondary character who serves a function in the story. The function may be large or small. How much you learn about this person depends on how important their story task.
  3. A stranger ~ A random person who happens to be near the door when you ring the doorbell. In fiction, this would be a throwaway character: a character who performs a single function and leaves the story when that act is done. Do you need to know this person’s personal history if all they’re good for in the story is opening the door? Maybe. Maybe not.
  4. No one ~ There is no host, greeter or random stranger at the door. You walk right in, like an open house, and work the party using your own social skills.

Who does not answer the door at a party? A group of people, each of whom introduces him/herself to you and thus expects you to decipher a jumble of names and descriptions two steps inside the story door.

Have you ever read a story where the first chapter is so overloaded with names and character details, you feel like you’ve walked into a room full of strangers who are all babbling at you at once? This is a form of Overpopulation. Throwing too many characters at the reader just inside the door forces the reader to work extra hard. Why are you making your reader work so hard?

How do you keep from Overpopulating a story? Begin by considering the function of each character and how much the reader needs to learn about him/her/it.

With primary characters, it’s simple. The reader needs to know what this person looks like, what he does with his time each day, and a personal history. The reader needs enough background so there’s logic to why this person acts as he does. In short, we need a full dossier on the important people in the story.

Second, with minor or secondary characters, the reader needs to know enough to maintain story logic or make the plot work. Let’s say the MC’s neighbor is ex-military, which the author points out because the MC is often gone and the neighbor keeps an eye out on her place. Since the neighbor has an ongoing function in the story, let’s award him a name: Daniel. It’s helpful to see that Daniel keeps his high and tight haircut; to learn he goes running every morning; to know he keeps a loaded gun on his premises. It might be necessary to know Daniel suffered from PTSD; that he has screaming nightmares about his war experiences; that’s he’s wary of strangers and can be aggressive. Or, maybe Daniel’s background has given him a don’t-sweat-the-small stuff attitude. However much the author knows about Daniel, if none of this impacts the events of the story or drives the action, do we need to know so much about Daniel? This is the author’s choice, to decide if the guy next door is a nameless neighbor or our pal Daniel.

Third, let’s consider throwaway characters. Throwaway or stock characters are those folks who perform a single function in the story. Let’s take the young officer who delivers the bad news to the MC that the military guy next door has been found dead. If the officer is going to participate beyond this moment, he gets a name and physical description. We don’t need his life history, but it’s easier to remember Corporal Clark than “the officer who informed me of Daniel’s death.” On the flip side, if the pharmacist calls from the drug store to remind the MC her prescription’s been sitting in the basket for three days, and the purpose of that call is to get her out of the house so Daniel can sneak over and booby-trap her basement, do we need to know the name of the pharmacist?  This sounds like a word problem from math class, but the answer is no.

Fourth, the stranger at the door.

We’ll talk about him, her, or it, tomorrow. Stay tuned.

Ramona

Tomorrow’s Topic: How To Avoid Overpopulation, Part 2

How To Write a World Changer

by Ramona DeFelice Long

What is a World Changer?

A World Changer is a phrase or sentence that alters the reader’s perception of the story world.

When a writer begins a story, he introduces the reader to the world of the story. That world can be today’s reality; it can be a specific, faraway place in the past; it can be today’s world with magical or supernatural elements; it can be the future; it can be a new and fantastical creation; it can be today’s world with an unexpected element.

It is the writer’s duty to reveal the rules of the story world. A World Change happens when a twist or revelation exposes the reader to a  specific, unusual aspect of the story world. A shift in what the reader thought they knew about the story world is the result.

Here’s an example:

Harvey stopped at the edge of the field and listened for Mama and Pa. After a moment, their voices lifted over the freshly plowed field. Harvey slouched against the fence post. They were arguing, again. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He turned around and ran toward the tree line.

What does this tell you about this story world?  Harvey is a child who lives on or near a farm. His parents argue, a lot. This bothers him. Now see what happens in the next line:

Harvey ran over and between the clumps of dirt thrown up by the plow, his quills bouncing as he picked up speed.

Quills? Harvey has quills? Okay, so now we know Harvey is an animal. A porcupine?  Hedgehog?

He ran toward the bushes beneath the trees and dove into his favorite dugout to hide. He rolled into a ball and tried not to cry. 

Chances are, we’d know from illustrations or cover copy that Harvey is a hedgehog. Without these aids, however, Harvey sounds like any child who gets upset by his parents’ arguments. He just happens to be a hedgehog child. Quills or no quills, his emotions are real.

Now consider this:

After a little while, Harvey unfurled himself and shook off the dirt from his spines. It was almost dark and tonight was The Coronation.

Say what?

He reminded himself of his duty as prince. No matter how much his parents argued, he had to be present–and presentable–when the responsibility of the kingdom was placed upon him.

Oh. So Harvey is a hedgehog, and a prince, so his parents must be the royal family.

This is a somewhat absurd example but you get the point. With each sentence, we learn a new detail about Harvey that alters what we think we know about the world of this story.

Here’s something different:

Jacqueline walked along the boardwalk, wondering if she should touch up her sunblock. Her shoulders felt tender and hot. She glanced around the crowd, stopping at a handsome blond guy with no shirt leaning against the beach fence. He was licking a chocolate ice cream cone. Slowly. For a moment, Jacqueline swayed, imagining his cool, chocolate flavored tongue licking her hot shoulder. 

“Hey!”

The voice cried out a micro-second before a woman slammed into Jacqueline’s side. The woman grabbed onto Jacqueline’s arm for balance, and Jacqueline gasped. Violent images shot through her brain—a pipe crashing down from overhead, over and over.

She pulled away, her arm as hot as if she’d stuck it in a bonfire.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman said, but Jacqueline could only nod mutely and wince at the scars running from the woman’s hairline to her temple, where the pipe had come down.

Jacqueline is a woman at the beach on a hot day, made hotter by her quick fantasy about a handsome guy. But the world changes when a strange woman crashes into her and Jacqueline gets hit with a scene from this stranger’s past. Now we’ve learned Jacqueline is an empath, a person able to feel another person’s emotions or experiences through physical contact.

Now, what if their quick encounter had ended this way?

“I’m so sorry,” the woman said, but Jacqueline could only nod mutely and stare at the woman’s head. No scars. No bruises. It hadn’t happened–yet.

Now we know a new rule of the story world: Jacqueline can see the future. This is a character skill Stephen King used so effectively in The Dead Zone.

A final example, to show how a World Change can be used in a contemporary story that doesn’t include quills or special powers. This is from Catering to Nobody, the first in Diane Mott Davidson’s Goldy Schulz mystery series. Book one opens with Goldy in the kitchen. We learn through narrative she has a jerk of an ex-husband, her new catering business is struggling to stay afloat,and she has a best friend who calls to complain–humorously–about this, that and the other. In the world of mystery  novels, the response to those three story elements might be, well, who doesn’t? And then comes this line:

I looked down at my right thumb, which still would not bend properly after John Richard had broken it in three places with a hammer.

Ah. This is different. We just learned Goldy was an abused wife. The jerky ex, the struggle to be independent, the reliance on a good friend–all of those details got kicked up a notch with that world changing line.

How do you write an effective World Changer?

1. Weave it into the narrative in an organic fashion. That means show, not tell, in a live scene.

2. Do it boldly. Harvey’s quills bounced as he ran. Don’t over explain, “As a hedgehog, Harvey had quills. They bounced as he ran.” No. Keep it quick and dirty: Harvey’s quills bounced as he ran.

3. Sprinkle changes in to give readers time to process. First we see Jacqueline get hit with the violent images. There is a break as she pulls away and the woman apologizes. Then we learn something new, that Jacqueline sees the past (or the future). That little break gave the reader time to digest one new story element before being tossed another one.

4. Make sure the World Change does its purpose in exposing or refining the unique aspects of the story world and is important to the story. If you are writing a World Change because it’s fun but it doesn’t affect the plot or the character, why are you making me work harder to learn something I don’t need to know? Don’t toy with your readers.

Have you changed your story world today?

Ramona

Tomorrow’s topic: How to Avoid Overpopulation

 

How To Write an Episodic Story

by Ramona DeFelice Long

What is an Episodic Story?

An episodic story is one told via a series of interconnected scenes, with a theme instead of a question driving the narrative.

A story told in a typical dramatic structure features a clearly drawn plot. The plot begins with an inciting incident. From there, a protagonist recognizes a story problem, embraces it, and spends the story seeking a solution to that problem.

In contrast, an episodic story is more like a journey. It can be a physical journey; a journey of emotional growth; a journey to bond a group.

In an episodic story, there is a lesser sense of cause and effect–no inciting incident that demands resolution. Instead, a character seeks to fulfill a desire, to discover meaning, or to reach enlightenment.

Some familiar examples of episodic stories are:

~ JD  Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye, a coming of age story wherein Holden relates to the reader events from a year ago. The episodes are brief: he goes from Pencey Prep, to a hotel in NYC, to his parents’ apartment. The incidents are tied together only by Holden, as he heads toward a mental collapse.

~ Larry McMurtry’s western, Lonesome Dove, features a group of retired Texas Rangers on a cattle drive. There is no story question such as “Who shot the sheriff?” within the story, but there is a story goal: to drive a herd of cows from Lonesome Dove, Texas to Montana and open the first cattle ranch in that territory. There are multiple characters on the cattle drive, with individual reasons for taking the journey.

~ Evan S. Connell’s two novels, Mr. Bridge and Mrs. Bridge, are episodic stories about the same family, one told from the husband’s point of view, the other from Mrs. Bridge’s point of view.  Set in the 1930-40s in Kansas City, Missouri, the novels are structured through short, almost vignette-like scenes. In Mr. Bridge, the central idea is a honorable family man’s frustration as his children balk at his conservative ideals. Mrs. Bridge’s episodes are tied together by her desire to keep the facade of a perfect, peaceful family despite her children’s rebellion and her husband’s emotional distance.

Some other examples of stories told in an episodic style:

~ Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain

~ Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut

~ Don Quixote  by Miguel Cervantes

~ Candide by Voltaire

~The Corrections by Jonathon Franzen

~ The Reivers by William Faulkner

~ On the Road by Jack Kerouac

As with the typical dramatic structure of inciting incident + story problem + climax + resolution, an episodic structure follows a few basic rules:

1. There is one or a few dynamic characters whose needs and desires are paramount to the story’s goal.

2. A unifying element runs through all of the scenes.

3. Episodes may not be chronological, but there is an order. Part 1 may be in the present, part 2 in the past, part 3 in the deeper past, part 4 back in the present. Despite the lack of strict chronological order, there is a logical segue between episodes.

4. Episodes are not sparked by an event. Instead, they are related by theme.

5. There is a story goal instead of a story problem.

Episodic stories are sometimes compared to slides shows or music videos, in contrast to a story told in typical dramatic structure, which would be like a movie.

Have you read an episodic story that delighted, or frustrated you, as a reader? Are you trying to write one?

Ramona

Tomorrow’s topic: How to Write a World Changer

How To Use an Ellipsis Versus a Dash

by Ramona DeFelice Long

What is an ellipsis?

An ellipsis is a series of periods used to indicate a gap in a quotation, a pause in the middle of a sentence, or a thought that trails off at the end of a sentence.

What is a dash?

A dash is used to indicate an interruption in dialogue, to introduce a list of items, or to signal an explanation the writer wants to emphasize.

Ellipses and dashes are not interchangeable, but the misuse of either and both is common. A dash is a highlighter. An ellipsis takes the place of missing words.

Let’s move into show, not tell, now. Some examples of how to use an ellipsis:

~ To indicate a gap in a quotation:

“Ask not what your country can do…for your country.”

 

~ To indicate a pause in the middle of sentence:

I asked my country for help…but it said no.

 

~ To show a thought trailing off:

Sidney walked up to the organizer on his two healthy legs and volunteered. After all his country had done for him….

^^^Notice in this last example, there are four dots (periods) instead of three. An ellipsis is written as three periods. At the end of a sentence, a fourth period is added to show the end of the sentence.

 

Now let’s consider the use of dashes:

 

~ To indicate an interruption in dialogue.

“Come on, Sidney, join the cause. Remember, ask not what your country—“

“Okay, okay! If I sign the petition, will you quit imitating my mother?”

 

~ To introduce a list of items:

I stared out at the crush of people in the street and flashed back to my trip to Oklahoma–the freshly plowed fields, the red barn catching the sun, the cows clustered by the creek–and felt like I was on a different planet.

 

~ To emphasize a thought:

“Ask not what your country can do for you–ask what you can do for your country.”

Used properly, ellipses and dashes add variety to sentence structure and the pacing of the narrative.

Like any other style choice, using dashes and ellipses too often can jumble up the writing and make it less effective.

Overusing ellipses can make a character sound like a hem-and-haw addict. It’s frustrating to converse with someone who never completes a thought. The same applies to reading a character who too often lets his mind wander.

Too many dashes is disruptive to the narrative flow and  defeats the purpose if that purpose is to highlight a thought. By emphasizing too many thoughts, the emphasis gets diluted.

Are you a dash addict? Do your characters peter off their thoughts all the time, sometimes, or only once in a while? Do you understand the difference between 3 dots and 4 now?

Ramona

Tomorrow’s  topic: How To Write an Episodic Story

How To Foreshadow

by Ramona DeFelice Long

What is foreshadowing?

Linguistically, fore + shadow means a shadow is thrown in front of what it is meant to cover. In fiction, foreshadowing is a device used to hint at what’s ahead in the story.

Foreshadowing may appear through setting; through characters’ thoughts or actions; through objects; or through symbolism.

Here are a few classic examples:

In Hamlet, the appearance of the ghost is not only a visitation from a murdered king seeking vengeance, the ghost foreshadows Hamlet’s own death.

In A Tale of Two Cities, Dickens announces a foreshadow: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” The line illustrates some characters are enjoying an easy life while others are struggling. It also foreshadows that circumstances will be switched by the end of the story.

In Of Mice and Men, the title itself is a hint that Lennie’s  accidental killings of innocent animals early in the story precursor the inevitable death of a person at his hands.

What are some ways to inject foreshadowing into a story? What are some hints given by foreshadowing?

1. How setting can be used to foreshadow:

~ Woods or forests can hint that a character will face a battle with nature in the story;or a character will seek refuge from another man by hiding in the woods; or an unnatural danger lurks there but is hidden by natural growth.

~ A lake, pond or any body of water can mean someone will or has drowned; water can also be cleansing; a setting surrounded by water (island) can portray isolation, both physical and mental.

~ Cemeteries hint at death; cemeteries also hint at rebirth. In Michele Magorian’s Good Night, Mr. Tom, a refugee child is sent to the country during the London Blitz. Willie is terrified when he’s placed near a cemetery, but it foreshadows his future. His old life is about to die, and  a new–better–one begins.

~ On the flip side, a move from one type of place (a city) to another (the country) can hint the expectations of the move will not be met. A family who announces in chapter one they’re leaving the big city for the peace and safety of a bucolic small town is pretty well guaranteed to move next door to a serial killer.

~ Weather can be an indicator of the ominous: Storm clouds equal trouble brewing; a strong wind brings change; rain is a sign of slowly rising tension. And does anything good ever happen on a dark and stormy night?

2. How objects can be used to foreshadow:

~ The gun in the drawer, the sword on the wall, the knife on the counter predict a violent conflict. Whoever is near a weapon on the page, is probably going to need to pick it up and use it at some point in the story.

~ A valuable object such as a family heirloom appears in a story for a reason: it will be stolen; it will be lost; it will be eaten by the family dog; it will give a character strength during a climactic moment.

~ The appearance of a sick or dying animal hints at violence, illness or madness up ahead. In To Kill A Mockingbird, Atticus Finch’s shooting of the mad dog in the street was both symbolic and a foreshadow of what was ahead for Macon: it will be visited by madness and it will take a courageous man to end it.

~ The appearance of a traditional symbol–a crow for death, a snake for danger, a mockingbird for innocence–are omens. Omens foreshadow.

3. How interactions can be used to foreshadow:

~ A story that opens with a person being threatened or bullied foreshadows more of the same for that person; a person portrayed as a coward will have to show bravery at some point. Think Neville Longbottom.

~  If a stranger is walking along a road and a truck pulls up slowly and the two guys give the stranger the stink eye, guess who will be at the bar/diner/gas station up ahead, waiting to give the stranger an unwelcoming welcome to town?

~ In a mystery novel, if one character says to another, “I bought my plane ticket this morning, so I only have to survive three more days in this stinking town” he might have just sealed his fate of dying before those three days are up.

Foreshadowing is meant to subtly ramp up the dramatic tension in the story. It’s different from a red herring, which is meant to mislead a reader. Foreshadowing is truthful, but since it is subtle (we hope!)  it’s up to the careful reader to interpret the author’s clever inclusion of foreshadowing elements.

Do you use foreshadowing in your writing?

Ramona

Tomorrow’s topic: How to Write an Artist Statement

How To Avoid Talking Heads

by Ramona DeFelice Long

RamonaGravitarWhat are Talking Heads?

There are three definitions for the term Talking Heads.

First, there’s the cool indie band whose music is edgy and avant-garde.

Second are the commentators on 24 hour news/current events shows who blather on and on about…stuff.

The third type of Talking Heads are characters who converse without any accompanying action, setting, gestures, reactions, sensory details or interior thoughts.

What’s the problem with that? Aren’t lively conversations a plus in a work of fiction?

Yes. And no.

One effective way to engage a reader is to serve up interaction via conversation. Lively dialogue quickens the  pace. An authentic verbal exchange exposes information important to the story. Well-written dialogue is  entertaining while it moves the plot forward.

After all, who doesn’t enjoy a good dose of banter or a knock-down drag out argument?

In real life, conversations don’t happen in thin air. They shouldn’t exist so in fiction, either. Have you ever come across page after page of dialogue that looks like this?

~ “We’re talking, so this must be interesting to the reader, right, Angus?”

~ “Right, Sue Ellen. Dialogue is engaging. All my writing teachers say so.”

~ “But do you think it’s a little confusing there are no dialogue tags?”

~ “Dialogue tags? We don’t need no stinking dialogue tags.”

~ “Ha ha!”

~ “There you go, Sue Ellen, I made you laugh. All my writing teachers say humor is important.”

~ “True, but where are we? I can’t find a setting.”

~ “Setting?”

~ “I’m having trouble concentrating, too. Where are my interior thoughts?”

~ “Interior thoughts?”

~ “You’re being obtuse. I’d slap you or make a face, but I don’t seem to have a body. How is it we’re speaking but we don’t have  bodies?”

~ “Bodies?”

~ “Are you just going to repeat everything I say, just for the sake of banter?”

~ “Are you just going to repeat everything I say, just for the sake of banter?”

This an extreme, of course, but look at this conversation. We learn in lines one and two that the speakers are Angus and Sue Ellen. We learn that Angus has perhaps taken too many writing classes. But if you look outside the dialogue, what else can you learn about these two characters?

Nothing. Because nothing is there. Apparently, Sue Ellen and Angus are body-less beings who live in the aether.

As is, I’m listening to two beings who are floating around, speaking, but groundless. Unless a dialogue exchange is grounded in a physical place, and I can see the physical bodies doing the speaking, what we have on the page are two talking heads.

Now for a caveat:

Sometimes writers create conversation-driven stories. Hemingway’s “Hills Like  White Elephants” is an example. The bulk of the story is a verbal exchange between lovers.  However, the scene is set up in a place–a bar–before the dialogue begins. The two characters note the surroundings–the hills like white elephants–both directly and metaphorically. These two characters speak, but they  don’t indulge in blathering. The conversation is punctuated by what they do not say.

Additionally, Talking Heads are not to be confused with a story written entirely in dialogue, such as a monologue. For example, the narrator in Dorothy Parker’s “A Telephone Call” is a woman. That’s all we know. The only prop is a clock. The story is her dialogue of waiting for a man to call. While her desperation grows, she checks the ticks on the clock and bargains with God.

These examples fall under the first definition of Talking Heads. They’re indie band short stories. They’re edgy and take chances.

The example above is more like the second definition– commentators who exist in their own little worlds and blab on and on about…stuff.

How do you prevent a case of Talking Heads from taking over a scene in your story?

  1. Place the characters on a set—a city, a café, a mobile home, a field of daisies.
  2. Give them bodies and move those bodies around.
  3. Show reactions, physically and emotionally.
  4. Get inside the characters’ heads and hearts and share what’s inside.

Are your dialogue exchanges fully drawn with setting and senses, and bodies in motion?

Ramona

Tomorrow’s Topic: How to Foreshadow

How To Show, Not Tell

by Ramona DeFelice Long

What isRamonaGravitar Show, Not Tell?

Arguably the most common piece of writing advice offered, Show, Not Tell means an author writes action in live scenes rather than in summary or exposition.

What is a live scene?

A live scene depicts blow-by-blow action that happens on the page. The scene can take place in the present or in the past, but the representation of it–the writing–employs the movements, feelings, thoughts, senses and dialogue of and between characters.

In short, a live scene shows what happens, as it happens, rather than telling us what’s going on.

Is it ever okay to tell, not show? Yes!

For instance, if a live scene has been shown on the page, but one character needs to inform another about it, it’s okay to summarize or go to, “He told her what happened by the lake” rather than relay the entire conversation. We’ve seen the scene, so we don’ t need to read a recap.

Let’s look at some illustrative examples, from my pretend novel Bad Sale. Here’s the set-up:

Richard (the farmer who was tricked by a childhood friend into buying bomb making supplies at the hardware store) gets pulled over by police while driving home. The deputy says Richard failed to come to a complete stop at a stop sign.  Richard waits by the road while the deputy takes an inordinately long time to run his license. The deputy also asks Richard where he’s going, what’s in the box in the back of his truck, and if he has a permit for the shotgun in his gun rack. Richard is finally allowed to go with no citation issued, only a warning to drive more carefully.

(^This was all telling, by the way. On the page, it would be written dramatically.)

This is what happens next, in telling:

Richard walked into the kitchen. His wife Jillian was rolling meatballs for dinner. Richard was still unnerved by the long traffic stop. He started to tell Jillian what happened. At first she joked about him speeding, but when she saw his white face, she got upset and asked why the police would be bothering him. He said it had to be about the hardware store. After he said it, he stalked to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. That shocked Jillian, too. Richard never drank in the middle of the day. She kept rolling meatballs, but she watched him drink and wondered if he was telling her the whole truth.

The above is a new development to the story: it advances the plot and presents a potential new conflict in tension between Richard and Jillian. But it is still telling. Do you see the kitchen? Do you see if Jillian shows her surprise? Do you know if Richard can tell she’s suspicious of his story? Do you feel what they feel, see what they see, hear what they hear?

Now let’s try showing:

Richard walked into the kitchen and threw his keys on the table. “You won’t believe what just happened,” he said. “I got pulled over by police.”

 “Why, were you speeding again?” Jillian asked. She glanced up from rolling meatballs and did a double take. “Good god, Richard, you’re white as a sheet. What happened?”

 “I wasn’t speeding. The deputy said I rolled through the stop sign on Green Street,” he said.

“Did you?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe,” he admitted. He told her about it taking forever to run his license and the questions the deputy asked about the shotgun and the box of baling twine. “Even if I did roll through the damn sign, that was way over the top. He kept me on the side of the road for half an hour.”

He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. He yanked off the top and threw it into the sink.

“I know it was about the hardware store,” he said. “Again.”

He stood at the window, his back to her. Jillian watched from behind as he chug-a-lugged the beer. She squeezed the meatball in her hand until it began to ooze between her fingers.

Richard never drank during the day. He’d had a couple of speeding tickets, true,  but the county deputies didn’t go around harassing citizens–not that she’d ever heard of before.

“Richard,” she said. Paused. “Maybe you should tell me, again, about the hardware store.”

In the show sample, we see Richard is angry because of what he does: throws his keys on the table. Jillian notes his white face, but she also asks if he was speeding again. This reveals a little something about Richard’s driving habits. We see him use a mild expletive, drink a beer in the middle of the day, and turn his back on his wife. Each of these is evidence of his upset.

Likewise, Jillian reveals she knows her husband well enough that he might have rolled through the stop sign, but his white face is unusual, so we know he’s not usually rattled by a traffic stop.  She’s surprised the police give him a hard time because that’s not normal for the town–something else we learn. By watching her watch him, we also get to witness her come to the conclusion that maybe Richard’s not telling her everything about the hardware store.

Not only is showing more interesting than telling, it is also more revealing.

Now, remember the question if it’s ever okay to tell? Within the showing example, there are two spots of telling:

~ “Richard never drank during the day….”

This tells us information Jillian knows about Richard. It reveals her thoughts, but if she said, “Richard, you never drink during the day,” that would be awkward, as Jillian would be a Talking Head.

~“He told her about it taking forever to run his license….”

We just saw the scene. We don’t need an account of it from Richard’s mouth, unless he’d change the facts of the traffic stop when he tells his wife about it. That would not be showing, or telling. That would be lying.

Do you know how to recognize when you fall into telling?

Ramona

Tomorrow’s topic: How to Avoid Talking Heads

How To Lower Your Word Count

by Ramona DeFelice Long

RamonaGravitarToday’s How To post is short and sweet, intended to shorten a manuscript and sweeten it for publication.

Writing economically makes a story more engaging and readable. These tips are not about massive revision or changing scenes. They explain ways to trim the unnecessary from what’s already written.

  1. Write in the active voice rather than the passive voice.  “Was” phrases and gerunds (-ing words) add one word with each use.

~  He was standing becomes He  stood.

~  She was beating the dog becomes She beat the dog.

~ He was thinking about becomes He thought.

  1. Remove words that don’t add value to the story.

~  Superfluous words like really, just, even, sort of, kind of, basically, actually, that, very add to word count, but little to content.

  1. Remove sentences that must be explained.

~ Something was wrong – Instead of making this announcement, tell what’s wrong.

~ She could see something was out of place – We don’t need this preamble, which is also telling. Show us what’s out of place.

  1. Search out meaningless gestures. Characters who look around, breathe deeply, or close their eyes over and over in a manuscript may seem busy, but they also may be performed busywork. Is every action necessary, interesting and adds to the story? Will the moment be significantly changed without it? If no, cut it out.

~ Everyone sleeps, gets dressed in the morning, and goes to the bathroom, but that doesn’t mean I want to read about it. – One of my favorite writing axioms.

  1. Search and destroy adverbs. If it ends in -ly, it should have an excellent reason for being in the sentence. If the sentence can survive without it, cut it.

~ Said loudly can be shouted; walked quickly can be jogged; spoke softly can be whispered; put down angrily can be slammed

5 – Trim dialogue tags. “He said” and “She said” are necessary to identify speakers, but attributes are not needed after every spoken line. Dialogue tags can be staggered, or an action which identifies the speaker can replace it–but only if the action tells something of its own.

~ “Lies, all you tell me are lies,” John said. He slapped his hand on the table in frustration.

becomes

~“Lies, all you tell me are lies.” John slapped his hand on the table in frustration.

Chipping away at a manuscript can be tedious, but if a lower word count is your goal, one word is better than two. Clean, tight writing is more enjoyable to read, and easier to sell.

Do you have habit words you often cut?

Ramona

How To Lead a Reader

by Ramona DeFelice Long

RamonaGravitarWhat is Leading a Reader?

Leading a reader is a term I use to describe habits that alert a reader about what’s ahead but doing so undermines tension.

Leading the reader can happen in two ways. One employs melodramatic statements that are intended as lures. The other states a fact and piles on unnecessary proof.

Have you ever read something like these?

~ Eileen opened the door to the ballroom. There before her was the surprise of her life! Never again would she take Boyd’s love for granted.

~ Jonathon read the report. With each paragraph, the words killed off a bit of his soul. By the time he was finished, his heart felt like an empty pouch.

These examples lead the reader because they tell of a grandiose or terrible something, but after the description is over, the reader is no more enlightened than before. What did Boyd do for Eileen that removed all doubts? What did the report reveal that was so soul-destroying for Jonathon? What comes next is an explanation, but the momentum of the story goes in reverse while the writer expounds on what just happened.

Some writers place a leading statement at the end of a chapter hoping it will fuel an irresistible urge to turn the page. While getting the reader to turn the page is a good thing, using a cheap trick to do so is not so good. A statement such as “What she saw before her changed everything she thought was true” is not only melodramatic, it’s a tease. Nobody likes a tease.

A second type of leading the reader is when a character express a conclusion as a fact, and then follows up the statement with unnecessary proof.

For example:

~ Eileen ran down the rain-slicked road toward where Boyd lay next to the fallen tree. Ten feet away she stopped. She was too late. He was dead. A sob caught her throat as she threw herself at his body. She checked his pulse. She tore open his shirt and started CPR.

Now wait a minute. Boyd is dead. She just told us so. She didn’t say he looked dead or seemed dead. She said she was too late. She said he was dead.

So if he’s dead, why’s she wasting her time–and mine–to check his pulse and start CPR?

A second way of looking at this is:

~ Jonathon walked in and instantly knew his wife was gone. After all the threats, Marsha had left him. “Marsha?” he called. He went into the kitchen. No Marsha. He ran upstairs to their bedroom. No Marsha. He yanked open the closet door. Marsha’s clothes were gone.

My reaction to reading this is, Dude, give it up, Marsha is gone. I don’t need to see the empty kitchen or bedroom or closet. I know she’s gone because Jonathon instantly KNEW his wife was gone. He didn’t guess, think, wonder or hope. He said he knew it, and I believed him, so his running around to make sure were just histrionics. No wonder Marsha left him.

Expressing a conclusion as a fact before it’s proven or discovered kills the tension of the moment. Once I know Boyd is dead, so is the scene. There can’t be a faint pulse or a dying moment promise or a stranger who happens to be a handsome neurosurgeon screeching to a halt and popping out of his Jaguar to revive Boyd and, by doing so, steals Eileen from him.

Likewise, if Jonathon tells me Marsha is finally gone, he destroys my hope that maybe she’s hiding in the closet with a shotgun to put the lying, cheating jerk out of her misery once and for all.

A simple way of solving this problem is to turn the statement into a question.

~ Instead of “He was dead” change to “Was Boyd dead?”

~ Rather than “…instantly knew his wife had left him…” change to “Had Marsha finally left him?”

A question makes the following actions more plausible.

By telling  a fact too soon, the writer kills the drama. By making a melodramatic statement, the writer has to go backwards to back it up. This leads the reader by telling, not by showing the action as it happens.

Ramona