Category Archives: Writing Lessons

Place and Character

30 Sunday Sep 2012

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Scout

Completely unrelated to this pic, there is a new City of Bridges post available: read The Color of Light. I am still feeling my way into this world, these characters. Trying to find a balance between an engaging narrative style and the sort of poetic descriptive voice that catches my breath as a writer. A balance between character and place, too.

Actually, when I think think about my writing in those terms, this photo isn’t really unrelated at all, is it? It was the tree that caught my eye, the way the light illuminated the leaves amongst the shadows of the grove. It is the tree that is in the camera’s focus. But it is my daughter there, in the background, that makes the picture interesting. Blurred and indistinct as she may be, she adds motion and life to what would otherwise be a static image. Pretty, maybe. But not really interesting.

I shall have to think about that as I venture into the next installment of City of Bridges. There must be a way to highlight the fascinating, colorful place that my city is, without losing sight of the people who make it move.

Investment, and Fantasy’s Secret Ingredient

02 Wednesday Nov 2011

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I’ve watched the first couple episodes of the new ABC show Once Upon a Time, enough to offer an articulate opinion of, “Eh.”

All right, I can be a little more articulate than that. The show actually has some potential, if only because it has the vast resevoir of fairy tale and myth from which to draw the essence of story stuff. If they can get past a couple stumbling blocks, it might actually turn into some enjoyable family fare.

The first thing it has to do is shed the notion that they’re doing anything new by playing with fairy tale tropes. Granted, I’m probably more well-versed in contemporary fairy-tale literature* than the average TV viewer (especially kids, and it is rated PG), so it’s going to take more than a twisting a few tales together in order to impress me.

But so far, it looks as if the writers are letting the “novelty” of playing with fairy tales in the real world take the place of compelling writing. “Look what we did,” they say, sniggering behind their hands, “we made Jiminy Cricket a psychiatrist! And his umbrella is his good luck charm! Aren’t we clever?” Only, they’re not so clever, because Dr. Jiminy doesn’t have any good dialog, just a bunch of stereotypical shrink-like platitudes with a dash of cricketish wisdom tossed in.

It’s worse with the more prominent characters (particularly the Evil Queen/mayor of Storybrook). The characters are flat, the conflict overly simple (Snow White good, Queen bad), and the structure of each episode (which includes LOST-like flashbacks) and the story on the whole just seems to be ambling around without any greater purpose. It’s just kind of…there. Not bad enough to make me turn it off, but not enough to have me eagerly turning in each week.**

The other problem is larger (and encapsulates the uninspired writing to some degree). Everything is so plastic. Visually, you can see a lot of money was spent designing sets and costumes***, but it comes off looking like a ride at Disneyland — intricate, yes, but so obviously fake. I suppose this might have been a deliberate design choice, but it just ends up looking like every other fairy tale movie that’s ever been made. Even the Evil Queen looks like a replica of Susan Sarandon from Enchanted. After the lush, imagined realities of shows like The Tudors and Game of Thrones, I’d like to see a fairy tale world as carefully created.

And then there’s the acting. The real world stuff is fine, I suppose…but once they flashback to the magical kingdom, everyone slips into that faux high speech, “I am in a fantasy so I must speak grandly” patter and cadence of language that plagues so much fantasy on tv and film. Combined with weak dialog, it can only spell doom.

But here’s a secret: bad dialog can totally be saved by a good performance (and good direction). If you doubt me, just take a look at some of the dialog from the Lord of the Rings movies. Those actors have to spout off some of the cheesiest, corniest lines in the history of movie-dom, but you never notice because the actors are fully invested in the reality of their characters, and in the truth of what their characters are saying (in the way their character speaks). The importance of the words is intrinsic in the delivery, not because the actor decides he or she needs to say it With Importance, but because the character knows it’s important.

This sense of investment is the crucial thing missing from Once Upon a Time, and from so much fantasy produced for the screen, and really even many fantasy books and stories. It’s as if the label “fantasy” magically lowers the expectations of all involved, so that they fail to strive for the same depth and sense of reality that they would expect from non-fantasy productions and literature. Maybe it’s the ol’ “fantasy is kids’ stuff” prejudice rearing its head — kids don’t need depth, after all.

But reality is the secret ingredient of the best fantasy. If we can’t believe the characters are real, we won’t care about them. If the settings feel fake, and the situations contrived, we’ll dismiss the story as inconsequential. If you want me to love your story, your movie, your show, if you want me to come back to it again and again, then you need to prove to me that you love it too, and you’re not just putting on a show for the kids, or playing with tropes because you think it’s clever.

Because, really, it’s not.

For fun, share you’re favorite cheesy Lord of the Rings movie quote in the comments!

* Angela Carter, A.S. Byatt, Jane Yolen, Tanith Lee, Robin McKinley, the graphic novel series Fables, etc. etc. etc. But really, people have been remixing old stories into new ones since…well, the beginning of stories, I bet.

** I recorded it, and watched (while folding laundry) when there was nothing else on to watch.

*** In the flashbacks to the fairy tale kingdom. Modern Storybrook is just…modern.

Text-ure

23 Sunday Jan 2011

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Pink Spring 3

A favorite digital editing trick among contemporary photographers is to layer a photographed image with textures.

A “texture” is a second image—an image of anything really. A photo of cracked pavement, the bottom of a rusty pan, a scratched piece of glass. Painted textures work well, too, thin watercolor washes or thick smears of acrylic paint scanned into the computer. Paper textures are especially popular, like grungy pages from old books with torn edges and darkened corners that add the patina of age to a photo. You can download free or purchased textures from a zillion places online, or make your own if you feel doubly creative.

In Photoshop (and other similar editing programs), you copy and paste the texture on top of the original photo, and then play with the transparency and blending modes of the texture layer until you find an effect you like. You can add layer masks, so that the texture is stronger in parts of the image than in others. You can even add more than one texture if you like. There are no formulas for doing it, just trial and error.

But I’m working on a metaphor here, not a tutorial.

Great photographers, masters of their equipment and technique, don’t need to do this—they get all the texture they need from lighting, exposure and composition. And no amount of texturing can make a bad photo good.* But it’s a trick that allows fledgling photographers like myself the ability to cover up a host of minor flaws, or simply produce a final image that is artistically more interesting than the original.

Pink Spring 2

It is the matter of artistic interest that concerns me as a writer.

There are a lot of books out there, popular books, with good stories in them—good story being the number one requirement (in today’s marketplace) to producing a successful novel.** A good story is as essential to a publishable novel as “tack sharp” focus is to a professional photograph. But having a good story doesn’t mean a novel has texture.

What is texture, for a writer?

Texture can be any number of things: It is word-smithing. It is subtleties of character. It is vivid, revelatory descriptions. It is memorable dialog. In fantasy, especially (but not exclusively), it is worldbuilding, and spreading magic through the pages of your book like a photographer spreads light and shadows.

There are countless ways writers add texture to their stories—unfortunately, you cannot download them from the Internet.*** You have to do it yourself, word by word, line by line, page by page. Figuring out which textures work with your style of storytelling, and learning how to apply them tastefully, is part of the process of finding your voice as a writer.

Like Photoshop textures, written textures can be used to hide story flaws, or simply make an ordinary story more interesting. In fact, I might go so far as to suggest that many “literary” works are more texture than story. But just as with photography, good texture can’t overcome a bad story…there has to be at least a little something there to start with.

Pink Spring I

The irony of my dual status as wanna-be amateur photographer and novelist is that I’m not very good at either focus or story.

Texture I can do.

In my writing, my greatest strength has always been in creating visions of fantastic settings, compelling characters and (more recently) the language with which to convey these elements with poetic verve. My greatest weakness is putting together stories that utilize these elements effectively. In other words, I can’t plot worth a damn. I have always started writing with a vision in my head of a place, sometimes a person, a string of words…and then fail when it comes time to bend a story into that vision.

In my photographic metaphor, it’s like starting with a stack of textures, and then going out to take a photo to put under them.

So it’s probably a good thing that my current work-in-progress started with just the story. But it’s been a very hard, backwards process for me. I hit a huge stumbling block when I began the second draft and bored myself to death because of the lack of texture. After all, I already knew the story, so what was left to hold my interest?

The intervening months has been a slow, mostly-mental process of texture building, adding those layers one by one, playing with the transparency and blending modes. Where do I need more worldbuilding? Where do I need more character development? How much magic does each part of the story need? I am, I think, nearly ready to move on with the final layer—the layer of language itself.

Rewrites are often seen as an onerous task, but I’m looking forward to it. It is artistic interest I crave from the writing process, not just telling a good story. My layers of texture will (hopefully) create a panorama of light and shadow that is as interesting to write as it will be to read.

Pink Spring 4
* Case in point.
** Short stories can get away without one, if the craft is good.
*** Yet.

Music Lessons

07 Monday Jun 2010

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A while back, we attended an open rehearsal of my daughter’s middle school string orchestra. They were preparing for a festival at the time, and a guest conductor&#8212he led California’s high school honor orchestra last year&#8212came in to workshop with them, offering advice on how they could improve their overall performance.

As he worked with the kids, leading to a notable difference just in the space of an hour, I thought that much of what he said were suggestions I could apply to my creative growth as a writer. Here are a few of the lessons he offered, and how I have interpreted them for my own use.

  1. Play. Have fun. Feel the music. It’s better to have the right feeling than the right notes. Inexperienced musicians, like inexperienced writers, often worry too much about making sure they are doing everything correctly. When they make a mistake, they pause, try to go back and fix it. This is a disaster in the middle of a performance, and can untold difficulties for a writer as well. How often do you get hung up on a single word or sentence? Or maybe you spend so much time trying to make that first chapter just perfect that you never move on with the rest of the story? I know I’m guilty of both these faults, and when I get caught up in technical perfection (grammar, vocabulary, sentence structure) I lose the feeling behind the story I am trying to tell. And just as the most technically perfect violinist will sound dull if they convey no emotion in their performance, if a writer cannot feel the emotion at the heart of their story, neither will the audience.
  2. Listen to others, understand your part in the symphony. It always is a little strange listening to my daughter practice the violin at home. The music seems odd, disjointed and incomplete. Only when we attend a performance of the whole orchestra does her small part begin to make sense as part of an entire composition. Every note she plays affects and is affected by the notes the other musicians are playing. As a writer, I want to remember that this character, this scene, this chapter, are all part of a larger composition too. What I write on this page will affect how the reader understands what happens elsewhere in the story. It’s those blended notes that help shape the themes and sensibility of a novel, and elevate it beyond a series of plot events.
  3. Curve your wrist, and don’t hold to tight to your instrument or you’ll be out of pitch. What does being out of pitch mean for a writer? I have read any number of books that were technically well-written, including interesting plot, characters and settings, but left me feeling underwhelmed. I’d liken this to a book being out of pitch (and some readers will be more sensitive to it than others, just like I couldn’t tell you if a violin was in proper pitch or not). One possible reason for this failure, I think, is that the writer is holding too tightly to their instrument, or in other words, they are following all the rules of writing so closely that they have not left any room for magic and surprises, those unexpected discoveries that occur when you leave space for creative exploration. So loosen up. Let the music flow.
  4. Extend. Use the whole bow for the long notes. Contemporary writing, for the most part, doesn’t demand much from the English language. Our media-trained audiences want things quick and easy, and so long as plot and character are delivered, they won’t complain about the lack of artistry in the presentation. But I don’t want to be the writer who gives in to the standard of “good enough.” A whole note played with half the length of the bow will be good enough for most audiences—it’s the same note, filling the same amount of time&#8212but there is a distinct difference in quality, an elegance that transforms the performer into an artist. Like that violinist, I want to use the full length of this marvelous instrument of mine, language, even if it’s not quick and easy. I want to extend myself to the utmost, and bring true artistry to what I write.

 

It’s the Small Things

28 Sunday Feb 2010

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It's the Small Things

I didn’t notice the tiny bug on this daisy until I was home in front of the computer doing all the alterations that one does in Photoshop that help you make up for your lack of skill as a photographer. I certainly wasn’t trying to take a picture of the bug, so the fact that it managed to get itself centered in the minuscule focus area of this particular lens is pretty remarkable.

On the whole, it does nothing to alter the overall composition of the photograph. You would never miss it if it weren’t there.

But, at the same time, it adds a depth and meaning to the image that transform it into something entirely different. It’s not just a picture of a pretty flower anymore, but speaks (I think) to the scale of life, and to how many layers of our world we pass over every day without ever really noticing.

I often feel the same way about writing. You can have a perfectly good story—plot, characters, narrative, dialog, theme, all the elements in place and competently executed—but it is the unexpected detail that magnifies the story into something greater, something truly memorable. It might be a particular phrase or image in the narrative, it might be a quiet insight the POV character has, or an off-hand comment by a minor character. It can be anything really. But it’s something small. Nothing that changes the overall course of the story, only how the reader relates to it. You probably would never miss it if it weren’t there.

The thing is, you can’t go out and say, “I’m going to go out and take a picture of a teeny-tiny bug on a daisy petal today.” You only chance on this sort of mini-revelation when you pause in your wandering through the garden to crouch down over a daisy, armed with your camera and most powerful lens. It’s hard keeping balance there, keeping the camera steady as you try to get just the right focus. You snap a few times, not even aware what it is you’ve got until later.

I’m trying to keep this in mind as I work on the “zero draft” of my current WIP novel. It’s handwritten, because I know it’s the only way I can silence my inner editor until I get through the whole story at least once. My handwriting is messy and disorganized, so it’s okay if the story is too. There’s no temptation to go back and polish things up, even things I know are really broken in the way I’ve written the story so far. Plus, I’m avoiding all the distractions that are available when I work on the computer. So, it’s a win-win solution.

But there is a converse temptation that I find is harder to resist: because I know it’s a zero draft, there are times where I’d like to skip over the less-exciting parts (transitions, descriptions, exposition, etc.) and get to the high-points of the drama. I know the general course of events, beginning to end, so it’s not that I need to do exploratory writing to find out what happens next. “This is just a sketch,” I tell myself. “You can fill in the details later.”

But.

But, but, but. It’s those details that really make a story come alive, isn’t it? That turn it into something more than just an exercise in plotting and characterization. And you can’t find those details if you don’t stop and pay attention to what it is you’re writing. And you can’t set out with the intention of putting meaningful details into the text, either, without running the risk of becoming preachy, or surgical. This sort of thing can only be discovered naturally.

So I try to make myself stop, crouch down over the story with my pen in hand and see what develops. What is the color of the dress she wears to the feast, and what pattern is embroidered in it’s hem? What sound do the paddles of the oars make across the water? Why does she notice one particular vendor in the marketplace? Stop and look, I tell myself. Listen. Observe. Don’t rush by. Take the time to write it all down. I may not know what I’ve discovered until much later, when I go back and start rewriting the next draft. It may be that whatever it is I’ve captured is too blurry and out-of-focus to be of any use at all, but if I don’t at least try, there won’t be anything at all when I go back. I’ll have nothing but an empty shell of a story—which might be entertaining, if I’m skilled at my craft, but otherwise lack heart and soul.

They say god is in the details. Well, I guess I want god to be in my story, too.

Repitition

Get in the Action

08 Friday Jan 2010

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At my writers’ group last night, we reviewed two pieces that suffered from variations of the same flaw: trying to portray characters by having the narrator tell you all about them. Both pieces were first person, though one narrator was describing himself and the second was describing other people in the scene. They were all intriguing characters, with complex personalities and the little quirks that flush a character out. You could tell that the authors knew these characters, and knew what information about them they needed to convey. Unfortunately, even as interesting as these characters were, the pieces we read tonight fell flat. Why is that?

It’s that old writers’ axiom rearing it’s head: show don’t tell.

Instead of giving us a list of the characters’ defining attributes (even lists illustrated with example behaviors), the authors should have shown us the characters in action–speaking, doing, acting and reacting. Characters who act create much more vivid impressions than characters presented as static summaries, for a couple of reasons. First of all, isn’t it more interesting to watch something happening as opposed to being told about it happening?

Think of it this way: remember how much attention Ken Burns documentary The Civil War received (way back in the 90s)? He revolutionized the documentary framework by using actors to read historic documents dramatically, giving voices to the characters of the past, in effect bringing them to life. He also used panning and zooming over photographs, paintings and other historic images to bring them to life, to give them movement, to make dynamic that which would otherwise be static. These two simple techniques helped bring history alive in a way that captured the country’s attention, and made it the most-watched documentary of its time. Since then, new documentaries have gone even further in their attempts to bring history to life–to put the viewer in the scene–using costumed actors to play out key scenes in the historical drama. Wouldn’t you rather learn history this way, by watching George Washington, or Saladin, or Ghengis Kahn in action, instead of listening to a teacher rattle off a bunch of dates and other facts?

The second reason to put your characters into action right from the start is that it requires the participation of your reader. If you provide a summary description of who a character is, there’s nothing for me, as a reader, to do except watch events unfold. But if you skip the summary and just let the character do and speak for themselves, then the reader has to start making judgments (just like in real life) about what kind of person the character is. This involves the reader more deeply in the story, because they are, in effect, helping to create the story–or at least their experience of the story. I believe one of the reasons mystery novels are endlessly popular is because the reader gets involved in the story, by trying to piece together the clues and solve the mystery themselves. But no matter what genre you’re writing, you can create the same sort of involvement by letting a reader interpret characters for themselves. Every character is a little mystery in themselves, aren’t they? Trying to figure out what makes a character tick will make readers care more about the character, and ultimately care more about the story the characters inhabit, which is what your goal should be.

And I’ve got one final reason why you should put your characters in action right from the start. Would you be satisfied if, at the climax of a novel, you were given a summary of everything that happened? No, probably not. You want to be right there, in the moment, experiencing what the characters are experiencing. The same holds true for the beginning of your novel. Go into the scene, let your characters act right from the start.

Summary descriptions of characters can be a useful tool for your own use, helping to clarify all the important details you need for a convincing character. But once it’s written, put it aside. Let your characters get out on stage and put them in action. Set the scene, then give them something to say. Give them something to do. Give them someone to talk to. Let them start participating in whatever you’ve got plotted for them…of course, once you let them start speaking for themselves, you may discover they don’t want to do what you’ve got planned after all, but that’s another topic…