Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Monday, July 6, 2009
I find myself frequently embroiled in this debate: Should the character or the plot drive the story? Many of my writing peers like to start with an “interesting” character and ask themselves what sort of situation fits the character. They start by developing a history for the character—family, hobbies, lifestyle, and those deep abiding questions of the soul, which could range from “Why am I here?” to “Am I really from this planet?”
What would happen to this character if…
- She were about to be evicted from her home?
- She’s shy, but competing for a job she really wants against her nemesis?
- He’s a nice guy, socially inept (bad conversationalist, poor fashion taste, cheap), but wants a wife?
These writers have a character and develop a situation to challenge some aspect of the character’s life or way of thinking.
The other camp of writers, at least the ones with whom I have coffee or online discussions, want a plot first and then carve out a character suitable to the action. They start out something like…
- There is this person who wants to go to medical school because her father died of cancer, but she is poor and failing chemistry. She will never get a scholarship with poor grades.
- There is this guy that wants to get married because he is lonely, but he is already married to a witch who won’t give him a divorce.
These writers have a situation and develop a history for the character based on the situation.
Either way you go, this tends to lead to a situational perspective—we end up with a character for whom we create an event or an event for which we develop the perfect character. In the end, it seems to be that both processes are leading to the same result. Either or both can succeed or fail, so why do so many stories seem to fall flat, no matter which approach is used?
While both character and plot are important, something is missing? It could be that I have over-simplified the definition of plot. Perhaps I am calling an event, sometimes termed an “inciting incident,” the plot, though one of these two points tends to be where writers begin. How do these starting points become meaningful, with enough substance to stay with a reader?
If a story focused on events and character falls flat, whichever point you start from, what’s missing? Is it something like baking a cake? Does it really matter if you mix the flour into the sugar and butter or vice versa? Or is it more like baking without salt and soda? What constitutes those extra spices of a story?
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
I am a long-time fan of Stephen King novels, but this claim by the King—whether you like his books or not, he’s sells them by the boatload—leaves me doubting. The books that got him on the map certainly had a solid, basic plot. In Carrie, King’s first big success, the protagonist wants to get revenge on her high school peers because they tease her. She uses her telekinetic powers to get even with her classmates, but these powers get out of control.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
I have to remind myself that real writers are constantly asking themselves these questions. Regarding the latter question, I think I should be asking myself, “Could I stop being a writer if I wanted to? Could I put down the pen or get up from the keyboard and never write again?”
No, I couldn’t do that. Writers—whatever our level of talent and training—write because we must. It’s a pleasure, a joy, maybe even an addiction. We can’t stop. We shouldn’t.
What we should do is keep trying to improve our skills, get closer to our authentic voice, and keep writing.
As to the first question: Should I throw the story out?
I have three answers to that question, but more than three answers exist:
Sometimes the answer to that might be yes. I wasn’t always comfortable with that, but now I see that everything I write makes me a better writer. Maybe not all of it will be worthy of publication, but it’s valuable to the process.
Other times the answer to that question might be that the story isn’t fully realized. I need to keep working on it. I can make it better. I do make it better.
Occasionally, I have to remind myself that everything is a matter of taste. There are plenty of successful writers whose work doesn’t speak to me. Someone published the work, but I don’t like it. Not everyone has to like our work for our work to be of value.
Seek balance. Listen, evaluate, decide. Letting go is one of life’s constant and mostly difficult challenges. Perhaps, sometimes, we need to let go of a story. Other times, we might need to let go of someone else’s opinion. So evolves the writer’s path.
Picture: Traveling the country roads in Ireland.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Last week I visited the Nobel Museum in Stockholm, and it occurred to me why someone might think that writing is a hard job. The museum is full of the stories who gave up their freedom—or their lives—to speak up on moral and ethical issues. They disagreed with someone powerful on how the world ought to be. They voiced their opinions and ended up in jail or in a grave. Okay, that makes writing hard, powerful, meaningful, scary, dangerous.
To tell the truth, I hope I never find myself in that position. But that doesn’t mean that I write without responsibility. What I write can be powerful, meaningful, live changing. For a writer to get to that place, though, she has to speak from the heart. She has to risk exposing some part of herself that others might disagree with; risk criticism and censure. I just read a Hugo-nominated story that Alexander Field highlighted in his blog on writing: “Article of Faith,” by Mike Resnick. The story presented an age-old question in a fresh, new light.
The story touched my heart, and to get to that place Mike Resnick surely must have infused his story with some of his own passion and angst. It takes courage to speak your heart. That’s what makes writing so hard, so risky, so worthwhile. Congratulations to Mike Resnick on the nomination. You can read more about him and other nominees on Alexander’s blog, The Magic and The Mystery.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The protagonist and antagonist had opposing goals, but in spite of their imperfect natures, they were both likeable. It was hard to know who to root for. In fact, this added another dimension to the conflict. These two characters had clear and understandable motivation, deeply held beliefs that were challenged by circumstance, and both were changed by the events that took place. It’s perfect:
Two men on a freighter in the middle of the ocean with nowhere to go and—in Brando’s case—only two days to achieve his goal. Brenner’s character doesn’t know what Mr. Kyle (Brando) is up to but still manages to make his life impossible. That makes for a fast-paced, engaging story. Set against the backdrop of WWII and Hitler’s Germany, this story not only changed these two imaginary characters; it changed me too. That’s good writing!
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Mary: I just saw Grand Torino. What a great movie. The ending was very powerful. Did you see it? Watch it if you get a chance!
Kate: I haven't seen Grand Torino, but I only hear good reviews. Does it fit the hero's journey?
Mary: I think it does fit the hero's journey. Clint Eastwood is this crusty old SOB, a bigoted, opinionated loud mouth who doesn't give a damn about anyone. His wife has just died and his kids and grandkids are horrible, insufferable dolts, largely due to the fact that he never spent any time with them. He lives in a rundown neighborhood in Detroit now populated by Southeast Asians from Laos, Cambodia and Thailand displaced after the Vietnam War. Eastwood fought in Korea and has nothing but disdain for them. (Component of Hero's Journey: Ordinary World)
The next door neighbors are good people and there are rival gangs terrorizing the young boy who has no male role model. His cousin's gang is trying to get him to join and he is resisting. (Component of Hero's Journey: Call to Adventure, continued in the Download)
I was surprised and yet pleased by the ending. (Download the complete analysis, but if you haven’t seen the movie you may want to wait so as not to spoil the ending. (Mary's Analysis of Grand Torino)
Kate: This might be the reason why Eastwood has been so successful in his career. Everybody laughs at the spaghetti westerns he started out in, but my guess is that those movies pretty clearly followed this archetype of stepping over escalating thresholds that result in a change (however small) in the character. Almost all his stories have his protagonist starting out as self-absorbed and then taking someone under his wing and through that growing from caring only about the self to caring about someone else which results in a better world and someone who can take the next step.
Some writers shy away from literally having characters step over thresholds to achieve this, but I think it helps us as new writers to clearly define our scenes and identify the change we want to occur. And I'm noticing more and more that movies use the funeral/burial scene as a representation of the resurrection. The body dies but the idea lives on and will benefit the world.
I bet if we looked at the New Testament story of Jesus, we would find each of the elements of a hero's journey, which is why it speaks so powerfully to so many people. My guess is that the story of Buddha's life would also fit the hero's journey. Off on a tangent here, but I do believe that as we become more adept at putting our stories into this structure, we will also reach a point where we can make crossing the threshold more sublime.
Maybe we can do that without following these steps, but I look at the process like the theory of the "Hundredth Monkey." I'm stretching that concept, but I suppose we could randomly write a hundred stories and get one that accidently fits the structure, thereby grabbing the reader. That's a lot of writing though.
Or we can consciously apply the steps and grab them nearly every time, slowly working our way from the concrete realization of the steps--where the protagonist literally steps across a doorway or some other physical boundary line--to one that is more abstract. Some writers might get to skip the in-between steps, but I don't think I'm one of those charmed few.
Mary’s Analysis of Grand Torino