Because everyone loves a good story
On Writing, 7: Fame and Fortune
In his book On Writing, author Stephen King shares the three questions he is asked most often. First is where he gets his ideas. Considering the nature of some of his work, I’d say this is a fair question, especially from neighbors.
Second is how on earth a beginning author can break into the publishing world. Now we’re onto something that interests me. And third is whether or not he writes for the money. His answer to this is, I believe, the most helpful. “I did it for the buzz. I did it for the pure joy of the thing. And if you can do it for joy, you can do it forever” (249).
What About You?
So assuming you write for the joy of the thing, you’re already off to a great start. But even those of us who write for joy still entertain hopes that we may eventually reap a paycheck from said joy, amiright? And the way to do that is to get published in some shape or fashion.
When King wrote On Writing in the year 2000, it was before the heyday of the internets and self-publishing. That’s why his advice focuses on paper submissions to paper magazines and paper book publishers. If you’re looking for advice about self-publishing your own e-book, you may not find much help here. But if you’re willing to follow the tried-and-true path that many a successful author has trod before you, then read on.
FAME: Catching a Publisher’s Attention
So how do you begin to make a name for yourself in hopes of eventually publishing a book? The key, it seems, is to start small and keep on trucking. For example, if you hope to publish a novel, perhaps you shouldn’t make that your first step. (I’m sure it can be done, but it may be harder.) Instead, start by writing short stories or articles for magazines. This requires “reading the market,” an idea that King can’t stress enough. “Submitting stories without first reading the market is like playing darts in a dark room,” says King. “You might hit the target every now and then, but you don’t deserve to” (240). Get a copy of Writer’s Market and see what each magazine is looking for. Read the magazines themselves to see what they publish. Then send them something suitable.
The bad news is that you can probably expect some rejection letters. To be honest, you can probably expect many, many rejection letters. King had a big ol’ stack of them pinned to his wall when he was starting out, and you and I probably won’t be exceptions to this rule either. But the good news is that you can send the same story to several places back to back. It’ll get noticed eventually as long as it looks professional and shows promise.
FORTUNE: …Eventually…Maybe
Now, if you hope that the first piece you sell will garner you a few grand and an honorable mention in the magazine’s year-in-review edition, you may be disheartened. If they do accept your piece, you may not be paid in anything more than cc’s—contributor copies. Or you may get a few bucks (think $20) as well as some cc’s. But the good news is that you’re not starting small to get rich; you’re starting small to accrue a list of decent sources who’ve published your stuff. Blow your earnings on a celebration meal at Taco Bell, distribute your copies as Christmas presents, and keep on writing.
King’s book tells the story of “Frank,” an aspiring author who pursues his goal of publishing a book. If this is your goal as well, you’d do well to read at least this section of King’s book. It follows Frank’s failures, triumphs, and lessons as he publishes short works in various magazines and begins writing a novel. It describes his selection of a literary agent and gives tips on what kind of letter to send in that regard. In the end, Frank is not yet a published novelist, but he is well on his way.
Frank gives hope to us all.
So Now What?
This is not actually where the book stops. King goes on to tell about how he was taking a walk one morning, minding his own business, when a van swerved off the road and accidentally hit him, nearly killing him. He has plenty to say on this subject, and if you’re interested in King’s opinion of the driver (quite negative) or of his own wife (quite positive), you can read that section for yourself. The accident was a watershed moment of sorts, but it doesn’t play into our topic here.
Instead, I hope that the takeaway from this nine-part series is a little more applicable. For example, we’ve looked at a writer’s tools, the importance of reading and writing, the parts of a good story, the various stages of your story’s drafts, tips for editing, and how to get published. If writing is your hobby, interest, or passion, there is plenty for you to chew on. And while I did present you with a good deal of his advice, there’s plenty more in King’s book.
So go read a copy of On Writing for yourself, and then keep on writing for the joy of the thing.
Source:
King, Stephen. On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. Scribner, 2000.
Aslan and Anastasis
Once upon a time, a little boy named Lawrence felt guilty. He was worried that he loved Aslan more than he loved Jesus. His mother wrote to C.S. Lewis and asked whether she should be concerned about this. Lewis’s response has brought comfort to hearts like Lawrence’s and mine ever since.
“Tell Laurence from me, with my love, [that he] can’t really love Aslan more than Jesus, even if he feels that’s what he is doing. For the things he loves Aslan for doing or saying are simply the things Jesus really did and said. So that when Laurence thinks he is loving Aslan, he is really loving Jesus: and perhaps loving Him more than he ever did before.”
Past Watchful Dragons
That’s why God himself often uses the power of story to transmit truth through our heads and into our hearts. This biblical tactic is also used with heart-melting force by Lewis in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. The beauty, gentleness, ferocity, power, and humility of Aslan steal past the “watchful dragons” of our familiarity and callousness, bringing the truth of the gospel into poignant focus.
Another powerful truth-conveying medium is song. We’ve probably all been brought to tears by music at some point (even if we managed to suck it up in front of people). For me, the power of story and song collided this week as I practiced piano for church. I was singing and playing “O Praise the Name” from Hillsong, and images of Jesus and Aslan began coming to mind. The words about Jesus’ burial combined with scenes of Aslan’s death. My heart broke again over the brutal slaughter of my humble king. I began to cry.
Anastasis
The second name for the song “O Praise the Name” is “Anastasis.” I admit that I had to look up the word. In Christianity, the Greek word means resurrection, specifically the most glorious resurrection of all—that of Jesus Christ. The song ends not with the sorrow of the tomb but the splendor of the resurrection. Hallelujah!
So this week I wanted to give you the chance to praise the name of the Lord our God with me. My suggestion? Listen to the song. Then read the cutting from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe below. Then listen to the song again. For bonus points, read all of chapter 15 from the book and John 19:28-20:18 from the Bible. I know it’s not Easter time, but any day is a good day to meditate on the glory of Jesus. I hope you’re as encouraged by this as I was.
Deeper Magic from Before the Dawn of Time: A Cutting
As soon as the wood was silent again Susan and Lucy crept out onto the open hill-top. The moon was getting low and thin clouds were passing across her, but still they could see the shape of the Lion lying dead in his bonds. And down they both knelt in the wet grass and kissed his cold face and stroked his beautiful fur—what was left of it—and cried till they could cry no more. And then they looked at each other and held each other’s hands for mere loneliness and cried again; and then again were silent.
At last Lucy said, “I can’t bear to look at that horrible muzzle. I wonder could we take if off?”
So they tried. And after a lot of working at it (for their fingers were cold and it was now the darkest part of the night) they succeeded. And when they saw his face without it they burst out crying again and kissed it and fondled it and wiped away the blood and the foam as well as they could. And it was all more lonely and hopeless and horrid than I know how to describe….
[To warm themselves, the girls] walked to the eastern edge of the hill and looked down…. As they stood for a moment looking out towards they sea…the red turned to gold along the line where the sea and the sky met and very slowly up came the edge of the sun. At that moment they heard from behind them a loud noise—a great cracking, deafening noise as if a giant had broken a giant’s plate.
“What’s that?” said Lucy, clutching Susan’s arm.
“I—I feel afraid to turn round,” said Susan; “something awful is happening.”
“They’re doing something worse to Him,” said Lucy. “Come on!” And she turned, pulling Susan round with her.
The rising of the sun had made everything look so different—all colours and shadows were changed that for a moment they didn’t see the important thing. Then they did. The Stone Table was broken into two pieces by a great crack that ran down it from end to end; and there was no Aslan.”Oh, oh, oh!” cried the two girls, rushing back to the Table.
“Oh, it’s too bad,” sobbed Lucy; “they might have left the body alone.”
“Who’s done it?” cried Susan. “What does it mean? Is it magic? “
“Yes!” said a great voice behind their backs. “It is more magic.” They looked round. There, shining in the sunrise, larger than they had seen him before, shaking his mane (for it had apparently grown again) stood Aslan himself.
“Oh, Aslan!” cried both the children, staring up at him, almost as much frightened as they were glad.
“Aren’t you dead then, dear Aslan?” said Lucy.
“Not now,” said Aslan.
“You’re not—not a—?” asked Susan in a shaky voice. She couldn’t bring herself to say the word ghost. Aslan stooped his golden head and licked her forehead. The warmth of his breath and a rich sort of smell that seemed to hang about his hair came all over her.
“Do I look it?” he said.
“Oh, you’re real, you’re real! Oh, Aslan!” cried Lucy, and both girls flung themselves upon him and covered him with kisses.
“But what does it all mean?” asked Susan when they were somewhat calmer.
“It means,” said Aslan, “that though the Witch knew the Deep Magic, there is a magic deeper still which she did not know: Her knowledge goes back only to the dawn of time. But if she could have looked a little further back, into the stillness and the darkness before Time dawned, she would have read there a different incantation. She would have known that when a willing victim who had committed no treachery was killed in a traitor’s stead, the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backwards. And now—”
“Oh yes. Now?” said Lucy, jumping up and clapping her hands.
“Oh, children,” said the Lion, “I feel my strength coming back to me. Oh, children, catch me if you can!”…
It was such a romp as no one has ever had except in Narnia; and whether it was more like playing with a thunderstorm or playing with a kitten Lucy could never make up her mind.
Lewis, C.S. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. New York, Harper Collins, 1950.
On Writing, Part 6: Tips
Backstory, research, and pace.
If those words don’t trigger a high school English déjà vu, then I don’t know what will. (All right, I do: try conjunctive adverb, parse, and pop quiz. I shudder at the thought.) But even though the topic sounds a little academic, I think you’ll find it ultra-practical. Take a look!
WHERE LESS IS MORE
Back Story
Believable characters need to have some back story. I mean, even eight-year-old Ramona Quimby came from somewhere. Relating the pertinent details will help our readers understand who they’re reading about. As writers, part of our job is to know the back story of our characters, even if most of it never directly enters the story. The nitty-gritty about our hero’s history may not make a thrilling chapter, but it certainly helps us understand how he would react to his mother, his job, and his crises.
That being said, Stephen King crystalizes some pertinent advice for us: “The most important things to remember about back story are that (a) everyone has a history and (b) most of it isn’t very interesting” (227). There you have it, folks. Keep back story in the back, and your readers will thank you.
Flashback
Two other facets of back story are flashback and recap. The flashback may be necessary from time to time, especially if you’re doling out information slowly so you can keep up suspense and surprise. However, if it’s not done well it may attract undue attention to itself and make your story feel clunky. King personally dislikes flashback, saying that it reminds him of those hazy transitions in old movies (and 90’s sitcoms, I might add), but I think it can work all right as long as it’s used sparingly and well.
Recap
The recap is used in series where the author wants to fill you in on what you’ve missed or forgotten from the previous books. This is one of my pet peeves, actually. I always feel insulted when an author spends the first few chapters reminding you of the whole previous saga. It feels like being told you can use a cheat sheet on a test you spent a long time studying for. You don’t need it, and frankly it’s pandering to the nitwits who didn’t prepare.
King feels the Harry Potter series recaps previous books “effortlessly,” but even those tick me off. I mean, if you don’t know that the Weasleys are a big family of poor redheads by book six, why are you even reading it? All right, all right. I’m about to get worked up over here, so we’ll just move on. In summary, be sparing with your back story, and everything should work out just fine.
RESEARCH
As the age-old adage goes, “Write what you know.” Sure, that may be the simplest and most believable thing you can write about. But what if you want to set your story in ancient Rome, and your only knowledge of the era comes from a junior high perusal of the movie Ben-Hur? Well then, my friend, it’s research time.
Believable stories require believable characters and settings. Believable, mind you—not necessarily realistic. Like Tolkien, you can write about elves and hobbits in Middle Earth, but it had better be believable within your story. Or you can choose a real setting that is unfamiliar to you, as long as you put in some time at the library. Please don’t include all your research in the story itself, though; just make sure your details are accurate enough to please Professor Knowitall when he reads it. “Remember that you are writing a novel, not a research paper,” says King. “The story always comes first” (231).
PACE
If you’re using back story and research sparingly, then the pace of your story is sure to benefit. Pace, or “the speed at which a narrative unfolds,” is a tricky thing (220). It’s mostly personal preference, and each person has a different preference. Some like break-neck thrillers while others prefer leisurely, sprawling narratives. Whichever you prefer as a writer, just follow the advice of Elmore Leonard and “leave out the boring parts.”
Before King was rich and famous, he got lots of rejection slips from magazines who didn’t want his short stories. But one of the slips had a hand-written note that changed his life. It said: “Not bad but PUFFY. You need to revise for length. Formula: 2nd Draft = 1st Draft – 10%. Good luck.” When King began applying that formula, his stories began selling. Think there’s no fat to trim in your story? It may be time to ask an unbiased outside source for some feedback. “Every story and novel is collapsible to some degree,” King says (223). As a classic rambler, I know this to be true. Trim and trim again. The story will only get better.
EASIER SAID THAN DONE
Of course it’s simple for me to prescribe less back story, more research, and better pace. What’s tricky is applying it. I’m in the middle of writing a novel myself, and I can already think of six dozen ways to utilize this advice. A dismal thought, and yet not without hope. May you find the same to be true of your writing as well.
Source:
King, Stephen. On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. Scribner, 2000.
C.S. Lewis: The Death of Words
Today I was talking about pumpkin spice lattes. Judge me if you will.
My mom seemed surprised that I liked them, but I told her I enjoyed maybe one or two each fall just to set the tone of the season. I then found myself explaining the recent usage of the word basic: someone who’s “only interested in things mainstream, popular, and trending.” Frankly, I felt basic for even knowing that. But my bigger problem is that the word basic already had a perfectly good meaning. Why distort it?
Now, for those of you who are actually cool, you’re thinking, “Um, no one even says ‘basic’ anymore.” I’m sure you’re right. Now that I don’t teach high school, I can’t keep up with what’s hip to jive. But my point is that the meaning of words changes so quickly that I’d need to get an Urban Dictionary app just to keep up. Heaven forbid. That would be so extra.
The Death of Words
I’m sure I won’t be the last to bemoan the degradation of the English language at the hands of hipsters and the like, but I also know I wasn’t the first; C.S. Lewis had plenty to say on the topic. (No, he wasn’t the first either, but he’s the one I’m going to talk about.) Lewis was a linguist. He could read, write, and speak at least eight languages. To him, definitions were important, and accuracy mattered. So you can imagine his chagrin over the decay of definitions.
In his short essay The Death of Words, Lewis begins by discussing the way that certain denotative words have become merely connotative instead. (Denotative, as I’m sure you know, refers to the purely-literal dictionary definition of a word, whereas connotative refers to the emotional aspect that a word carries. “Mother” is a female progenitor of an offspring. “Mommy” is a nurturing female figure. Stuff like that.) Anyway, Lewis mentions several examples of words that used to mean something very specific but are now used as vague descriptions instead. That really burned his biscuits, and he tells us why.
A Rose by Any Other Name Is Confusing
The decayed word he mentions first is gentleman. Back in the day, a gentleman was a male above the station of yeoman whose family possessed a coat of arms. It wasn’t subjective; either you were or you weren’t a gentleman just like you either are or aren’t a millionaire. It was a fact of social status. But now, Lewis laments, “words which once had a definable sense…are now nothing more than noises of vague approval.” The dictionary tells us that today gentlemanrefers to someone “civilized, sensitive, well-mannered.” In other words, a good person. And therein lies the problem.
“The vocabulary of flattery and insult is continually enlarged at the expense of the vocabulary of definition,” says Lewis. “Words in their last decay go to swell the enormous list of synonyms for good and bad. As long as most people are more anxious to express their likes and dislikes than to describe facts, this must remain a universal truth about language.” Ouch.
But you can see the problem, can’t you? If we allow our words of definition to morph into mere descriptions, we won’t have a way to indicate specific things anymore. What would you call an actual millionaire if the word eventually comes to mean “a person with plenty of money”? And, even closer to home, how on earth can you know if someone means it when they use the word “literally”? I literally see that word misused all the time, and it figuratively makes my blood boil.
The Disappearance of Ideas
All right, I may have gotten a little deeper into the swamp of vocabulary than some of you are interested in. My apologies. While I’m a far cry from the philological purist that Lewis was, I still believe that words have power and should be protected. Why? Because, as Lewis says, “Men do not long continue to think what they have forgotten how to say.”
Have you read George Orwell’s 1984? Why do you think the totalitarian regime watered down the permitted vocabulary until the main adjectives were “good” and “un-good”? If something was wrong or unjust, they couldn’t say so. They had to say “doubleplus un-good.” The same is true in T.H. White’s The Once and Future King. In the ant colony (a microcosm of totalitarian rule), the only adjectives were “done” and “not done.” Why? If you can’t name injustice, you will have a much harder time identifying it.
The same goes for beauty, truth, and a host of other intangible necessities. The words disappear, and the ideas follow. “When…you have killed a word,” says Lewis, “you have also, as far as in you lay, blotted from the human mind the thing that word originally stood for.” And that, my friends, is a serious thoughtcrime.
An Invective Against Vapid Vocabularies
So when we allow concrete words to disintegrate into mere descriptions, are we in danger of becoming dystopian? Surely not. Well, not yet, at least. But every time a strong word falls out of use only to be replaced by a weak or distorted substitute (or none at all), another mighty thesaurus dies, and the whole species creeps one step closer to extinction.
So, fellow English speakers, arm yourselves! Let’s do our part to stem the tide of silliness in vocabulary. We can use new words if we must, but let’s use the old words, too. Let’s keep our minds sharp. Otherwise we may find ourselves sipping pumpkin spice lattes with heads as empty as those calories, and the mastermind behind words like “basic” will have us on puppet strings. Again I say Heaven forbid. Rage! Rage against the dying of the mind.
(Was that ending a bit extra? My b.)
Source:
Lewis, C.S. (1966). On Stories and Other Essays on Literature. Harcourt, Inc.
On Writing, Part 5: Revision
Savory pot roast and mashed potatoes will always taste better than marinating beef and raw spuds. The book shelf displayed at Ikea will always be nicer than the pile of lumber, screws, and frustration on your living room floor. We know this because finished products are always more appealing than works-in-progress. So why, oh why, do we insist on comparing our first drafts with other authors’ published works?
Discouragement over a lousy first draft is a chronic problem for me. Even if I’ve written well in the past, my works in progress feel grueling and uninspired. (I forget that I felt the same way with my past projects too.) If you find yourself in the same predicament, take heart. Everyone—everyone—has to start with a first draft. Even Stephen King. So let’s see what he has to say about first drafts, second drafts, and improving our revisions.
Keeping the Door Closed
Stephen King is a real stickler about writing first drafts with the “door closed.” He means this literally so we don’t get distracted, but he also means we shouldn’t show the draft to anyone until it’s finished. When we’re in the middle of writing, we can feel pretty desperate for feedback—specifically, for reassurance. But King tells us to resist. “Keep the pressure on; don’t lower it by exposing what you’ve written to the doubt, the praise, or even the well-meaning questions of someone from the Outside World” (210).
Once draft one is the best we can muster, it’s time to put it on a shelf and walk away. Go back to real life. Start another project. Ideally, wait at least six weeks to come back to the story and begin working on draft two. Why? Because our minds need time to become objective again. The more distance we gain from the story, the more clearly we’ll be able to critique it when we return.
When to Open the Door
If we’re playing by King’s rules, he says we can hand over our first draft to our one, closest, “Ideal Reader” as soon as it’s finished. The catch is that they’re not allowed to talk to us about it until our hiatus is up. Otherwise we won’t get distance from it. And we shouldn’t give it to our handful of trusted reader friends until after the post-hiatus tweaking.
This tweaking means finding what we meant and narrow the story accordingly. Cut out the parts that detract from the overall message, and enhance the parts of the story that do convey the point. Afterward, we can hand it over to our five-ish trusted readers for feedback. If they all dislike different parts, “the tie goes to the writer.” Leave it alone. But if several pinpoint the same issue, it probably needs more tweaking.
The Garnish of Symbolism
Once we’ve gotten helpful feedback from our small band of editing warriors, we can consider enhancing the second draft with a few extras. For example, maybe the story would benefit from symbolism. “[Is symbolism] necessary to the success of your story or novel?” asks King. “Indeed not, and it can actually hurt, especially if you get carried away. Symbolism exists to adorn and enrich, not to create a sense of artificial profundity” (200). Don’t feel obligated to force it.
So we can’t let ornaments detract from the story itself, but if we find a fitting symbol during our editing, it could be a great way to “create a more unified and pleasing work” (200). Personally, I enjoy finding and deciphering symbols in stories and movies. It gives me greater respect for the writer who put time into thinking it through, and it deepens my enjoyment of the whole experience. But then again, I’m kind of a nerd, so maybe this isn’t a universal response. Either way, if you can include a symbol without letting it become obtrusive, by all means, do it.
Highlighting the Theme
At some point we have to decide what our story is about—not just the plot but the theme. For King, this happens during or after the first draft. For me, this happens before I ever type the words “Chapter One.” But King and I have different personalities and purposes. He aims to delight, but I aim to teach by delighting, as Sir Philip Sidney recommends in An Apology for Poetry. But, as we’ve discussed, stories are sure to morph by the end of the first draft, so some major overhauls may be required to clarify the theme. And that’s fine. We should hold our plans in loose hands.
However, theme carries the same caveat as symbol: don’t get carried away. No one enjoys condescending didacticism. If we bludgeon our poor, unsuspecting readers with a sermon when they expected a story, they won’t appreciate it. Instead, we should follow the model of Tolkien and Lewis by weaving our theme into a story so beautiful that it resonates with truth. It’s a high and lofty calling, but we’ll never reach it if we don’t try.
Take Heart
So if you’ve been feeling discouraged about your lousy first draft, don’t despair; you’re in good company. First drafts are meant to be lousy. In fact, if we were able to see the first drafts of the books we love, I think we’d be surprised and encouraged. As Anne Lamott says, “Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts. You need to start somewhere” (25).
So with that in mind, go start! Or go continue! But keep your chin up—draft two can fix a multitude of blunders.
Sources:
King, Stephen. On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. Scribner, 2000.
Lamott, Ann. Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. Pantheon books, 1994.
Something Worth Writing About
How do you fix writer’s block? Write more? Read more? Try harder? At times each of these is necessary, but sometimes your well just seems dry. How do you tap into water during a creative drought? Well, you may just have to go in search of it.
When the Well Runs Dry
This morning I read the weekly email from author Jonathan Rogers (The Charlatan’s Boy, The World According to Narnia). In it he considers the writer’s balance between reading and living. Writers are almost sure to be readers, he states, but reading well is only half the battle. “If you are just recycling the things you’ve read in other books, no matter how skillfully, you probably aren’t giving your reader something she couldn’t get for herself.” Touché, Rogers.
So while reading well is certainly important, living well is just as vital. Otherwise, you’ll have no lumber for your construction, no kindling for your fire. I knew an artist once who said he often ran low on creativity. To fix this, he might go to an art museum, but he was more likely to refill his soul’s reservoir by going outside. A short walk through the woods, a visit to a waterfall, and a three-week bike trip through the Swiss Alps are irreplaceable ways to pour beauty into the soul. These things give us something to use, something to write about.
“Bookishness versus Tookishness”
In his email, Jonathan Rogers went on to discuss the literary applications of Bilbo Baggins’s life in The Hobbit. Bilbo was a typical hobbit—practical, predictable, comfortable. He probably spent hours each day reading books in his armchair while eating toast and cheese. But when he heeded his Tookish instincts and went on a great and perilous adventure, he came back forever changed. Now he had something to write about. He used the rest of his considerably-long life (thanks, the One Ring) to pen There and Back Again: A Hobbit’s Tale. Adventure led to creativity.
That’s great for Bilbo, you think. I’m so glad this fictional character was able to pen a fictional masterpiece because of his fictional adventure. But I don’t see what kind of writing material an adventure could give me. Very well. I shall give you a few examples of writing fodder I’ve gleaned from a few of my own adventures through the years.
Into the Wild
You may remember that my favorite outdoor foray is hiking. I haven’t done nearly as much as I hope to, but the hikes I’ve enjoyed have given me loads of irreplaceable experiences. I’ve spent three separate weeks backpacking through Yosemite National Park, so I’ve got a special fondness for those sweeping forests, mighty rivers, and granite mountains. And while the trips satisfied my craving for camping, hiking, and shady hygiene, they also gave me plenty of experiences to tap into when I’m writing. Here are a few.
Examples
Metaphors abound in nature. The great outdoors provide common ground that nearly everyone can relate to. So rather than falling back on hackneyed similes and metaphors in your writing, think about a time you experienced what you’re trying to describe. Admittedly, it’s easier said than done to write a fresh comparison, but at least you’ll have more mental images to pull from if you’ve got adventures tucked away in your memory.
That way you don’t have to say the girl felt small. Instead, she can feel like a blade of grass beside a mighty sequoia. The man doesn’t have to be merely angry; instead, his temper can crush like a waterfall after a downpour. She doesn’t just feel lonely. Her heart’s as hollow as the wind whistling through a canyon. Now I admit I’m no metaphorical genius (or literal genius either) but the more adventures we have, the more we’ll be able to spin our straw into gold.
Exhaustion
If you’re writing fiction, especially adventure or fantasy, you may find yourself writing about a character who is beyond his capacity to continue. He isn’t just tired; he’s depleted, finished, exhausted. There’s no strength left for the next step. Describing this situation with realism doesn’t come from reading a book or watching a documentary where someone gets tired. In fact, you probably can’t even experience it for yourself on an afternoon stroll through the woods.
Exhaustion is something you have to experience for yourself. The uncontrollable quivering of thigh muscles, the vacuum-sealed dryness of a parched mouth, the rationalizing of yet another rest in the shade, the constant doubt about your ability and sanity. These things come from experience. Enjoyable experience? Not really. But worthwhile? Definitely. When you face exhaustion and live to write the tale, your readers will appreciate the richness of your descriptions. And the comforts of their armchairs.
Endurance
Hand-in-hand with exhaustion comes endurance. When a character confronts a powerful desire to turn back, to quit, to throw in the towel, what makes him press on? From where does he summon the strength? What kinds of thoughts go through his head?
These can be answered in many ways, but physical strain evokes a visceral, primal struggle that is hard to replicate elsewhere. Endurance becomes more than a conscious choice; it becomes a habit, a reflex. If it doesn’t, you’re sunk. You’ll end up sitting there waiting to be rescued. Until you learn that there is always a little more strength in the bottom of the tank, you won’t know what it means to endure, and neither will your characters.
Exhilaration and Completion
And since the last two lessons were rather grim, I wanted to end with the experience of exhilaration and completion. If you’ve undergone trials that pushed your body and mind to the limit and then some, you probably know the reward of completion. Exhaustion forces endurance which yields exhilaration when you’re finally finished. When you reach the summit, the views are well worth the throbbing thighs and burning lungs.
But the things you learn about yourself may be even more long-lasting and valuable. You learn what motivates you and what discourages you. You find out how you react under pressure and how you treat others in the process. But you learn firsthand the thrill that come from finishing what you started. These are lessons that lead to character development (on the page and in real life).
What Are You Waiting For?
So if you find your mental well running a little dry these days, don’t despair. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t just flip on the TV. Get outside. Go hiking. See something beautiful. The things you experience will enrich not only your life but your writing as well.
On Writing, Part 4: Making Stories
A good story is more than the sum of its parts, but the parts that make it up are pretty darn important too. So how can you and I—Average Author Joes—combine the parts in hopes of making magic? Let’s see what Stephen King has to say about it.
“In my view,” says King in his book On Writing, “stories and novels consist of three parts: narration, which moves the story from point A to point B and finally to point Z; description, which creates a sensory reality for the reader; and dialogue, which brings characters to life through their speech” (163.) While there are many other aspects to awesome stories, they pretty much fall under these three categories.
NARRATION
Those Who Plan
The first part, narration, is the telling and progressing of the storyline, and different writers approach this plotting process differently. Controlling, plan-every-last-detail writers lay out a fairly detailed plot sketch before beginning the real writing. This is most definitely my approach. But King scorns this tactic, saying that “plot is, I think, the good writer’s last resort and the dullard’s first choice. The story which results from it is apt to feel artificial and labored” (164). Ouch. It disheartens me to hear this, but he could be right.
For example, I once wrote a play whose plot went careening off in a different direction than I’d intended. But the ending I permitted was much better than the ending I’d planned, and maybe that’s what King is talking about. Giving yourself permission to change the plan is essential to writing a healthy story.
Those Who Don’t
On the other end of the planning spectrum are the confident, seat-of-the-pants writers. King is squarely in the center of this camp. He believes “plotting and the spontaneity of real creation aren’t compatible….[Stories] pretty much make themselves” (163). Well, maybe they do if you’re Stephen King, but it sure doesn’t work like that for everyone. However, for the kind of stories he writes, his approach seems to work just fine.
Here’s his method: he begins by imagining a situation, usually by asking “What if…?” Then he fills in the scenario with some basic characters that will develop eventually. Then he sits down for several hours every morning and churns out 2,000 words to see what happens next. Easy peasy. If it worked like that for me, I would approach writing the same way King does. But for now, I’ll have to keep plugging along with a loosely-held plot idea and hope I don’t prove to be too much of a dullard.
DESCRIPTION
In King’s opinion, the cardinal sin of description seems to be over-description. Boy, he must hate some of the classics. But he has a fair point: who among us hasn’t zoned out while reading a six-page description of a pub or the heroine’s meticulously-transcribed appearance? The main job of the writer, King says, is not to set the scene but to to tell the story, so get on with it.
That being said, writing does require a certain amount of description, so how do you do this well? First, King says that description begins with an author’s visualization and ends with his translating it into words the reader can visualize too. See it, and then say it. And stick with the first few details that come into your mind. Remember also that description should offer something to each of the five senses as often as possible. And, for heaven’s sake, avoid cliched similes, metaphors, and images like the plague.
DIALOGUE
“Dialogue is a skill best learned by people who enjoy talking and listening to others—particularly listening” (183). Stilted, unnatural dialogue can make even a good story turn rotten. Stock phrases, poorly-executed accents, and awkward wording depict characters in two-dimensional graphite rather than technicolor 3-D. The more we listen and practice, the more our dialogue should reflect real speech.
In King’s opinion, this includes profanity and vulgarity because worrying about the “Legion of Decency” prevents believable dialogue. I don’t necessarily endorse King’s advice, but I wanted to present it for your consideration. Personally, I wrote a WWII play, and none of my soldiers cursed. Was that realistic? Probably not, but writers do need to consider their audience. Asking seventh- through twelfth-grade students to say R-rated words on stage during a fund raiser may not be worth the realism. I focused on other ways soldiers would have express themselves, and I think it worked out all right. Then again, maybe I’m just an old prude.
CONCLUSION
Now that you’ve been reacquainted with the three pillars of story, you’ve got plenty to mull over. Maybe it’s time to scamper off to the writing desk and put them into practice. Or maybe you’ll notice these working well in the next book you read. Either way, it’s a win. Next time we’ll look at a few ways to turn a basic story into something more. Stay tuned!
Source:
King, Stephen. On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. Scribner, 2000.
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