tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76042523052842363412024-03-07T23:10:47.852-08:00Andrew's Writerly StuffConcerning the Craft of Writing FictionAndrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.comBlogger113125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-40283716275743942302012-05-20T17:54:00.001-07:002012-05-20T17:54:06.947-07:00Crazy Stupid…Avengers?!<p>I’ve been told, though I never really thought about it much, that Hollywood movies typically follow a standard three act formula.  But then I noticed something odd.  The current big summer blockbusting movie, <em>Marvel’s The Avengers</em> shares the same plot structure as last year’s romantic comedy <em>Crazy Stupid Love.</em>  (I’m married, I see the occasional romantic comedy.  Also, yes, that is the full title of the Avengers movie.  Probably to keep people from looking for Emma Peel.)</p> <p>In act one, an event occurs.  The protagonists were happy, or at least complacent, doing whatever they normally do in their day-to-day lives – taking their wives out to dinner, solving the energy crisis, interrogating arms dealers, whatever.  But the event changes everything, tilts the world off its comfortable center, and at first no one knows how to respond.  <em>The Avengers</em> starts with action, gunfire, and very expensive special effects.  In <em>Crazy Stupid Love</em>, the catalytic event is a simple sentence: “I want a divorce.”</p> <p>In act two, the characters get off to a rocky start dealing with whatever has shaken their world.  In the RomCom, Cal, played by Steve Carell, tries to reinvent himself as a swinging single guy.  In a nice counterpoint, the guy who coaches Cal on being single gets caught off guard by a potential long-term relationship and has to reinvent himself to deal with that.  In <em>The Avengers</em>, the heroes are called together but fail to reach their potential as a team.  </p> <p>The important thing about act two is that the world has changed but the characters haven’t caught up.  Cal still has the mindset of a married man.  The would-be Avengers are still used to functioning as individuals.  As act two draws to a close, things get worse.  Cal’s early dating mistakes come back to haunt him and the super-heroes almost tear themselves apart with only the smallest effort on the part of the villains.</p> <p>Act three turns it all around.  I don’t want to spoil either movie any more than I already have, but let me say this:  Act three is when the characters decide what they really value, who they really want to be, and what they are willing to do about it.  Armed with this newfound purpose, they go out and face the adversity created in act one.  Only this time, the audience knows that they have at least the potential to triumph.  Instead of feeling sorry for them or shaking our heads, now we are rooting for them.</p> <p>There is also an epilogue, a <em>dénouement</em>, a bit at the end, which affirms the protagonist’s new position in the world and underscores his (or their) triumph.  Cal gives a graduation speech.  The Avengers get news coverage.</p> <p>So a couple of points for all you writers out there.  First, I’m not accusing either film of being trite or formulaic.  The fact is, each movie is a fine example of its genre.  What is interesting is that the formula is genre independent.  It isn’t the only formula, or the only way to tell a tale, but give it its due – it works.  </p> <p>And there’s nothing wrong with that.  There is a temptation to recoil at the concept of formula.  Formula, you might think, is the opposite of originality.  But if anything, the sheer astronomical differences between my two example films should illustrate how much room for creativity the formula allows.</p> <p>It is also worth noting that, if done correctly, the act three protagonist is a different (and typically a better) person than he (or they) were in act one.</p> <p>And finally, because this has been a long post, consider the formula as a tool.  Can you break your plot into acts?  Can you see where your protagonist is and how he our she is changing in each act?</p> <p>As an experiment, I decided to break down the last movie I saw into a few simple sentences, trying to lay bare the structure.  It looked something like this:</p> <p>One:  A group of college girls decide to pursue loser boyfriends.</p> <p>Two:  The girls experience disappointment and heartbreak because their boyfriends are losers.</p> <p>Three:  The girls send their boyfriends soap.</p> <p>Epilogue:  Life is a musical.</p> <p>Perhaps I need to try a different movie…</p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-14168968406060488572012-04-10T06:22:00.001-07:002012-04-10T06:22:25.386-07:00Musical Precision<p>I thought I’d continue my series on what I’ve learned about writing from other media with a little song and dance.  I’m no musician, but I like to watch music being made.  Fingers moving like spiders over the fret board, hands rolling like the ocean over the ivories. Over the years I’ve seen a wide range of performances, both live and recorded.</p> <p>I’ve noticed there is a sharp dividing line between the amateur and professional levels of performance.  It is possible to have a good performance and still not quite reach that level of great performance that the pros hit consistently.</p> <p>A music teacher once explained to me that music works on the principle of creating expectations, which create tension in the listener, and then fulfilling them, which eases the tension and gives the listener a pleasurable relaxation.  If one were to play, for example, the first seven notes of a major scale, the listener knows exactly what the eighth note is supposed to be before it is played.  If you play them in rhythm, the listener also knows <em>when</em> the eighth note is supposed to be.</p> <p>In the professional performance, the right note is always there, right when it is supposed to be, without hesitation. I’m not saying they never make mistakes – I have a recording of Pete Seegar, live in concert, saying, “Now I can’t remember the second verse,” but he says it without ever losing his place on the guitar and without losing the attention of his audience.</p> <p>The last concert I was at had people dancing in the aisles. Most were hoppin’ and boppin’ and just havin’ fun as they should, but there was one lady I’d wager had professional dance training.  Her moves repeated exactly, starting and ending with the beat of the song every time, enacted without hesitation.</p> <p>So if you’ve been following my blog at all, you know I’m going to apply this to writing.  The secret for musicians and dancers seems to be precision.  The right move, the right note, the right time.  And people wonder why writers spend so much time stressing over just the right word.</p> <p>There are a lot of places for writers to get it right.  Keeping an interesting variation of long and short sentences.  Avoiding eye-glazing paragraphs that never end.  Little grace notes of metaphor and analogy.  Pacing that builds, leading to the inevitable climax the occurs at just ahead of the reader’s expectation.</p> <p>There’s a rhythm, too.  In my last play, I wrote a line where one character hesitates before saying the name of another character (indicated, if you must know, by an ellipsis).  An actor asked me about the pause, whether it was connected to a previous scene where his character was corrected on the name.  I said no, it was more of a pause to marshal his argument. </p> <p>What I didn’t say, what I couldn’t articulate with an actor there in my face, was that it was a pause for rhythm.  That it just plain sounded right.</p> <p>And you know how professional performers do it, right?  How they get that level of precision, time after time?  How do you get to Carnegie Hall?  Practice, practice, practice.  It seems more ephemeral for writers somehow, but the more you do it, the more you know why you are placing this word here, that word there. </p> <p>Here endeth the lesson.</p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-15774032615125477142012-03-21T06:11:00.003-07:002012-03-21T06:34:23.587-07:00Character Shorthand, or What I Learned Playing Video Games<p>In a novel, there are lots of ways to reveal information about a character.  The narrative can get inside a character’s head, show thoughts, emotions and reactions, and then switch to another point of view to show how others think of the character.  Movies have fewer tools – to truly get inside a character’s head requires a voice-0ver, which involves first-person narration, which is always more suspect than an omniscient narrative voice.</p> <p>But movies have an additional tool: visuals. The written word can describe how a character looks, but a movie can present the visual down to the last detail and do it instantly.</p> <p>So let’s narrow  it down further to one of the most constraining story-based media I can think of for presenting character, online video games.  Generally, each player creates a character to interact with other characters and the game environment.  There is no real backstory, the character can only take the standard actions allowed by the game, the tools for expressing emotion are awkward at best and interactive dialogue is frequently (although not inherently) limited to things like “Where are we going,” and “Hey! You got me killed!”</p> <p>So what tools do you have to make your online character stand out? To make him or her a person and not just an icon? And, of course, can these tools be applied back to writing and other media?</p> <p>There are three major things you have when creating a character for an online game.  First, there is usually some customizability in the character’s appearance.  Gender, apparent age, color, and, depending on the game, possibly species.  Second, there is usually some choice of occupation/role/abilities/archetype.  And finally, you get to name the character.</p> <p>Is that enough?  Actually, it’s a lot. I’ve created a lot of these characters over the last few years (because I often find making ‘em as much fun as playing them) and I’ve found that the ones that I stick with are the ones where the three elements (appearance, role/archetype, and name) come together well so that you immediately get some feel for the character.</p> <p>Let me give you some classic movie and TV examples.  Indiana Jones, adventuring archeologist, with his dusty leathers, hat, and whip.  Note the odd name, reminiscent of the pulp heroes of old.  How about James T. Kirk, starship captain, in his Starfleet uniform?  He shares with Indiana Jones the combination of a common name (James, Jones) and and unusual name (Indiana, Kirk).  And Kirk is such a short, sharp syllable. It’s a very strong name.  And there’s Luke Skywalker, who, despite being a farm boy, insists on wearing white.</p> <p>And I don’t see any reason not to name and describe characters in writing with the same degree of care. For a literary example, consider Miles Vorkosigan, created by Lois McMaster Bujold. He's got a great name (and on his planet, names beginning with Vor are significant,) a great visual and role (he's a dwarf soldier/aristocrat) and he wears a wide degree of uniforms, all chosen carefully for the occasion. There's a lot to him, even before you get inside his head.</p>Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-16614619113211680162012-03-06T06:34:00.002-08:002012-03-21T06:17:07.118-07:00Theme Repetition, or A Rant about Chris Claremont<p>One piece of advice I often hear given to writers is: Read. Read lots. Read lots of things. So I thought it might be fun to spend the next post or two reflecting on the various odd media that I ingest and what I might learn from them. Today I would like to reflect on how an author uses personal themes and tropes.</p> <p>I am currently reading, among other things, a Pulitzer prize winning novel and a series of comic books. So let’s talk about the comic books.  I am currently reading <em>X-Men Forever</em> and boy howdy, has someone let Chris Claremont off his leash.</p> <p>Perhaps I had better explain that.  Chris Claremont was (quite deservedly) one of the rising stars of the American superhero comics industry in the late seventies and early eighties. He wrote a lot of titles, including a small, floundering book called the X-Men, which he (along with artists Dave Cockrum and John Byrne) elevated to the status of Marvel’s flagship title. </p> <p>Along the way he explored some themes and ideas that were just beginning to show up in the genre – the potentially corrupting influence of great power,  heroes and villains switching sides, heroes having to fight other heroes (not in the silly misunderstandings already common in the genre but in deadly earnest), heroes being transformed and having to readjust to who they are now, heroic sacrifices and unexpected character deaths, strange and unexpected turns in the heroes’ love lives, and a  focus on the female characters becoming increasingly more powerful.</p> <p>Flash forward to 2009.  Claremont has long since left the X-Men for other titles, and even taken a break from comics to pen a few novels. Wherever he’s worked, he’s continued to explore the ideas he helped pioneer back in the X-Men.  And then someone has a great idea – let’s publish a comic series showing what the X-Men would have been if Claremont had never left the book. Pick right up where he left off.</p> <p>And now we get to the part about writing: it’s not wrong to work with certain themes, motifs, ideas and all, but they can become a trap. You see, <em>X-Men Forever</em> has a slight problem: it’s all Claremont’s established themes and ideas, all the the time.  Heroes and villains switching sides? Got five of ‘em.  Transformations? At least three. Unexpected character deaths? Start right up in the second issue. Heroes fighting heroes in deadly earnest?  All the bloody time.  And all the rest, too.</p> <p>Authors naturally write about what interests them.  We like to explore themes and use plot tricks we think are entertaining. And if we are lucky enough to be well established and have a fan following (which, let’s be fair, describes Claremont but not me) it is likely due, at least in part, because our readers like the paths we choose to explore.</p> <p>I have, over the years, noticed repeating ideas in my work. I have several romantic pieces based on the idea that true love is a crock and you don’t get a happy ending unless you work for it.  My novels all touch on the responsibility of power and the consequences of its misuse.</p> <p>So how do we know when to stop?  When are we approaching an idea from a new perspective or when are we just repeating ourselves? I wish I knew.  But I suspect we start by acknowledging the problem.</p> <p>Tune in next time when I explore what I’ve observed about character development from playing online games.</p>Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-4649073100725337172012-02-22T06:02:00.002-08:002012-02-22T06:06:45.327-08:00Creative Imagination<p>I’ve been thinking about imagination, about the creative process. I can’t speak for anyone else, but my inner dream life has changed a bit over the years.  </p> <p>When  I was a child, as the Good Book says, I spoke and I thought as a child.  My daydreams and flights of fancy were very direct.  When I was small, I was the hero of my stories.  In my mind, I rode off on quests, sailed among the stars, rescued the obligatory kids from the burning building (notice how its never adults in the burning building?), and fought the villains personally. </p> <p>Now, more often than not, I’m not the hero – I’m the narrator.  I think about how I would tell, write, or otherwise present the tale even as it is unfolding in my imagination.  How would I present this in dialogue for a play? What narrative voice would I use for a novel? And for my fellow nerds out there, how would I run this as a game?</p> <p>It’s true – the story is still interesting, even if I envision it in page layouts.</p> <p>Some interesting things happened in the transition as I moved from hero to storyteller.  Character diversity for one thing.  Not being the lead allows for characters who don’t have to be me.  Multiple characters, characters with different points of view, characters that don’t have to agree with one another.</p> <p>And structure: while I am not likely to daydream a full and complete novel, I can extend beyond a single scene, knowing the moment currently in my head is the set up or foreshadowing of a pay off that would occur in a later scene.</p> <p>And failure: since the hero is no longer an avatar of me personally, it is a little easier to give him (or her, now) failings and incomplete resolutions and less immediate goals.</p> <p>I don’t know if this is a unique pathology, or if all creative artists take a similar journey, or even if everyone, simply because of our familiarity with stories, follows this sort of path as they grow.  Perhaps, as we grow, we incorporate the lessons we learn into our stories – new ideas like the growing awareness of others as thinking and feeling people in their own right or the knowledge that life isn’t all successes and happy endings.</p> <p>Or maybe it’s just me.</p>Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-24120860569599838832012-01-23T19:19:00.001-08:002012-01-23T19:36:10.303-08:00Something Everybody Wants<p>In my last installment, we considered a plot structure in which a character desires more than one thing, seeks more than one goal.  It’s a handy trick that not only provides character depth, but also almost guarantees conflict.</p> <p>It occurred to me later that it might be worth looking at the trick in reverse – what happens when multiple characters all want the same thing?  The potential for conflict is obvious…</p> <p>There’s a classic American comedy film directed by Stanley Kramer called <em>It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.  </em>The movie revolves around about a dozen characters who are all given a hint as to the hidden location of $350,000 in stolen cash.  (It’s a 1963 movie – that was a lot of money back then.) Do the characters cooperate and agree to split the money?  Of course not.</p> <p>When everybody wants something at the expense of someone else, conflict is inevitable.  The prize doesn’t have to be cash – it can be love, recognition, a scholarship, a place in the sun. The point is, our hero isn’t the only one striving for the prize. The question becomes not just what does your character want, but what will he or she be willing to compete for?  And how  far will he or she go to get it?</p> <p>The rule of this type of story is this – only one wins the prize.  You can’t split a gold medal and your audience will feel cheated if you try.</p> <p>But if we, as writers, can make our readers care about more than one of the characters seeking the goal, if we can make it uncertain who is going to finally win, if we can sympathize with the losers as well as the victors – well, that sounds like a darn good story to me.</p>Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-87263195670446920432012-01-10T05:52:00.000-08:002012-01-10T06:26:17.792-08:00Everybody Wants Something.There is a classic bit of writer's advice you will probably run into if you spend any amount of time looking for that sort of advice -- the story starts with somebody wanting something. <br /><br />It can be anything, as long as somebody seriously wants it. It can be as simple as a desire to restore honor to the family name or as terrifying and difficult as trying to impress a pretty girl.<br /><br />It's a basic recipe. The character's desires help define the character. The character's actions to achieve the desire move the plot along. The obstacles to that desire create conflict. Overcoming conflict provides resolution. Character + Conflict + Resolution = Story.<br /><br />I was recently reminded of an interesting variation on the recipe. I was watching Joss Whedon's short musical <span style="font-style:italic;">Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog</span>. It's a nicely structured little story. But it starts with a clever twist to the recipe above. It starts with a character who wants two somethings.<br /><br />This simple variation opens up a wealth of possibilities. The two desires can conflict, to start with. Maybe coming closer to one goal moves the other further away. Or maybe a great opportunity to achieve the second goal arrives right in the middle of delicately timed preparations for the first goal. These conflicts force the character to constantly choose which desire to pursue. It becomes a much greater task to achieve both.<br /><br />This variation also makes the outcome less predictable. The most common resolution of the classic recipe is that the character gets what he or she wants. But when the character wants more than one thing, then our hero can both win and lose. Or both goals can be achieved. Or the resolution can ultimately turn on the making of a choice as the protagonist learns what he or she really needs.<br /><br />It can be argued that almost all fiction writing is formulaic. Who cares, as long as the story is good? And writers will keep playing with the formula. What comes to your mind if I say the character wants five things? That's a good start on a nested quest -- kill the ogre to get the magic sword to face the dragon to rescue the princess to save the kingdom... But it would also make a good farce. The guy who inherits a million if he gets married before the end of the month but he is juggling five girlfriends, none of which will marry him if they find out about the other women in his life...<br /><br />So, you want to start a story? Tell me what your character wants.Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-20118888675723882222011-12-31T23:07:00.000-08:002011-12-31T23:09:08.249-08:00Inertia Momentum ResolutionUmm.. Hi, It’s been awhile. I haven’t blogged in three months or so. I have lots of excuses, which we will get to in the next paragraph, but really, that’s all they are. Excuses. The first thing about writing is this – just do it. Today’s lesson is about the perils of stopping.<br /><br />I used to write on the bus going to work. But I don’t bus to work anymore because my wife works now and we carpool. So I didn’t have my allotted writing hour. Still, in three months, you’d think I’d work something out. Mind you, they have been busy months, full of family and medical and travel and employment concerns.<br /><br />Like I said, excuses. Here’s the thing: I stopped and got out of the habit. I let my life and my imagination fill up with other stuff. Science teaches us that objects at rest tend to remain at rest and that there is a factor called inertia that must be overcome to set an object into motion.<br /><br />This is why writers dread blocks. This is why I love having deadlines. Whatever you are writing, it won’t get done if you don’t start and it won’t get done if you don’t continue. There is often a point in any project where the writer thinks “This is all crap!” and is tempted to stop. But there is also a point, if you write long enough, where the project starts to built around you and finishing is exciting.<br /><br />Objects in motion tend to remain in motion. Get in motion.<br /><br />I’m writing this on the last day of the year 2011. I’m writing this because I asked myself for a New Years Resolution. I am writing this because I don’t know where my blog will take me in 2012, but once again I am excited to find out.Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-62005320263917859332011-09-22T21:52:00.001-07:002012-01-23T19:22:24.740-08:00What’s My Motivation?<p>I’ve been thinking about character motivation. I don’t think I need to sell anyone on the notion that believable characters act in consistent, understandable ways. That it is not good for a story when the reader says, “I don’t believe that character would ever do that.”</p> <p>In life, however, we rarely know why anyone does anything. People don’t actually expound freely on their motivations, their decision making process. And some decisions can seem pretty strange.</p> <p>It has also be noted that it can be good for a story when characters do surprising things.  So if characters can and should do the unexpected and if it is realistic to never truly know the motivations of others, it follows that the author shouldn’t really worry too much about characters behaving consistently, right?</p> <p>Wrong, unfortunately. It would be a lot easier if the characters could always just do whatever the plot requires, but no. One of the things we do in life, perhaps as a survival mechanism, is try to get to know people. One of the pleasures of reading or watching movies and TV is using our getting-to-know muscles on fictitious people.</p> <p>Authors have been known to speak about characters taking on lives of their own, making choices and taking actions outside the plot laid out for them. This occurs when the author has taken enough time in contemplation of the character to get to know them enough that certain choices seem, well, out of character.</p> <p>And what’s really magic is when, through the character’s perspective, the author comes to choices and decisions that would never even have occurred to him or her otherwise.</p> <p>When your characters want to jump a certain way, let them. Don’t force them in a mold to fit the plot. Because if their actions seem off to you, their creator, how can you sell them to an audience?</p> <p>A NOTE ABOUT THE BLOG: I write this blog on the bus to work. Due to a (happy!) change in my employment circumstance, I will not be bussing to work much longer. I’m not sure what this will do to how often I blog. We will have to see what works out.</p>Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-72262784348495364122011-09-07T21:17:00.001-07:002011-09-07T21:17:40.163-07:00Working Backwards<p>In the last three installments, I played around with building a story out of various pieces – a setting here, a conflict there, couple of characters – with the intention of showing how none of the individual pieces were enough to be story by themselves.</p> <p>Today I’d like to take another approach.  If the point of art is to express something, to make your audience feel, then why not start at the point? In stories this is usually done through conflicts, through the risks the characters take and the decisions they face.</p> <p>There are some concepts (regardless of how they are presented – scenes, images, conflicts, etc.) that we can expect most people to respond to strongly. Children in peril, for example. There are other concepts that, human individuality being what it is, that different people will respond to differently.  Say a cold glass of iced tea. It’s great if the weather is hot and you happen to like tea.</p> <p>You want to include concepts in your narrative that people will respond to. But it most stories aren’t all children in peril, all the time. But the less universal the interest point, the more you have to build around it.  If you want to focus on that glass of ice tea, for example, you should probably also provide the hot day (a setting element) and someone who could really use a cup of tea (a character element) and possibly even some additional background. </p> <p>What we are doing here is starting with an interest point and then working backwards to insert the elements that help sell that interest to the reader. All stories are contrivance and all stories contain conflict but it is never good for your conflict to feel contrived to the reader.</p> <p>So if you have a really good, interesting conflict, perhaps somewhere in between <em>my child is in danger! </em>and <em>I could sure use some iced tea,</em> the next step is to construct the narrative elements that lead naturally to that conflict so that it doesn’t feel like it’s just been dropped into the story like a falling piano in a cartoon.</p> <p>Sure, there are events in life that feel that sudden to the people they impact, but remember that your characters are only one element of your story.  A bomb going off can be every bit as stunning as it should be to your protagonist, even if your readers saw the bomb planted by the antagonist several pages ago. And better still if we’ve spent enough time with the villain to believe he or she really would resort to explosives.</p> <p>All of this is really a way of saying you can work backwards, if you like. Start with a scene you’d like to have and then consider everything that is required to make the scene work, building the elements from the needs of the story instead of drawing the story from the elements.</p> <p>I have a tendency to work in both directions. But as I have said before and will no doubt say again, every author is different, so play around with the tools and find what works for you. No one cares what tools you use to fix the sink – they care if the sink works.</p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-76675122631805869422011-08-26T20:15:00.001-07:002011-08-26T20:15:13.716-07:00Setting, Situation, Scene… Part Three – The Conclusion<p>Once, as a child, I read a very forgettable book with a memorable bit in it. I don’t remember the book at all, but I remember this: one of the child heroes (it was a kid’s book, after all) was in the middle of a Lassie movie when the call to action came. When he whined about missing the end of his movies, one of his friends pointed out that we all knew how it ended. Lassie saves the day.</p> <p>Yeah, the first kid replies, but I wanted to see <em>how</em>.</p> <p>In my previous two posts, I pulled together the elements of a story. We have an interesting setting, some character interaction, an intriguing situation, and even some nice conflict. </p> <p>Will our heroes risk their jobs and possibly even their position in time and space in order to expose their employer’s dangerous experiments? And how will the odd, one-sided romance angle play out?</p> <p>If you think about it, gentle reader, you probably already know the answers to those questions. I mean, it’s not like you haven’t been exposed to stories before. Of course our heroes will pursue both the dangerous truth and the romance. Wouldn’t be much of a story if they didn’t.</p> <p>But, if I write it all up well, hopefully you will want to stick around to see <em>how</em> they reach those answers.  To be a story, to be a good and satisfying story, beguiling the reader or viewer or audience with all the fun bits isn’t enough. It’s just a start.</p> <p>But the story has to resolve. To reach a conclusion. To reach a good conclusion consistent with and worthy of what has gone before. And your audience has to care enough to follow you there.</p> <p>And if I knew all the secrets to making that happen I’d be rich and famous. But I tell you this: it can be done.</p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-91140907168323514122011-08-18T06:13:00.001-07:002011-08-18T06:13:35.688-07:00Setting, Situation, Scene, Story (Part Two)<p>Today’s entry will make more sense if you’ve read Part One, which should still be available for review. Fair warning, and all.</p> <p>So we have lots of samples of settings and situations, and even the start of a scene, but no story. But these are elements used in stories – so can we make a viable story from them? </p> <p>I’d start with the scene because it has a pair of characters in it. Stories always involve characters. Always. Sure, I could tell the story of Olympic National Park, and I could tell it with conflict and excitement, but only if I can make you care about the park.  Make its successes and failures important to you.  At which point, it is a character. Never said they had to be human.</p> <p>Our two characters from the previous blog are Frank and Angie. They’ve only just met, but she is madly in love with him. Awkward.  I need a place (possibly more, but let’s start with one) for their scene, and ultimately their story, to take place. Looking at the various settings I proposed before, I think I’ll take the weird office with the clones in the Mail Room.</p> <p>I note that the reception staff are telepathic. So if I make Angie a receptionist, it starts to explain her falling for Frank before being introduced. But I also want something else going on, so they can explore their one-sided relationship in the midst of dealing with the crisis<em> du jour</em>.  From my list of situations, I choose the intriguing Charlie Brown lunch box on Mars.</p> <p>But that’s a mystery, not a conflict. I need something that involves the characters and impels them into action.</p> <p>How’s this? The weird office – let’s call it Mad Science Inc. – found the lunch box while doing commission work for NASA, processing Mars Rover data. Unfortunately, the lunch box got there due to an illegal and dangerous time/space distortion experiment conducted by, you guessed it, Mad Science Inc.</p> <p>Frank is a low pay scale data guy who notices that the info being fed to NASA has been tinkered with. He gets to discover what’s going on, become involved in a cover up, and make a moral choice whether to risk his job by blowing the whistle (or maybe risk his life – there’s some strange and scary stuff behind the doors of our Mad Science company), and he gets to do it all while being trailed by a love-sick, telepathic receptionist.</p> <p>That’s better. Conflict, character, moral decisions, action. Much better. Still not a story, though. We’ve got all the pieces, we’ve started assembling the puzzle, what’s still missing?</p> <p>Join us next time for part three, the conclusion.</p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-54238822226670259632011-08-12T18:49:00.001-07:002011-08-18T06:16:50.592-07:00Setting, Situation, Scene, Story (Part One)<p>There are a lot of entertainments I concoct in the idle fancies of my delirious mind. I’m a fantasy guy, no question.</p> <p>Sometimes I dream a world like our own, but somewhat askew. What would the world be like, I wonder, if there were licensed, professional wizards? How would they dress? What would we hire them for? Or, I ask myself, what would the world be like after some great, unexpected transformative event? And sometimes I work on a smaller scale, my wonders to create. What would be the weirdest job office I can think of? Where the mail room staff are all clones of the same person and the receptionists are telepathic.</p> <p>And sometimes I’m more amused by setting up a mystery, or a puzzle. An unmanned Mars probe finds a Charlie Brown lunch box.  A homeless man in Detroit stumbles across a corpse that is not entirely human.</p> <p>And, probably because I have script-writing experience, I spin out encounters and moments of dialogue.</p> <p>   ANGIE: I just what you to know… I’m madly in love with you.</p> <p>   FRANK: Uh, okay. Hi, I’m Frank, by the way.</p> <p>  ANGIE: Angie. Pleased to meet you.</p> <p>I could spin that into a full-blow sequence of events, with humor and clever interactions. I could easily waste an afternoon on it, if I had one to spare.</p> <p>The  problem, from a writer’s perspective, is that none of these things are stories. They are, in order, settings, situations, and scenes. That they all suggest stories is wonderful. They are starters, if you will, story seeds.</p> <p>But your audience, be they readers or viewers or listeners, didn’t come for the tease. They didn’t come for anything less than the full show.</p> <p>So next time we’ll discuss how to give it to them.</p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-11135829343131579052011-07-23T07:40:00.001-07:002011-07-23T07:40:31.272-07:00Ella Sings<p>Does the world really need one more vampire story?</p> <p>Before I answer that question, let me break into a seemingly irrelevant anecdote that will, of course, turn out to be a useful analogy.</p> <p>I was sitting at my computer the other day and I decided to search for some music. I ended up on You Tube, like one does, and I found some old concert footage of Bobby Darin singing “Mack the Knife.” I noticed that one of the comments posted under the video, stating that only Bobby Darin could really do the song justice – other performers just didn’t get the timing.</p> <p>I thought that was a particularly inane thing to say. The song in question has been performed by Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra and, believe it or not, Jimmy Buffet. You honestly mean to say that none of these professional, established, highly accomplished and very talented musicians can get the timing on a song?</p> <p>The point is, the other performers had their own ideas. They probably had the skills to do a Bobby Darin impersonation, but why would they do that? They chose not to be Bobby Darin (or, in at least some of the cases, Bobby Darin probably chose not to be them – I’m not sure of the chronology). I mean really, would you rather hear Ella Fitzgerald belt a song out of the park as Ella or hear her do a pale imitation of someone else?</p> <p>Does the world need another vampire story? Or another romance novel?  Or another television show following the adventures of a starship crew?  Another urban paranormal detective?</p> <p>It needs at least one more: Yours. </p> <p>But only if it really is yours, and not a poor rendition of someone else’s work.  The world doesn’t need a Bobby Darin wannabe. Or, I guess, maybe a  Steven King wannabe. </p> <p>Artists use the same tools.  Writers reiterate themes and genres and metaphors the way musicians cover songs.  No sin there. Sometimes it’s even good that the audience is aware of the conventions of the genre, familiar with the style. </p> <p>But everyone has their own unique perspective, too.  Trying to be someone else is no way to succeed in art.  At best, it’s a useful learning exercise.  But I’m never going to buy an imitation when the original master is still publishing at the same price.  Who would?</p> <p>Today’s inspirational message was brought to you by the letter M and the numbers one and three.</p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-73010462855430214072011-07-14T22:02:00.001-07:002011-07-14T22:02:19.314-07:00The Unwritten Stuff<p>It is a truism that writers tend to develop more information about their characters and setting than actually appears in the story.  And, it is said, this process improves the story, even though the missing data is never visible to the audience. That’s the mystery part – the characters and settings become more rich, consistent, and real, even though we don’t see everything they are consistent with. (And yes, I know I just ended a sentence with a preposition. I do that. I also start sentences with conjunctions.)</p> <p>For my part, I hate working out detailed backstory. I prefer a more generalized origin story that can be summed up in a few sentences. That’s because I like leeway. I know that, as an author, I am not required to stick to the notes that my reader will never see, but I like the feeling of flexibility. I guess, really, I like not having the decision made until I know what the story demands.</p> <p>Once a decision is made, it feels concrete, even though nothing is set in stone until the story is finished and the final edits are done. And even then you have to be ready for a publisher or an agent to request changes.</p> <p>If I decide my character has green skin, by way of a simple, ordinary, down-to-earth example, then I tend to think of my character as, well, green. The character is subject to Kermit the Frog jokes and has an excuse not to eat broccoli. Of course I can re-write the character blue, and I will if the story demands, but it is harder than you would think, because in my head, green is the color.</p> <p>I also find that detailed facts are often less interesting to me than personality. So when I do need a backstory, I don’t generally work out details like Bob enlisted as soon as he turned 18.  Instead, I tend to think what would Bob say if someone asked about when he enlisted. “Soon as I could,” maybe, or “When I was young and idealistic,” or, “If I’d know they’d move me out of Nowheresville, I’d have lied about my age and joined up sooner.” I learn more about my characters that way.</p> <p>Anyway, that’s what works for me. Some writers used detailed outlines. Some write organically, looking to see what happens next. I think there is some benefit to having a road map, but maybe it should be a new-fangled electronic one that moves the landmarks as new data is entered.</p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-16322889343390595272011-07-01T17:55:00.001-07:002011-07-01T17:55:05.053-07:00Peeves on a Leash<p>It startles me that, in this modern and enlightened age, I have read professionally published novels with <em>Deus ex Machina</em> endings. I mean, there are still editors, right?</p> <p>I once heard an author at a convention say that one of the big things that gets people into trying to write professionally, for whatever medium, is when they look at something and say “I could do better than that!”</p> <p>Generally, I suspect they find that writing well is harder than it looks. But at least they know which mistakes they are not going to make.</p> <p>So what are your pet peeves when it comes to storytelling? What tropes drive you nuts? Me, I’m getting awfully tired of the idiot listening to loud music through headphones who fails to hear the carnage and screaming from right behind him. We’ve all seen that movie, right?</p> <p>And I don’t like it when a character makes a promise and the reader knows instantly that the story will be set up to make him or her break the promise.</p> <p>And the <em>Deus ex</em>, of course. Any contrivance so old it’s name dates back to classical antiquity should be probably be avoided.</p> <p>But it’s all personal taste, isn’t it? There are some tropes that I’ve seen as often as the idiot in headphones and they still work for me every time.  </p> <p>Crafting a story is  an art based on choices, on making decision after decision after decision. And consciously or not, the tricks you’ve seen before are in your head, part of your storytelling arsenal. </p> <p>Use them wisely.</p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-21368415981429676662011-06-16T06:18:00.001-07:002011-06-16T06:18:17.223-07:00Irons in the Fire<p>How much stuff do you work on at once? When I’m deep in a project, like the play script I wrote in April, that commands most of my focus. Deadlines also help – the challenge was to finish the play before the end of the month.</p> <p>Now, two months later, I’m a little out of focus. A little fuzzy around the edges. Here is what is currently going on – I have an idea for a very short theater piece for an Society for Creative Anachronism event coming up in the fall, I have a new novel idea I’m working on based on a creative challenge from my wife, and I have an unfinished web comic script for my sister-in-law. Not to mention the other usual bits of creativity and weirdness that typically occupy my mind.</p> <p>I don’t know that human creativity is necessarily a limited pool. Spending it here doesn’t mean you will have none left to spend there.  But let’s be real – your time is a limited pool.  And actually working on a project takes time. So, how many irons can you have in the fire at once? For me, things get done when they are given  priority.</p> <p>So, based on my previous experiences with my own brain, this is what I predict will happen: The play script will jump up in priority after I figure out when it is due – i.e., what is the date of the event and how much lead time before that will be required to mount the production? The play is short and will probably be finished in a comparatively short time.</p> <p>The novel suffers from the opposite problem. It isn’t short and I don’t expect to finish it soon. I predict the novel to be worked on in intermittent bursts of creativity as cooler versions of scenes present themselves, causing me to re-think and rewrite the little bit I’ve already done.  I hope to eventually achieve a kind of critical mass, where ideas lead to ideas and a the old snowball-rolling-downhill effect occurs.  There is a certain point, if I can reach it, where successfully completing the work becomes exciting on its own.</p> <p>Not sure about the web comic script – I suspect there will be some outside demand from that quarter coming down the line.</p> <p>Authors tend to bitch about deadlines, but they have a certain value. Its the things that I need to get done that I do get done. So here’s a bit of writing advice to round out this otherwise overly personal blog entry – if you are having trouble getting motivated to finish your story, try promising it to someone else. Set a realistic, achievable deadline and tell someone about it. Find a way to make it a priority.</p> <p>Now I just need to take my own advice.</p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-81891425318405011912011-05-31T17:42:00.001-07:002011-05-31T17:47:07.705-07:00The Two Deaths of Andrew Dolbeck<p>There are two types of character death in fiction. (No, actually there are probably thousands. But there is a division of two that I would like to discuss. And while we are being parenthetical, today’s writing lesson can apply to more than death – feel free to substitute any dramatic plot event.) Let us call them the story-driven death and the reality emulating death.</p> <p>The story-driven death suits the story. No surprise there. The deadly event occurs at just the right point in the plot, it fits the themes of the work, it advances the progression of the surviving characters. </p> <p>There are many classic examples – the person who has done wrong, seeking redemption, dies saving the lives of others. Or, for a twist, the pure and good hero dies saving the person who has done wrong, adding value to their redemption quest. And let us not forget the mentor figure who dies in the middle of the classic Hero’s Journey. Or the passing of the sword from one generation to the next. In horror movies, the character that invents or unleashes the evil force is typically on the to-be-killed list.</p> <p>You’ve seen these stories before – you know the drill.  And that’s part of the problem. Story-driven deaths can be effective and moving, but they can also be predictable.</p> <p>I personally favor action genres, with cops and detectives and space pilots and characters who, for no reason, wear bright spandex costumes while fighting crime. These characters operate in dangerous worlds. In such worlds, death should strike unexpectedly. It should not be predictable.</p> <p>Which brings us to the reality emulating death. The argument here is simple: people die. In real life, no one dies to suit the plot. Death occurs on its own time.  </p> <p>There are benefits to having this kind of death in your story. In most fiction, a certain degree of willing suspension of disbelief is required. Having people dodge bullets all day without consequence doesn’t exactly make that suspension any easier. </p> <p>The reality emulating death also makes a statement about hazardous environments. In war people die. People die unfairly and unexpectedly in space, in unsanitary conditions, and in the bad part of town.</p> <p>And once a well loved character dies unexpectedly, outside what we believe to be the rhythm and structure of the plot, all bets are off. No one is safe. Anything can happen.  And that’s a fun place for the author to have the reader.</p> <p>On the other hand, we don’t always want our fictions to be as haphazard and meaningless as our real lives. Character deaths that do not sync with the story may seem arbitrary and forced. Or, depending on the story, too harsh.</p> <p>Of course, every reader will have a different opinion. In the end, as always, you need to weigh carefully what suits your story. </p> <p>Because your readers certainly will.</p>Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-17232635055122706732011-05-20T17:49:00.001-07:002011-05-20T17:49:49.160-07:00The Meaning of It All<p>The first advice writers are often given is: just do it. Write. Get the words down on paper or the electronic media of your choice. Good advice, but it leads directly to the more difficult questions, like what do I want to write?</p> <p>In my time I’ve written poetry, research papers, novels, non-fiction, stage plays, and even, Heaven forgive me, a small amount of advertising copy. And for all of these things, there are techniques and structures available that have stood the test of time. </p> <p>My personal preference, in whatever format, is to tell a story. And if you go back and look at some of my earliest posts on this blog, you’ll see I’ve given a lot of thought to the elements of story – characters, plot, resolution, stuff like that. But lately I’ve had another concern:</p> <p>Do I actually have anything to say?</p> <p>That is, do I , as the artist, have anything to convey about life, society, or the human condition? It’s not required, of course. I’m an unashamed escapist with a preference for action, adventure, and the occasional mindless explosion.</p> <p>And it’s not that I think my works are devoid of artistic merit. I’ve examined themes of sexual identity, power and responsibility, and the concerns of mortality, just to name a few.</p> <p>But I never start with the message. I’m a language guy – I tend to start with the tone and feel of the piece. With how I want the words to sound. And I start with story. With the likeable characters and the conflict and plot.</p> <p>I don’t have an axe to grind. I don’t have an agenda.</p> <p>And sometimes I can’t help thinking that maybe my works would be stronger if I did.</p> <p>Or maybe not. Maybe it is better to expect readers to want to be entertained (and maybe take home a little message with their fun) than to expect readers to want a message disguised as their entertainment.</p> <p>But still, at the end of the day, I hope my works will somehow stand up as art.</p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-62637056001303898212011-05-05T20:49:00.001-07:002011-05-05T20:49:50.821-07:00Getting Tense<p>A writing friend asked me the other day about whether she should continue to write her novel in the present tense. Since I put a bit of thought into my answer, I’m going to recycle it here for the benefit of my readers.</p> <p>First, let me start by acknowledging that the past tense is the standard default setting. I suspect it dates back to oral tradition – stories recount events that have already occurred, so we tell them in the past tense. It sounds natural to the ear, where the present tense may stand out and be distracting.</p> <p>It is also not necessary to use the present tense to convey urgency or immediacy. Many can’t-put-‘em-down page turners have been written in the past tense.</p> <p>This doesn’t mean the present tense is inherently wrong. But like any tool in the writer’s kit, it should be used to build a better story. Is there a reason for the present tense? My third novel has two running timelines, one past and one current, so I use both the present and past tenses to keep them clear to the reader. </p> <p>Another trick might be to use the present tense for dream sequences or for when the narrative is told from the perspective of an animal, a space alien, or some other notably unusual point of view.</p> <p>Nothing is wrong if it makes the story better, but there is a balancing act.  Any deviation, any trick, any clever bit of writing, needs to be judged carefully, weighing the benefit it brings to the work against any confusion or distraction it may bring the reader.</p> <p>I have read more than one well-written, professionally published novel written entirely in second person narration, which just goes to show that weird stuff can be done and done well.</p> <p>So my advice on using the present tense is: Know why you are using it and check occasionally to be sure it’s really working for you. </p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-30918460062639069232011-04-27T17:57:00.001-07:002011-04-27T18:00:59.367-07:00Outlines and Writing Sequence<p>Oh my, I haven’t really blogged much in April, have I?  I’ve been busy. Remember the Script Frenzy challenge to write 100 pages of script in April? Despite taking four days off for Norwescon and catching a killer cold, I managed to complete a stage play. </p> <p>It’s a first draft. Like all first drafts, it will require review and revision. But it’s done. At 79 pages. </p> <p>It was an interesting writing experience. I wrote final scene first, because I knew how it had to end. Then I wrote the first scene, because certain things had to be established for the final scene to work. Then I wrote some stuff in the middle, in no particular order. Then I wrote the scene that came before the first scene and then the scene that came after the final scene.</p> <p>A lot of writers start with outlines. Obviously, I’m not one of them. But I had created such a cluster that I had to impose order on it. So, rather than outline what I needed to write, I went back and outlined what I had already written (which, incidentally, told me what I still needed to write).</p> <p>What I  learned from the exercise was that my story had three distinct problems arising from the order of the scenes. </p> <p>The first was sequence.  Characters cannot act on information before they receive it and problems cannot be resolved before they occur. This was the most obvious problem.</p> <p>A little more subtle was the issue of timing.  In one case, I had a character told she could not return to work until she had solved a certain problem. At the start of the very next scene, she returned to work with a clever solution. It was in the right sequence, but it happened too fast. It just doesn’t seem like much of a problem when the audience only experiences five minutes of real time before it gets resolved.</p> <p>And finally, there was the problem of flow – how one scene proceeds into the next.  It’s easy to cut between scenes on the stage with a blackout or a curtain, but cutting from a pair of characters on one set to the same pair of characters on the same set may not flow as well as other transitions.</p> <p>This is part of the fun of working in different formats. All of these lessons can apply to the construction of any type of story, but they were easy to see while I was writing for the stage.</p>Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-48719917203564263982011-04-12T17:50:00.001-07:002011-04-12T17:50:18.076-07:00A Clever Word Avoidance Strategy<p>Short blog because I’m already behind on Script Frenzy.  The title of my play has changed, by the way.  I kept looking at <em>The Souls Academy</em> and thinking “Souls” looked like it wanted to be possessive, when the original intent was for it to be plural.  The current working title, still subject to change, is <em>The Apocalypse According to Saint Michelle of the Coffee Shop.</em></p> <p>Today’s writing lesson is in how not to be trite.  Or maybe it’s about word choice.  I’m writing a play about religious themes, but I don’t want to talk directly about things like “the healing power of love" because frankly it will make the audience wince.  </p> <p>So I am actively avoiding certain words.  For “love,” for example, I’m talking about understanding and kindness. It’s less ambiguous anyway.  And, like with the sonnets I discussed a few blogs back, it forces me to expand my vocabulary.</p> <p>Another trick I’m using is hiding key words amongst words of lesser importance.  Forgiveness is a major theme of the play – more so than love, actually.  So I don’t want to beat the audience over the head with it, especially early on.  So instead of saying “you need to forgive him,” I say things like “forget him, forgive him, or whatever you need to move past him…” The concept is still in there, but it is far less obtrusive.</p> <p>And yes, authors worry about stuff like this all the time. Believe it or not, it’s part of the fun.</p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-77154776163183828812011-04-01T17:45:00.001-07:002011-04-01T17:45:17.579-07:00Staging the Next April Project<p>It’s April 1st as i write this.  In addition to being April Fool’s Day, it’s the start of Script Frenzy, the script writing challenge from the wacky folks that brought you Nanowrimo.</p> <p>I wasn’t going to do the Frenzy this year, but then I remembered an idea for the ending of a play that I’ve had in my head for several years. </p> <p>I’m going to have to start with the ending and write backwards.  (Back…words?)  Wish me luck.</p> <p>I’m also going to need to figure out where the play is set.  I have action and characters, but no backdrop.  This is important for stage plays – every change in location requires a set change, which requires the theater to spend time and money.</p> <p>Many modern plays revel in set changes – the elaborate sets and fancy changes are part of the spectacle.  And also part of the ticket price.</p> <p>And on the other end of the spectacle spectrum, there is bare stage.  Shakespeare is largely written for the bare stage – the actors come in and simply announce where they are and the audience goes with it.  My, the Forest of Arden is lovely this time of year.  (Amusingly, <em>A Chorus Line,</em> famous for its big musical production numbers, is also written for bare stage.)</p> <p>So I’m going to start writing now.  My work is tentatively entitled <em>The Souls Academy: A Blasphemy in Two Acts.  </em>I don’t really know yet if it will really be two acts.</p> <p>But I’m fairly certain about the blasphemy part.</p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-27162659512899712312011-03-23T18:13:00.001-07:002011-03-23T18:13:18.760-07:00Perspective Matters<p>A fictitious character walks up to you and says, “The other day I saw two birds in flight, one below the other.  The further from me they flew, the closer together they came, until at last, in the distance, they merged into a single bird.”</p> <p>How would you respond? My first thought is “You’re farsighted.  You should get glasses.”  But I’m not you and that is very important.  </p> <p>How would people from other times and places have responded?  Perhaps “You are seeing double.  You should drink less ale.”  Or, “Your vision is  a terrible omen.  You should be burned at the stake.”  Or, “You have seen the bird’s spirit flying beside it.  You should study under the tribal shaman.”</p> <p>The point that I am so subtly bludgeoning here is that everyone’s answer is based on their knowledge, their culture, their perspective.  This is particularly important for fictitious people, who carry the burden of illustrating their world to their readers.</p> <p>The culture and perspective of the characters impacts not only how they see the world, but the choices they make and the words they use.  And it is not just something that authors need to consider in terms of character.  It can inform even the word choices and language of the work.</p> <p>I am told that the use of the word “focus” to mean concentration – focusing on a problem, focusing one’s energies – is derived from the science of optics and is therefore a fairly modern term.  So a Stone Age sorcerer would not focus his magics.</p> <p>Now, you may be saying, that’s a bit nit-picky.  And you are right, it is.  There is a counter argument that states to be read and understood, the work needs to be in the language of the modern reader.  After all, to be truly authentic, any piece set far enough in the past should be linguistically incomprehensible to all but the most dedicated scholars.  And honestly, you want to sell to a wider readership than that.</p> <p>But the counter argument should not be used as an excuse to avoid any research or effort in fully depicting the perspective (and the world) of the character.  It’s more of a balancing act.  Accessible language and the portrayal of a foreign or fantastical perspective are not mutually exclusive.  It comes down to making writing choices – will this word choice support my story without confusing my reader?</p> <p>Hey, I’m sorry, but no one ever said writing was going to be easy.  But oddly enough, it can sometimes be a whole lot of fun.</p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7604252305284236341.post-85205997823663080922011-03-16T17:46:00.001-07:002011-03-16T17:46:00.744-07:00Secret Genre Identities<p>I written before about how genres are built up of conventions and expectations.  But times change and sometimes genres have to adapt to keep up.</p> <p>The obvious example would be the old cowboy movies that inspired a generation of children to play Cowboys and Indians.  Westerns today acknowledge the cultural complexity and diversity of Native Americans.  Besides, they were here first.</p> <p>And the role of women, in just about any genre, has changed a good deal since the 1950’s.  And the spy genre is still adapting to the end of the cold war.</p> <p>But it isn’t always the sledge hammer of political correctness.  Sometimes the changes are a little more subtle.  Sometimes the tropes just get tweaked a little, here and there.  In the current super-hero space, for example, the secret identity has been devalued.  It’s still there – it’s too central to the concept to toss aside, but it’s not the same.  </p> <p>You rarely see a story these days that centers around a hero’s close friend almost stumbling on the big secret.  Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne no longer pretend to be bumbling idiots just to contrast their super lives.  And where it used to be only one or maybe two at most knew a hero’s identity, now the secret is commonly shared.  Heroes call each other by their personal names.  Clark married Lois.  Heck, even Aunt May knows who Spider-Man is.</p> <p>There are a number of reasons for the change – we’re not really a culture that values humility and anonymity.  No one gets a promotion by being just another office drone.  And we live in an information age where personal privacy has become something that needs actively defending.  I think the heroes have adapted fairly well, considering such a central genre trope is no longer a good fit for the times and customs.</p> Andrew Dolbeckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08508539214148971741noreply@blogger.com0