Fiction Writing Demystified Read online

  In movies and TV, parallel action — or cross-cutting — is another way of describing the “meanwhile” scenes. Steve Cannell, creator of The Rockford Files, etc., and one of the best writers in television, used to have a sign on the wall above his desk which said just that, in large letters.

  WHAT ARE THE BAD GUYS DOING?

  Because in an action-adventure piece (which for whatever it may be worth are known generically in TV as Run-and-Jump Shows), we usually checkerboard our scenes, alternating between the hero’s moves, and those of the bad guys. As mentioned previously, writing to the money means never (or almost never) playing two scenes in a row that do not include your star, your protagonist. But in between, keep your opposition alive. What clever stuff are they plotting? What moves and counter-moves? How are they planning to achieve their ends while preventing your protagonist from reaching his or her goals? Even in literary fiction (as in “relationship” novels), such cross-cutting is essential. Obviously, choosing to write in first-person precludes the use of parallel action.

  Plot Devices: The Penny-Drop

  This is a device I hadn’t heard of till I began writing mysteries. Briefly defined, the penny-drop is that point in your tale where something significant dawns on one of your characters (commonly, the detective) — that moment-of-realization (as in the solution to the puzzle, or the solution to how to reach the solution). It’s valuable in other forms besides whodunnits — where it’s often the curtain line-orincident that forms the Second Act button.

  Sometimes the penny drop is triggered by something seen or heard. A word or phrase — a throwaway line uttered by one character that inadvertently causes the other to be reminded of a seemingly unrelated event or thought or observation. A piece of information that completes an equation, that causes certain earlier events or facts to connect, to suddenly make sense.

  When employed in TV mystery scripts (in virtually all of them), the penny drops for the sleuth at the instant he or she hears, sees, tastes, smells, touches or otherwise experiences something which — when combined (usually mentally) with a fact or facts gleaned earlier — tells the detective that till now, everyone in the show has been following false leads. Suddenly, the protagonist has it FIGURED OUT — if not all of it, most of it — and is off-and-running in the direction of the “Gotcha” scene, leaving the other characters, and the viewers, mystified as to what has been put together, how it has been accomplished, and where he or she plans to go with it. In Murder, She Wrote, several bars of music (known in-house as Jessica’s “Wheels-Turning Theme”) typically signified such moments.

  As with other such devices it’s important, even if the penny-drop is prompted for the protagonist by some lucky accident or coincidence, that most of the other elements of the equation are earned — the result of his or her doing.

  But if it’s your bad guy putting it together (for presumably evil purposes), this is not necessarily a requirement. For an antagonist to stumble upon, or otherwise fortuitously acquire pieces of whatever puzzle he or she is working on is sometimes okay — though solving it through intellect and/or cleverness means the heavy is smarter and consequently a more formidable opponent for your put-upon protagonist.

  Plot Devices: Coincidence

  Chance meetings or observations, inadvertently overheard information, the photograph or TV news clip that happens to include something significant-yet-not-central to the subject. Accidental acquisition of a maguffin or other key element. The telltale clue that just happens to be eyeballed by the sleuth, and more.

  Though in real life coincidences do occur, in fiction the pivotal kind that help protagonists — or antagonists — solve their weightier problems, have acquired a rather bad name. But, employed very selectively, they can be extremely useful tools for the fiction writer. As a guideline when it comes to TV scripts, my policy is to try to avoid them if possible, but in no case have more than one per show — particularly if that one contributes even in part to getting the protagonist to the goal-line. To some extent, it’s a judgment call. In longer pieces, such as novels or theatrical plays, the writer might consider employing multiple coincidences — but for me, fewer are better. And sometimes, what appears to be a coincidence — two people showing up at the same place at the same moment — can often have its curse reduced by their reasons for getting there.

  Plot Devices: Sounds

  Admittedly, sound — as a device — is somewhat difficult to use, and hence rare, in narrative storytelling. But there are applications that can work. One of the traditional ways to employ sound is the kidnap victim (or variation thereof) who, though blindfolded, notes the ambient sounds at the place of captivity, or the sequence of noises encountered while being transported from one location to another. The recollection of train whistles, bells, a snippet of music, a jackhammer, a radio broadcast — that helps lead to the guilty parties.

  An almost purely cinematic, but devastatingly effective use of sound occurs in the classic 1942 thriller, Journey Into Fear (Scr. Orson Welles & Joseph Cotten, from Eric Ambler’s novel — Dir. Orson Welles & Norman Foster). The film opens on a heavyset man in a tiny, shabby room. He’s in the final stages of getting dressed, to the accompaniment of a scratchy record playing on his ancient portable windup phonograph. He puts on his suitcoat, smoothes his hair, pockets a large pistol (he will turn out to be the assassin). Meanwhile, the phonograph needle has gotten stuck in a crack — the same musical phrase is being repeated — and repeated. Finally, satisfied with his appearance, he stops the phonograph, kills the light, and exits.

  Later in the movie, which is set in Turkey, the harried, frightened protagonist (played by Cotten), on the run from the assassin he’s never seen (though we, the audience, know what he looks like), boards a steamship that will take him across the Bosporus Strait. Cotten, at last confident that he has eluded the killer, relaxes in his cramped cabin. Which is when we, viewing the movie, are chilled to hear, coming from the adjacent stateroom, the repeating sound of the scratchy, cracked phonograph record, so indelibly identified with the assassin.

  An ingenious use of parallel action, and of platforming, it’s a very effective example of heightening suspense by permitting the audience to momentarily “get ahead” of the protagonist — letting us in on something the hero doesn’t know. And for me one of the most dramatically striking moments ever achieved in a film.

  Can such a device be adapted for narrative? Not easy, but again, having it your arsenal will give you an edge as a writer — and who knows what it may suggest to you down the line?

  There are other Plot Devices, plus different spins on those described, and once you’re conscious of them in material that you read or see, you’ll more fully understand their usefulness in — all together now:

  Hanging onto your audience!

  The Moral Decision

  That moment when one of your characters must choose between right and wrong, good or evil — or some shading between those absolutes — is a classic fictional device. And more often than not a highly dramatic one, because it requires struggle — usually internal conflict.

  The solitary soldier whose finger is on the detonator-button, torn between preserving the life of his best friend, who is strapping the final explosive charge to the underside of the bridge — or allowing the enemy tank to cross safely, knowing that once across, many lives will be lost.

  Or the ER surgeon faced with the choice of living up to his duty by saving the life of an injured serial killer whom he despises — or letting him die.

  An exception to internalized conflict can occur when two or more characters are involved in such a decision, and they verbalize the probable up-and-downsides. The high-level conference table is a typical and familiar setting for such debate, but even there, the final choice is usually made by one character — the president, or another type of leader or chairperson.

  The strongest, most resonant moral choices are those with which the audience can identify — those your readers can imagine the diffi
culty of facing. Life or death, or a decision that will otherwise forever alter a character’s future. Sometimes it’s a fork-in-the-road kind of thing — a critical change in direction. Or a judgment call that saddles a character with guilt for the rest of his or her days — and the character knows it upfront. Powerful stuff.

  Such moral choices should, I think, be used sparingly within a single story, else the repetition weaken them. And for myself, the most interesting are those which are more typical of real-world situations — in which the options range from somewhat-to-a-lot-less than blackand-white. Or better still, where none of the choices is a “right” answer but rather, say, the lesser of two or more evils.

  Using Research — Without Letting it Use You

  In commissioning TV scripts from other writers, and then guiding them through the requisite drafts, I discovered an interesting phenomenon — and something else to look out for in my own writing. Researching subjects that we don’t know much about can be one of the most pleasant, stimulating parts of the Process. And — because it’s fun to discover arcana that delights us, and because the Internet makes it so easy to come by a lot of such material in a hurry — it’s also easy — and tempting — to overuse our research.

  Certain TV writers, I found, would become so enamored of the minutia they dug up while researching, say, a story about pigeon fanciers, or woolen fabric manufacturing, or forensics, etc., that they sometimes couldn’t resist overloading their stories. And particularly, larding their characters’ dialogue — with expository facts and detail that — instead of adding verisimilitude, actually got in the way of the human story they were supposed to be telling.

  Is there a rule about how much is too much? No. Are there danger signs? Yes. One of those may be the realization that you’re falling in love with your research, that you’re giving in to your urge to teach, or somehow flaunt to your knowledge of esoterica to your audience.

  A good guideline is another take on the Hitchcock Motto, paraphrased this time as: “Research is real facts, with the dull parts left out.” You will have to be the judge of how much of your research you put into your fiction, but another point to remember is that you are not writing your story in order to get a good grade on your homework, or a pat on the head from Mom. You are writing to entertain, to impart the feeling of authenticity. Keep it spare. Keep it moving.

  Closure

  Okay — you’re a TV writer, and the “hook” you’ve just pitched has piqued the buyer’s interest. The next words you’ll probably hear are: “Good. Where’s the beginning, middle and end?”

  Here, we’ll address endings — the necessity of satisfying your audience — of giving closure.

  By which I do not mean to imply that you must tie up all the loose ends. Though obviously, if you’re writing a traditional murder mystery, or “cozy,” that’s largely a given. But in other forms and genres, an ambiguous conclusion to your story is often to be desired.

  While I question the validity of postulating universal rules in art, there is one that (forgive what will shortly appear to be a pun) comes close to being bulletproof. Once we get this out of the way, we can think of the rest of this book as guidelines, as suggestions that can be — and often are — ignored without fatal harm to the end-product. A number of you may already be familiar with the Chekhov Rule, but it’s worth a brief re-statement. The great Russian playwright, Anton Chekhov, posited that as the curtain rises on a play — if there is a rifle on the wall (as in above the mantelpiece — or visible anywhere in the set, for that matter), by the end of the play the rifle must be used. Not necessarily fired — it might be employed as a club, or even a crutch, but it has got be used in a meaningful way. Why? Because it is a loaded (again, no pun intended) symbol. Because the audience expects it, is waiting for it.

  Basically it means you mustn’t cheat your audience. If you set them up for something, you’ve got to deliver. In the old, classic Western movies, the method of delivery was known as the Obligatory Scene. Near the top of the show, the bad guy does something terrible to the hero, and by fadeout they had to have another confrontation in which the hero evened, or bettered, the score. Usually by facing the villain down in the street, .44’s blazing. The great directors such as John Ford and Howard Hawks, and their scriptwriters, knew they had to provide that kind of satisfaction.

  We still do.

  But, I hasten to add, that does not mean you should deliver the audience its satisfaction in a predictable way!

  Similarly, say, your hero is the classic Alfred Hitchcockian, ordinary-guy-caught-in-the-situation-not-of-his-making, and he’s pursued by smart, relentless bad guys who have unlimited resources and will stop at nothing to get him. If you give your protagonist a wife and child (or a similar Achilles heel), and the bad guys don’t go after them in order to get to him, your audience will feel swindled. The wife and child are the rifle on the wall.

  Moreover, the audience will recognize it for the plot hole it is. The subject of plot holes is covered in some detail on pages 139-141.

  Let Your Characters Generate Their Own Stories

  Another approach to coming up with stories — or developing subplots — is embodied in the Harry McGraw example mentioned on pages 23-24. That is, instead of starting with a detailed concept or story about how this or that takes place, and as a result something else happens, and then something else — start with one or more characters you’ve got a pretty good fix on, and imagine them in a situation that, say, will test them, will bring out certain strengths and/or weaknesses, will allow them to play out their essential relationship with each other. A what-if situation. Or — what if I were to pit this character against that character? Because then, as with the McGraw example, you can build your story around — out from — that central, or pivotal, situation. And, by developing it in that way, the characters themselves will help supply your overall story.

  But in order to start there, you need a compelling, well-defined, contrasting set of characters, with distinctive, contrasting problems and/or goals that will naturally place them in conflict with each other. Flaws. Or tics. Or insecurities. Opposition. That is why, in creating a series for television, we try to devise core characters (the five or six-member “regular” cast) who are sufficiently diverse and interesting — multi-dimensional enough — that they, because of their built-in conflicts, will suggest enough stories to sustain the show over a number of years and hundreds of episodes without running out of material. There is much more about this, and how you can apply it to your fiction and even non-fiction, in the next section.

  Whether we’re constructing our story’s ending, or an individual scene, or a “beat,” what’s cited above — the devices, the moral choices, the lot of it, should become part of our checklist, a kind of mental card-file that we should page through — automatically — as we write — questions that we must ask ourselves no matter what it is we’re writing. Constantly. Self-editing.

  All of it is part of the Process. Approaching your writing with purpose and organization, with your head as well as your heart. Being a grownup, while keeping the creative child in you alive.

  CREATING VIVID, MEMORABLE, ENGAGING CHARACTERS

  Start With the Edges

  The good news is there are a number of techniques for designing terrific characters, and endowing them with all kinds of interesting baggage — baggage that — when you’re doing it right — will give you many of your scenes and story-moves, because the characters will speak to you. They will tell you what they would or would not do in a given situation. In effect, when your characters are well-conceived, they will help you write their stories.

  That’s when you’re really cooking.

  Where to start? Age? Gender? Occupation? Those are okay, certainly necessary, but superficial. External. And occupation or profession, unless it’s inherently exciting (a Barbary Pirate, say, or cop or a thief or movie star), can tend to be a yawn. Unless you put it to dramatic use. In any case, your characterizations should
go beneath the skin — under that basic “Driver’s License” information. To the character’s politics, likes, phobias, peeves, tics and hang-ups. And when you’ve done that, dig another level deeper. And another. All the way to the bone. And the best way to get there? The best place to start?

  Start with conflicts. Again, think conflict. Ask yourself where the heat is. Focus on it.

  What kind of conflicts?

  Certainly, the difficulties your characters will face in achieving their primary goals. Getting there should be fraught with problems. Enemies, doubters, physical or mental limitations (both emotional and capacity-wise), conflicting responsibilities, bad weather.

  What do they need in order to get there? Is it food? A job? Love? To be alone? Education or key-knowledge?

  What do they want? Is their desire good for them, bad for them? Is it neurotically motivated, or based upon mistaken or false values?

  Who or what is trying to prevent them from achieving that need or goal or want? That’s your antagonist or one of your antagonists. It can be a wife, it can be a child, it can be a situation.

  Again, drama is people in conflict — characters in conflict — with each other or with their situations or their environment. As in: a person lost, out in the cold, in the wild, trying to survive — not against a bad guy, but against natural enemies. That’s conflict.

  But along the path, subsidiary to the pursuit of ultimate objectives, there are smaller conflicts, tiny — more immediate — thwarted-aims, such as trying to end a phone call from a long-winded individual so you won’t miss the outcome of the Big Game. Or winning an argument, or trying not to burn the toast, or spilling the coffee.