Tag: plot

I Don’t Know What I’m Writing

Pavowski9 Comments

I mentioned a few posts back the struggle I’m having with telling the current novel; how I’m trying to figure out perspectives and pacing and flavor and all that other stuff. The story is there, and sound, I said, but the voice is missing. And I thought that everything was cool aside from that — that it’s no problem not having the “exactly right” words to tell the story I’m trying to tell, as long as the story I’m trying to tell is the right one.

And I still think that’s right. To a point. Because the story is what matters; the story is what resonates. Everything else fits in around the story, like the transmission and the axles and the fans and the tubes all fit in around the engine in a car. Sort out the engine, and build the rest of the stuff to fit, right?

Except that’s not the whole story, either. A solid engine is great, but an engine does nothing without the rest of the car. The engine puts force behind the vehicle, but without the axles in place, without the wheels to drive the car forward, without the gas tank and the transmission fluid and all the wiring and tubes, the engine just sits there and putters away. It’s all connected; it all works together.

So it is with story. The right story might purr like a kitten, but it’s incomplete without the wheels of the proper setting, the transmission of a proper tone, and the fuel injection system of the perfect characters.

What does that mean?

Well, I’m figuring that out, but I’m also realizing something. I can allow myself to forego any concerns about the “other stuff” and just focus on the plot, the story, but if I do that, I’m going to have to build all that other crap after the fact. And what happens when you build all the different elements of a thing separate from the whole? If I build first an engine, then a body around it, then the wheels to propel it, then the axles to drive it… I’m going to end up with a Frankenstein’s monster of parts that I scavenge from the depths of my brain based on what suits my needs at the time. It’ll work, maybe, and it’ll look generally like the novel I have in mind, but it’s not going to drive real smooth. It’s not going to have clean lines. It won’t win awards.

I’m not much of an outliner by nature. I’m a procrastinator, a figure-it-out-as-it-comes kinda guy, a pantser, as I think the industry calls us. And I think there’s something to be said for taking an organic approach to storybuilding, to letting characters to an extent drive the story, to allowing the story to develop its own twists and turns and energy without meticulously planning it out in advance.

But that doesn’t mean there shouldn’t be any plan. Just as you build a car with an overall design in mind (headlights here, this shape to the body, this kind of seat); just as you plant a garden with the preferred outcome in mind (carrots over here, tomatoes in this aisle, luminescent cabbage here); a story needs guidelines to grow. Even if you’re not a plotter, you have to know some things before you take the first steps.

Who is my character? What drives her? What is she afraid of? What obstacles will harry her? Where does the struggle take her? What should her story teach a reader? How should the story “feel”?

A story can, will, and probably should grow organically to fill in gaps and create surprise in the mind of the readers (and the author!). But for a gap to exist, you have to have the substance around the gap. The story isn’t going to build skeleton and muscle and blood all on its own. The framework has to be there to be built upon. And that means taking a hard look at the planning that’s gone into the story so far.

If I’m honest, I’ve sold short the preparatory work on this project. The story, as a result, is looking more like the Frankenstein’s monster than the smooth, sharp Cadillac I want. The good news, though, is that it’s never too late to start; never too late to turn the floodlights on and take the hard look at the story that it needs. And, seeing what it needs, the only thing left to do is to keep writing. Rather than just letting the story shape itself, shape it with the end in mind. Start taking stabs at the tone-setting language, start planting now the seeds which must blossom by the end.

Yes, you can fix it all in post. But that’s a lot of work to shrug off on your future self.

Time to face facts and start doing the legwork this story deserves.

Interview With a Character

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I was browsing around today, thinking about my novel and what I’m going to do with it, and I saw that my spirit guide, Chuck Wendig, had written a little piece about characters and how they drive action.  It’s perfectly obvious advice when you think about it, and it’s a model that I tried to adhere to in writing my first draft, but I wonder if I actually came as close to the mark as I believe I did.

To help me puzzle through that, I invited one of my characters here to talk it over a little bit.  Everybody, please give a nice, warm welcome to the fictional, frazzled, Andrew Remington.

(Andy enters to canned studio applause.)

Me: Andy, hi, it’s great to see you.

Andy: It’s nice to be seen.

Me: I’m really excited to have you here today.

Andy:  Well, I’m happy to be here.  You’ve had me through the wringer over the past few months, haven’t you?  It’s nice to have a bit of a break.

Me: True.  That’s my job as storyteller, you know, to give you a hard time.  No hard feelings.

Andy:  If you say so.

Me: Okay.  Let’s get right down to it, because I’m dying to pick your brain a little bit, you know?  Crack open the meaty bits and see what makes you tick.

Andy:  That’s a metaphor, right?

Me:  Yeah, I’ve been working on those.

Andy:  Okay, because I remember when you wrote about dropping the piano on that guy, and all of us in the book thought that was going to be a metaphor, but…

Me:  That one escalated quickly.

Andy:  Dry cleaning bills were horrendous.

Me:  That scene is probably not going to survive the first edit, if it makes you feel any better.

Andy:  A little.

Me:  Right.  So.  You’re a character in my book.  The first draft is done, your story is told for the time being.  What’s it like being you?

Andy:  Uhh, I’d have to say it’s a bit like living inside a ping-pong ball.

Me:  (Tapping note cards on the desk.)  Wow.  Um.  Wasn’t really expecting that.  A ping pong ball.  How do you mean?

Andy:  You picture a ping-pong ball, right?  Tiny, white.  Opaque.  Blows in the wind.  Yeah?  Say you could live inside of it, what would you see?

Me:  (Shrugs.)

Andy:  A whole lot of nothing, right?  You’ve basically just got the light and shadow outside of the ball and then somebody whacks you with a paddle and off you go, back and forth, over a net that you can’t really see, and you’re banging off the walls and knocking clocks over–

Me:  Like in the Great Gatsby.

Andy:  …yeah, not like that, really.  More in a chaotic hurricane of who-the-hell-knows-what’s-going-to-happen-next.

Me:  But that’s a good thing, right?  I mean, I’m supposed to keep the audience guessing to some extent, and that means keeping you guessing too, doesn’t it?

Andy:  I can see where yo’d think that, but let’s stick to the ping-pong ball.

Me:  Okay.

Andy:  The ball just bounces around from one side of the table to the other.  It has no will, it has no motivation.  It only goes where it’s told.

Me:  Uh huh.

Andy:  And, if you’re living inside of the ball, then it’s doubly so.  There aren’t even any windows to look out of to see where you’re headed, if you’re going in the right direction, or even if you’re making progress.  All you do is hang on until you get whacked by another paddle.

Me:  I see.

Andy:  If anything, living inside the ball, you’re completely at the mercy of the two giant dudes with the paddles.

Me:  Wait, there are giants now?

Andy:  Jesus, dude, stick with the metaphor.  Not actual giants.

Me:  Just testing you.

Andy:  Right.  (Gives me a serious side-eye.)  So, the … perfectly ordinary non-giants with the paddles.  They can put spin on the ball, they can slam it, spike it…

Me: I think those are volleyball terms, actually.

Andy:  Do you want to hear this or not?

Me:  Sorry.  But you’re saying you live inside the ball, so you don’t drive the action?

Andy:  It doesn’t feel like it.  It feels like the villains in the story, you know, they’re the ones with the paddles, just smacking the rest of us around the whole time.

Me:  Uh huh.

Andy:  And I understand that as the protagonists, we’re supposed to take some hard knocks.  I get that.  But all the same, it doesn’t feel right for us — and by us I especially mean me — to get smacked around for the entire story.

Me:  I see.

Andy:  Give me a turn at the paddle, you know what I mean?

Me:  I mean, I have to disagree with you.  You’re the one who makes an inadvertent call to a muse to set the whole thing in motion.  You’re the one working against a deadline for the whole story.  You’re the one who finally, ultimately, overcomes the whole … well, let’s not spoil it for anybody reading, but the whole series of THINGS, right?

Andy:  You’re not wrong, but… look.  You’re right.  I do things in the story.  No question about that, okay?  But let’s just take a few examples.  I mean, the gangsters jump out and take the rest of us hostage… who bails us out?  It ain’t me.

Me:  No, you’re right.  That was —

Andy:  Then the whole business with Harold and the … erm, how can I say this without uh…

Me:  The theft?

Andy:  Yes, the theft.  He steals a THING.  It’s gone.  He’s gone.  Who finds him so we can continue the story?  It ain’t me.

Me:  I see what you’re saying.  That was the other —

Andy:  And then, finally, we go to the big showdown, yeah?  And Anthony and Julia are running.  They’re about to escape.  But then they get stopped.  By whom?  It ain’t —

Me:  You, yeah, no, you’re right.

Andy:  You see what I mean?

Me:  I think so.

Andy:  Do I have agency, is what I’m driving at.  I mean, pardon the pun, “driving,” but it’s not like I’m driving the story, it’s like I’m along for the ride.

Me:  But those moments you’re talking about, that’s where your supporting characters get a chance to shine, right?  Like, you’re driving the bus through a post-apocalyptic burned out city, right?  And they’re leaning out the windows with RPGs and machine guns shooting off the zombies and blowing up the obstacles in your path.

Andy: Okay, I see that.  That’s a nice image, by the way.

Me:  You liked that?

Andy:  I did.  Sounds like a good idea for a story, actually.

Me:  Yeah?

Andy:  Call it “Murder Bus” or something.  But, to get back on track, honestly, you’re not wrong.  And I see your point.  But I feel like there are moments — and, maybe I’m being selfish here, but I do mean momentS, plural — where, you know, it should be me with the rocket launcher.

Me:  I see.

Andy:  Smeared with the blood and the smoke and the entrails of the enemy, right?

Me:  Entrails?

Andy:  Metaphorical entrails.

Me:  Uh huh.

Andy:  At least one or two moments like that, where I get to shine.  I mean, far be it from me to tell you how to write the story.  And — I can say this, because I’ve lived it, now — I think it’s a pretty good story.

Me:  Thanks.

Andy:  It works out all right for me in the end, after all.

Me:  Hey, spoilers.

Andy:  Oh, come on.  It’s a comedy, it wasn’t going to end with a funeral or anything.

Me:  Or is it?  (We share a conspiratorial look.)  No, it doesn’t end that way.

Andy:  So yeah, it’s a good story.  I just feel like … man, how to say it?  I shouldn’t be a bigger part, exactly. You’ve got me on virtually half the pages.

Me:  Probably more.

Andy:  Probably more, right.  I’m tired, you know?  So not a bigger part, but maybe a more pivotal part.  That’s what I’m looking for.

Me:  Okay.

Andy:  If the story’s a big wagon wheel, I should be the axle it turns on.

Me:  Right, no, that makes sense.

Andy:  Just a suggestion.

Me:  So tell me, what’s it like working with the muse of comedy?

Andy:  Oh, she’s great, you know?  Really, um… what’s the word…

Me:  Funny?

Andy:  I was going to say inspirational, but that would be a little bit cheesy, wouldn’t it?

Me:  A bit on the nose.

Andy:  She’s funny.  Very funny.  A quick suggestion, though?

Me:  Oh, sure?

Andy:  Maybe there’s room in the story for a scene where we, um… (leans over and whispers in my ear)

Me:  (whispering back) It’s not really that kind of book, though.

Andy:  (Shrugs.)  It was worth a try.

Me:  Well, Andy, this has been enlightening, I’ve really enjoyed having you on the blarg.

Andy:  The what?

Me:  The blarg.  It’s a… it’s a kind of a joke.  You know.  Blog.  But then it’s a blog, so it’s kind of… argh.  So.  Blarg.

Andy:  Is that supposed to be funny?

Me:  (sighing) I don’t know.  (Stands.)  It’s been a pleasure.

Andy:  Yeah, likewise.

Me:  I’ll see you in a few weeks when I start the edit.

Andy:  I’ll bring the lube.

Me:  Andrew Remington, everybody!

(Canned applause.  Slow fade.)

Today’s Writing Session Sponsored by The Beast, Apparently

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More on that title at the end of the post.

The writing had me in a weird place yesterday.  I was stressed about where my story had ended up and where it was headed, and I felt the significant gravity of self-doubt and intimidation about the task of writing a novel weighing heavy on my shoulders.  It was one of those days when I really think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, when I wonder if this whole thing was really such a good idea and whether I’d be better off using my spare time to play video games or read or watch TV or otherwise waste my time.  Of course, you have those thoughts, and then you remember the old adage about how nobody on their deathbed says they wished they’d watched more TV.  No, Writing this novel is one of those — I won’t say Bucket List items, because that’s a term that gets tossed around too whimsically for my tastes — but it’s one of those Things I Wanted To Accomplish.  And, like with so many other things in life, I’ve found, the day-to-day struggles become easier to bear if you keep your eye on the prize, so that’s what I try to do.Read More »