Surreality

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BACK
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BUY

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THE ETERNAL
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Excerpted from Surreality
by Dave Workman

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始

B E G I N N I N G

MY NAME IS MEI XING, and I will soon depart from this realm. I have lived so very, very long, a life rich beyond reason. I now accept mìng yùn willingly, guided by the gentle hand of my beloved. My death will be my husband’s ultimate consummation of our love, his final gift to our blessed union. Before my passing, I must reveal a most extraordinary tale. I speak not for myself, but rather of my husband’s own astounding journey. This is my gift in return, a bequest to all who are and who will ever be. Only with his consent do I write these words.

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O N E

THOSE WHO KNOW ME, know nothing. I have carried my secret in darkness for too many years. Yet mine is a secret that must unfold, for it is truth. Listen, my children, and consider all that has come before us.

I was born in a distant land, amidst the turbulent uprising known as Yihetuan. I was birthed in the blood-soaked dirt of Shandong, my father already dead at the hands of the Christian foreigners and my mother soon to become a slave of Prince Qing of the First Rank, a great-grandson of Emperor Qianlong. The prince (I would later discover) was the most unscrupulous of leaders, an insatiable man who traded China’s tears for gold.

My earliest memories? I remember a palace—although whose palace, I do not know. To a small child, a castle is a remarkable realm, a playhouse of great possibility, ripe with dark, secret rooms and gleaming marbled hallways without end, of pungent spices and swirling colors, of uniformed men and temple priests and silk-draped women of high esteem and confidence.

But I was not a child of the palace, simply an urchin within its magnificent folds. Soon enough, along with many other girls my age, I was taken by oxcart to a sailing ship, under the watchful eye of a stooped, elderly gentleman whom I had barely met and did not trust. My sisters and I had been instructed to call this man ‘Grandfather Lau’ with utmost affection. As the morning sun rose, our sails unfurled. I watched with sorrow as my homeland vanished into the past.

The bright colors of the world quickly disappeared, replaced by the ugly brown wood of our worm-threaded vessel. Ahead, I saw nothing but the tepid grey expanse of sea and sky. I remember vividly the tired moan of old planking, the creak of wet hemp and the wails of my sisters. Even the birds had given up their playful cries, ultimately abandoning us to our providence. I constantly scanned the horizon for the edge of the Earth, eager to plunge toward whatever fate that I imagined would only improve my dismal, mortal existence.

As I feared, the waters did prove endless. Our provisions grew scarce and for several days we were given only cold rice and water that tasted—to the best of my childlike recollection—green. Even the sailors grew restless and ill-tempered, and then afraid. Min Min fell sick and Jiang died. Around me, my sisters prayed and wept.

One morning, a sudden brightness illuminated the sky. The overhead sun caressed my face with its warmth. A wind of blessed forgiveness filled our slack sails and our vessel plowed through each wave with swift vengeance. Instead of an infinite hole, there eventually appeared before our mast a fog-shrouded silhouette of low hills and dark forests.

I watched this strange land approach, barely aware of the barefooted, half-naked sailors rushing to prepare the ship to dock. I could soon discern tall, block-like shapes of many, many buildings behind a gradually receding haze—not the ornate, angular forms of those I had left, but stark buildings that spanned a far greater distance than any castle I could ever imagine.

The only word I remember on Grandfather Lau’s lips is this: “Fiscow!”

And what a wondrous place, this Fiscow. I had never before seen a steamship or a railroad train. I had never seen pale men or tall women with yellow hair. So many remarkable novelties filled my senses.

My sisters and I were taken from the bustling wharf by a horse-drawn wagon, up a hill and then up a larger hill, along a muddy road to an imposing red brick building with few windows. Men carrying large burlap sacks, and who smelled of tobacco and opiate smoke, accompanied our wagon, their overseers yelling and cursing, brandishing bamboo reeds—many of my sisters cried—and Grandfather Lau hovered over us with a clucking, fussing intensity. At the top of yet another hill the wagon groaned to a stop. My sisters and I stomped up a lengthy flight of narrow, squeaking stairs. We found ourselves in a perfumed room of silk draperies and satin pillows and alight with many candles. Beautiful ladies sashayed among us, and whose enchantingly painted faces reminded me of the intricate opera masks I remembered from the palace. The ladies delighted in our presence, giggling and singing and purring words of soothing assurance against our ears.

I believed that my nightmare had ended. This was a world of soft musical notes plucked on a stringed ruan, of mesmerizing colors and scented fragrances—and I wondered if one of these stunning young women might be my mother.

Perhaps the greatest gift of my childhood was my incomprehension that day; I did not understand my intended fate until many years afterward. But on that day, I did not know such words as slavery or concubine—only that I was given a clay bowl filled with noodles and onions swimming in a steaming fish broth. When night fell, I slept deeply in a world I believed would at last become my loving home.

Much later I would learn the foreigners’ calendar date of my arrival in this rambling city of San Francisco: The 18th of March, 1906.

For many weeks after our evening meal, my sisters and I were locked in a large, windowless room, with only the glow of a single candle casting ghostly shadows against the walls. Porcelain pots in each corner sufficed for our necessary toiletry needs. We shared several enormous straw-filled mattresses strewn upon the floor and, each night, I felt safely cocooned amid the warmth of the others, wondering what excitement our next morning would bring.

But quite soon my fairytale reality crumbled. Late one night I was jostled from my dreams by a grumbling tremor. The room shuddered and shook, and I felt myself lifted into the air, only to fall again amidst the flailing bodies of screaming children. Suddenly, the night crashed down upon us, choking our terrified wails into abrupt silence. A ragged cadmium sky appeared overhead, while the floorboards beneath us trembled in agony.

I remember the crack and torque of shrieking wood and I tumbled blindly into an abyss. I most certainly lost consciousness, for when I awoke, the world had again steadied itself. I lay without moving for a long while, listening to the whimpers around me. I called out and eventually we found one another in the dark, five of us, frightened and shivering. Clutching hands, we wove a snakelike path through the debris, the barest hint of morning light leading our way. We stumbled amid the rubble, tripping on the warm, wet bodies of my many sisters.

We huddled together in the mud-chilled street, aware of distant shouts and cries in the murky light of an awakening sky. A few buildings around us had likewise ruptured, littering the ground with debris and the broken dead. From our view atop the hill, I could see a yellow-orange flicker of many fires in the city below. We held each another tightly, awaiting whatever terrible fate would certainly follow. We did not move or eat for two days—until white men in stiff blue suits struggled up the hill, blowing shrill whistles and calling out for anyone who might respond.

Many years later, as a historian of some renown, I would take keen interest in San Francisco’s Great Earthquake. At the time, newspapers reported fewer than 700 deaths in the city. Later revisions would raise the death toll to more than 3500. But among the gu lei—the so-called worker coolies—I would glean evidence of some 8,000 additional deaths. So many transients and immigrants and undocumented slaves had been buried beneath the rubble, forever entombed as the city rose again above them.

But on that horrible day, I remained miraculously unharmed, a whisper-thin waif of child with only a handful of English words in my brain. Poor Grandfather Lau had attempted to teach us our new language in those weeks before the ’quake. But I never saw Grandfather Lau again. Nor do I know what became of my surviving sisters, although I can only assume that none found so exhilarating an existence as soon would I.

For several days I lingered in one of hundreds of hastily-erected army tents scattered throughout the Presidio District, far enough from the smoldering embers of a city I had not yet come to know. Then, one morning, two soldiers brought me before a stunning woman wrapped in white silk, who knelt before me with a most haunting smile and spoke in soothing words I did not understand. An older man, a bearded guilao dressed in blue stood beside her and said nothing. Although the woman confronting me was Chinese, her words were those of this new world, and I struggled to remember my own pitifully few English phrases in return. I bowed, speaking politely and she smiled again, her warm hand feather-light upon my shoulder. When the bearded man nodded his approval, the soldiers turned to leave, and I suspected my life’s course had been once again inexplicably altered.

Mrs. Lin Li Muldoon, whom I would soon learn to call Miss Lin, took me into her home as an apprentice pot scrubber, entitled to a stipend of two pennies a week, which I was free to spend or save until my services were proven sufficiently worthy of a real wage. Miss Lin nicknamed me Marcy—as she deemed Mei Xing too difficult to pronounce. She preferred that her staff speak proper English, Miss Lin well aware that the language of the foreigners represented my future.

Ten of us served in the Muldoon household; cooks, valets, porters—even a doorman. Their sprawling estate had been slightly damaged by the ’quake, but its hillside location in Presidio Heights had saved it from the raging fires that had destroyed much of the city.

Once again, I found myself wandering amid the princes and princesses of this new realm. Miss Lin’s home was indeed very much a castle—tall and immaculate, filled with mystique and so many splendid rooms, long and winding passages, anonymous doors locking their secrets behind thick, brass key plates. Heirlooms of my homeland abounded; paintings and sculptures and tabletop objects fashioned from ivory and jade, gold and pearl. We were forbidden to touch and sometimes I would stare at these objects until I cried, for they reminded me of my birth land, of a mother I’d never known.

For several weeks I sat on a high stool in the Muldoon’s enormous kitchen, with little else to do but watch and wait. I quickly realized the way to Miss Lin’s heart was through stillness and rapt attention to detail, and I was very, very good at absorbing the duties of those around me. Two mornings each week, the Muldoon’s household chef, the robustly rotund Mr. Fréchon, explained every detail of his activities. In the afternoons, I often polished silverware or scrubbed a bevy of large copper pots, enormous vats that would sometimes consume my tiny body. Yet I would scrub and scrub until Mr. Fréchon—muttering Ça suffit! Ça suffit!—snatched the vessels from my grasp, my hands raw and red and occasionally bleeding from my efforts.

Most other mornings were crowded with math, English and American history, my studies overseen by Mrs. Livingston, an older woman who had lived in Wenzhou for many years. She spoke Mandarin very well, although she rarely permitted me to converse in my native tongue.

The days and then weeks and then months passed in a blur. Soon enough, I was rousted at daybreak, expected to perform more rigorous duties. I delighted in plucking feathers from various fowl, tending ovens and dumping ash buckets into an outdoor bin. I sliced onions and peeled carrots and, standing upon a rickety wooden stool, stirred simmering sauces and gravies. Within five years I would be preparing vegetable and potato dishes for the family—and by the age of fourteen I ascended to prominence as the Muldoon’s primary cook.

Mrs. Lin Li Muldoon, only twenty-seven years of age when she found me, had once upon a time been a Jiangsu princess who’d fled across the ocean ahead of a scandal that would have severed her head in the lightning flash of a dao. Gifted with the perplexing beauty of royal blood and having arrived on these shores with trunks filled with Chinese artifacts worth a substantial fortune, she quickly captured the attention of a local sea captain. Raphael Muldoon was a kind and gentle soul, some twenty years his wife’s elder, and quite smitten with his young princess.

Captain Muldoon proved to be a most wonderful man, sea-bound much of the time but who eventually became very much a father to me. I learned that soon after their marriage, he and Miss Lin had begun their crusade, frequenting brothels and opium houses, buying up the children of the damned and leading them to freedom. Not far away, on Lake Street, The Muldoon School for Orphaned Children of The Orient housed some 80 students a year, young girls once destined for an otherwise brutal and savage existence.

I was one of the fortunate—quick of mind and spirit, wide eyed with wonder and endowed with a persistent smile despite my perilous youth. In the Muldoon household, I knew myself as neither slave nor servant, but rather as a skilled and respected employee, indentured only by my age and ensured to one day become a free woman who might come and go as I please. And yet I could not imagine parting from the Muldoon family, for I wished to remain within Miss Lin’s employ for the whole of my life.

Wished for nothing more, that is, until I met Captain Sebastian T. Renaud.

He was quite handsome, this captain; tall and statuesque, perhaps thirty years old, although he wore his age like a shroud. Clearly a man of youthful vigor, clean shaven and polite, he possessed an extraordinary command of the English language, with a wisdom and ken beyond his years. The first time I gazed upon Captain Renaud my heart swooped as might a dove in flight, and I eagerly absorbed as much gossip as I could from the household staff: That he was a dear friend of Captain Muldoon’s who had been a frequent guest in the past. An anthropological expedition to Egypt and Sudan had kept him abroad these last several years. But now, much to my heart’s joy, he had returned to California.

An exceedingly intellectual man, as one might instantly perceive by his grace and air, he nonetheless lacked the excruciating conceit of many who are well-travelled and properly educated. Although quiet and reserved in conversation, he was conversely a fine narrator—and before his journey to The Dark Continent, I learned that the Muldoon’s six children and many of the staff would often sit in the parlor after supper and listen in rapt attention as he spoke of ancient wisdoms and cultures.

I was likewise invited to hear the Captain’s tales this evening (once the dishes had been cleared) and a thousand questions bubbled forth inside my head.

Yet the first time our eyes touched, we spoke not a single word. I had rushed from the kitchen bearing a plum-and-sausage glaze forgotten by one of the servers and perchance the Captain was passing the doorway into the dining room. He paused, mid-step—as I nearly collided glaze-first into him—and I shall never forget the way he gazed at me.

I fell in love with him in that same heartbeat—a profoundly dreadful realization, as I knew such desire would burn hollow in my soul for all of eternity. But within the span of that chanced glance, I had discovered a depth to my own being that I had never before known. I returned to the kitchen and wept like the child I knew myself still to be.

And yet I remained a child not without precocious wiles! After collecting my thoughts, I took a perverse delight in tiptoeing from my chores to eavesdrop upon their meal. I learned that Sebastian Renaud was a seaman like Captain Muldoon and that he had served as a cavalry officer during the Spanish-American War. He had raced Peugeot automobiles across Europe and had even piloted those rickety little aeroplanes that buzzed the sky like so many annoying mosquitoes. I realized him to be a man of surprising complexity and wondered if there were nothing he might not accomplish.

Upon this particular evening, I overheard Captain Renaud pledge to renew his partnership with Raphael in assailing the city’s countless flesh merchants—by purchasing slaves solely to procure their freedom. Apparently, he was heir to a fortune even more astounding than the Muldoon’s, and not only would they strive to free and educate younger orphans, but also arrange safe transport home for those older girls stolen from their families.

Freeing immigrant slaves in those early years of the new century—as San Francisco had soon rebuilt into a prosperous metropolitan center after the ’quake—proved a difficult process. Despite numerous laws forbidding depravity, the peoples of China and the Pacific Isles were regarded with no less contempt than had been the African races a half-century before. With neither passport nor dowry, without claims of legal passage or citizenship, without hope of returning to their native lands, these wretched children found nowhere to flee. Quite often a freed concubine would scurry back to the only food and warmth she had ever known—into the clutches of her former slaver. The underbelly of the city remained ripe with savagery and a lust for both flesh and money that knew few mercies. I would discover that, on numerous occasions, Captains Muldoon and Renaud had barely escaped foul play at the hands of slavers who considered them obstacles in their various paths to riches. More than once had they traded gunfire with ruffians who would leap from a dark alley, or might linger in ambush beside some deserted highway, in an attempt to end such meddling in their affairs.

But on that day in the late summer of 1915, I perceived little more but snatched fragments of conversation. I did not know if I would ever lay eyes on Captain Renaud again, and lying in bed that night, I assured myself that I certainly would not. How could someone so trivial expect more than what the universe had already graciously provided me?

A miracle occurred however, and one that continues to perplex me to this day. Upon Captain Renaud’s subsequent social calling the following month, he requested a formal introduction! Miss Lin, having found a sea captain of her own, took tremendous delight in his curiosity. I was fetched from the kitchen by two giggling mui tsai—my face quickly washed of flour and grease—and paraded into an anteroom with barely time to catch my breath.

Once again, our eyes met; me in my stained cap and apron and he seated in a black gabardine suit, wainscot and polished boots. When he stood, I felt as if he almost touched the ceiling.

“It is my pleasure to greet you, Captain Renaud,” I stammered in my politest whisper of English.

The captain offered a regal smile and replied in perfect Mandarin, “The pleasure is all mine.”

Upon hearing these words in the language of my lost homeland (and much to my embarrassment) I immediately burst into tears.

Quite unexpectedly, I was invited to dine at the Muldoon’s request, supper delayed those frantic twenty minutes during which I prepared for the occasion—quickly lathered and scrubbed and ensconced in Miss Lin’s own lavish, red silk ruqun, as I had no finery of my own.

I barely remember the words spoken that evening, nor of tasting the meal that I had spent hours preparing—oyster-stuffed Canadian goose, potatoes au gratin and garlic-rubbed asparagus. I remember only the Captain’s gaze as he pondered me from across the table. The meal passed in both a heartbeat and an eternity and, soon enough, Miss Lin rang a tiny silver bell that signaled for tea and brandy in the parlor. I was offered a formal chair and a crystal glass with the smallest sip of Napoleon cognac—and I listened above the sound of my own pounding heart as Captain Renaud wove a tale about the grandeur of ancient Persepolis, the capital of Persia’s once formidable Achaemenid empire. While he spoke, my eyes never left the Captain’s face and, much to my amazement, his gaze did not stray far from mine. I could scarcely remember but to breathe that evening.

Later, we strolled among the Muldoon’s moon-soaked tea gardens and Captain Renaud remarked of my beauty—my what? I viewed myself as a scrawny wisp of a child, all elbow and kneecap and tooth and nail, the ugly scar of a grease burn upon the back of my hand—and even now I blush at the memory of his words. But in the Captain’s presence, I felt not like a raggedy child of skin and bone, but rather that I were the Empress of all China.

Before excusing himself for the evening, Reni (as he was known to his friends and enemies alike) asked Miss Lin for permission to court me. A tradition of formality apparently existed among the educated ruling class, and the Captain proved the quintessential gentleman. The Muldoons, the only real parents I had ever known, obliged with uncontained glee. Taking my hand in his, Reni awaited only my consent. After a long moment’s hesitation—my thoughts filled not with coyness but with the sudden fear of swooning in his presence—I managed a nod.

And thus I sealed my fate.

End Excerpt
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More Common Obstacles

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rules-header-fullA notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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More Common Obstacles that
Novelists Typically Confront.
Also: The Neurodivergent Writer.

I’ve previously mentioned those few literary hurdles I often confront when working with novice writers. Getting stuck (See: A Few Common Obstacles) is the most common dilemma that new writers encounter—and a conundrum that all writers face at one time or another. Although the act of getting stuck generally assumes that we’ll eventually get ourselves un-stuck as well. That occasionally annoying perceptive rut known as writer’s block isn’t supposed to be a chronic condition, and most of us manage to work our way free sooner or later.

However, if getting stuck increasingly feels like a permanent situation, or if you find yourself consistently accumulating little more than first scenes or first chapters—project after project, year after year—the issue(s) you face may run far deeper than simply a matter of ‘learning the ropes’ or ‘running out of fresh ideas.’ If you’ve been toiling away for a year or two or several on any single project, yet remain unsatisfied with the results or with your level of creative output, perhaps it’s time to dig a little more deeply into your writer’s psyche. Even if you consider yourself to be a gifted writer, your inability to produce adequate results (in terms of quantity or quality) may require some personal introspection. In other words, some of us must eventually confront those emotional or psychological roadblocks potentially inhibiting our progress.

And while the prospect of ‘personal introspection’ may carry a certain negative weight, don’t worry—it’s not a euphemism for ‘you suck at writing.’ Rather, if you’re aching to write but can’t seem to gain traction, self-reflection is simply my suggestion (unscientific as it is) that you look inward before contemplating all those extraneous external factors. Various assumptions for not writing—I can’t find a sharp pencil!; or It’s raining out!; or The rent’s overdue!—may feel like adequate excuses (and sometimes they can be) but more often than not, such superficial symptoms disguise a far more complex, subconscious quandary.

While legitimate factors such as fear of failure, or what if I’m not good enough? or even the very real fear of success do exist, those psychological roadblocks can often be overcome by simply acknowledging their presence. Thus, consider this: I’m certainly not good enough if I give up, but if I try, I may surprise myself. Because the only thing worse than failing to finish a novel is an unwillingness to start a novel.

You won’t know if you don’t try—and not trying (or succeeding) is often the result of unrealistic self-doubt or lack of confidence. Every writer born has suffered through great gobs of self-doubt. (Stephen King’s disposal of his first manuscript, Carrie, only to be resurrected from the trashcan by his wife, Tabatha, is legendary. Had he not have been married, the iconic Mr. King may never have sold a single book.)

For first-time writers (especially those without concerned spouses like Tabatha), various, ubiquitous subliminal roadblocks can feel pervasive and insurmountable… because sometimes our brains are funny that way. But, guess what? Every problem has a solution. Every story has an ending. There’s always a way to get from Point A to Point Z, no matter how seemingly hopeless the journey might appear. However, each of us needs to dig deep to find the patience and persistence to go the distance. So finish. That’s Rule #1 after all.

Refer again to Perfection should you remain uncertain. Because (spoiler alert!) perfection doesn’t exist. (You can always change a word, a sentence, a paragraph…) So stop trying to obtain the unobtainable. Allow your first draft to be little more than a messy, incomplete rough sketch of whatever greatness is meant to come. Allow yourself sufficient time to tweak and refine and polish through numerous, subsequent drafts. Even if you can’t achieve perfection, pretty damn good is worth striving for. (And also quite possible!)

Ask yourself What’s the worst that can happen by trying, by staying the course? If you can’t convince yourself to go the distance, maybe writing a novel isn’t your best creative outlet. Yet other creative endeavors may await you, and it’s probably important to discover your options before you spend a year writing an uninspired (no offense) 400-pages that will ultimately disappoint you.

However, before you give up completely and become a plumber or an astronaut, what unrealized roadblocks or self-doubts linger within your soul, waiting to be discovered?

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You may be #1: A Serial Story Starter. Starting a novel is a lot like a first date. The possibilities feel boundless, and our expectations are through the roof. Filled with excitement and confidence—even if our perceived ending (or second chapter, for that matter) remains a bit nebulous—some of us can easily write a fabulous ten or 20 pages with little effort.

And yet our creative expectations, like love itself, can be fickle. Here today, gone tomorrow. It’s not uncommon for new, assumptive writers to experience that roller-coaster of emotional highs and lows, once the initial rush of balloon-light giddiness dissipates beneath the eventual iron fist of reality. Before long we may begin to sense waves of self-doubt, fading hopes and unexpected stumbling blocks. Some of us will begin to approach our pages, our progress, with a tingling sense of dread. Might starting a novel have been a mistake?

Frequently, as we concoct and/or approach a specific story line, we may realize (correctly or not) that the story inside our head is more difficult to decipher than originally presumed. Maybe the plot sputters, or our premise begins feels weak or clunky. Our characters stop speaking to us or become lost in the fog. So many What if—? questions remain unanswered. So many Now what—? questions feel suddenly impenetrable. Or maybe, 30-50 pages into our story, an even better idea comes to mind. Those feelings are more common than you might think—and knowing when to stop can be as important as knowing when to hunker down and proceed.

It’s perfectly alright to revamp our daydream in another POV, or tell our story in a completely different way. It’s also perfect okay to start a completely new book from scratch. It’s all part of the learning curve, after all, and ’tis far better to disregard 50 or 100 pages and begin anew, rather than belabor to complete an unfulfilling brick of a book that you’ll ultimately stick in a drawer, disgruntled and disillusioned, and perhaps never write again.

Many (most) published writers do have unfinished starter novels and dog-eared notebooks filled with half-baked ideas littering our drawers and PC desktops. Those false starts are also part of the process. We’re still in the process of learning to think like novelists. Sometimes, that development can take years or decades of effort.

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Or, you may be #2: A Pantser. Thirty years ago, the term pantser did not exist—or else did so clandestinely and had yet to evolve into the literary limelight. The term (should you have recently awoken from a coma) defines those freestyle writers among us who write without any perceived forethought or planning or, more often than not, without a clue as to how one’s story might end.

Personally, I love starting a novel with wild abandon, sometimes with only a vague or fuzzy notion of my characters’ personalities/motivations and with a single inciting incident in mind. But within 30-or-so pages I typically realize that I’m confronting too many options to wing it any further.

At that point I begin to outline my next few scenes and/or chapters. And while I shall refrain from mentioning the virtues of outlining yet again, if you’ve missed my last few dozen posts, HERE‘s a quick reminder. Do realize that outlining doesn’t necessarily mean religiously, unerringly, bullet-pointing an entire novel from cover to cover before you begin writing. Outlining can be as brief and as vague as a few jotted lines that jog your creativity or lead you out of a jam or dead end. For me, outlining is also a sort of reality check (can I do this scene differently? Can I do it better?) before I proceed into uncharted waters.

If you’re a pantser and decide outlining doesn’t work for you, at least you’ve eliminated the process as a potentially valuable tool. So it’s worth consideration.

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Or you may be #3: A Daydreamer. (All dressed up and nowhere to go.) We’re all daydreamers, we fiction writers. Ain’t nothing wrong with daydreaming—what’s a novel after all, but a daydream we write down, embellish, and ultimately complete? I’ve known a good many writers who concoct rather brilliant ideas, even come up with a functional synopsis or summary…and then perhaps finish a scene or two, a chapter or two, before realizing that Writing is hard. (Refer again to: A Few Common Obstacles.) For most creative people, concocting boffo story ideas is by far the easy part. The difficulty comes over the next several months, or years, attempting to complete the story you’ve envisioned. It’s not for the feint of heart. Nor for the incredibly busy.

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Or you may be #4: Trying Too Hard. A strange revelation, perhaps—as I’ve spent my entire blog suggesting to writers: Do your best! However, there’s a difference between doing one’s best and obsessing over every word, every comma, phrase, every nuance—because sometimes an over-zealous writer, compulsively, repeatedly editing, can’t see the forest for the trees.

So, yes—there is a Goldilocks Zone—editing/rewriting too much or editing/rewriting too little. Unfortunately, there’s no real litmus test for discovering this zone, other than the writer’s own creative intuition.

However, realize that, as with anything in life, finding balance is crucial. Balance, to a writer, is understanding that ‘writing the perfect novel’ doesn’t exist (See: Perfection) and often times, when seeking perfection—spending hours hovering over a single sentence, or a character’s name, or your book’s title, wondering if a better word/phrase might be found—that may be a sign of trying too hard.

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Or you may be #5: A Closeted Screenwriter. The novel isn’t the only game in town. If you love writing dialogue but hate elaborate scene-setting or nuanced character-building, consider writing a screenplay. A 90-120 page script (translating into a 90-120 minute cinematic runtime), can be completed in a fraction of the time and (imho) far easier to conceive and complete. Ninety percent of a screenplay (more or less) will be dedicated to dialogue. Deep thinking, indecision, unspoken secrets — all are non-existent, unless exposed through dialogue, or VO, or a few dramatically visualized, emotional cues. Scene-setting is reduced to a few lines of often vague information, and yet sufficient for a director to interpret. Thus:

EXTERIOR. SUMMER. DAY. SOMEWHERE IN NEBRASKA. A FARMHOUSE SITS ON A DISTANT HILLSIDE. UNSEEN COWS ‘MOO’ IN THE DISTANCE.

JAKE and MARY SUE walk hand-in-hand down a dirt road toward a tractor shed, where JAKE has parked his old ’67 Flatbed Ford.

MARY SUE
(staring cautiously behind them)

Daddy says I’m not supposed to see you any more. He says if he catches us together he’ll throttle me and kill you.

JAKE
(smirking)

Let ’em try.

MARY SUE

He ain’t jokin’, Jake. I’m scared.

JAKE
(motioning toward the Ford)

Then run away with me, Mary Sue. Today. Right now. We always talked about goin’ off to California. Now’s our chance. Let’s leave this shit-hole, and your no-good excuse of a father, in our dust. No more milkin’ cows. No more takin’ crap from a man who’s far more a drunk than a daddy.

MARY SUE
(frowning)

I can’t just up an’ run, Jake. I can’t leave little Billy alone with that man. Not for a single night. I need to stay an’ protect my baby brother. You know that.

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In a screenplay, you’re choreographing actions (such as driving away) and emotions (fearing a drunk daddy, protecting a vulnerable little boy) largely through dialogue. In a screenplay, your options of revelation to an audience are simple. You’re either depicting visual actions, or else revealing necessary information through relevant dialogue.

It’s up to the writer to convey emotion as simply, as precisely, as possible. One can allude to visual cues (Perhaps we see Mary Sue frowning at Jake’s suggestion to leave, for instance.) But even that nuanced gesture or expression is ultimately in the hands of the director, working in tandem with the actor, to fine-tune those visual cues, based on the blue-print (script) that you’ve provided.

Nor is there need to transmit unnecessarily detailed info to your audience. Let’s look at the aforementioned Nebraska farmhouse for example. Unless that particular structure/color/location is somehow specifically relevant to the plot, it’s simply labeled (in your script) “a farmhouse.” Whether it’s well kept or dilapidated, big or small, white or brown or a pleasant Robin’s Egg Blue, if its description isn’t plot-specific, it’s irrelevant in your script. A set director or location scout will run those potential decisions past the film’s director.

Realize that a script is simply a tool, one of many foundational elements necessary in producing a film. And you, the writer, are simply the “tool maker.” (And a well-paid toolmaker, should your script make it into a film’s production stage.)

But you’re not the end-user. The director wears that crown. And seldom, if ever, will a script be followed verbatim. Some scripts, by the end of a film shoot, may even be unrecognizable by the writer. So just be aware that a great many story-making decisions — those exclusively decided by a novelist (although somewhat massaged by a publisher) — are now under complete control by a director (or a cinematographer or a set-designer). You’re merely providing those folks with a viable roadmap. A director may dramatically alter your story, change your vision in numerous ways, even hire various script-doctors and/or other writers to fulfill certain needs. It’s just part of the process. Film development is a team endeavor. Once the script is complete, a screenwriter simply moves on to another project.

Certainly, pro’s and con’s exist, and should be examined in far more detail than I could ever explain here. (Nor have I ever completed a screenplay, so there’s that!) I highly recommend William Goldman’s Adventures of the Screen Trade. (Goldman wrote Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Marathon Man, The Princess Bride, All the President’s Men…so the guy knew what he was doing.) Also check out Blake Snyder’s Save The Cat.

Writing, selling and marketing a script is a whole ‘nother beast, and in a marketplace far different than traditional book publishing. I have a friend who’s optioned a single script three times. When a screenplay is optioned, typically by a production company or lone producer, your story is in limbo. Meaning that your script hasn’t—yet—been outright purchased, but is being held in escrow as that producer’s exclusive property. No other production company or studio can touch it for a fixed amount time (sometimes a year or more), until that producer either commits to film it or releases all rights back to you.

You are, however, paid a stipend (typically 4-figures, occasionally more) for the luxury of waiting—although there’s no guarantee that a producer will find sufficient money and actually begin production. (If so, you’ll sign a contract and be bumped into a 5- or 6-figure compensation.) And finding yourself with an optioned screenplay is certainly better than having no interest at all.) If your script is ultimately rejected, you’re free to put it back on the market. Some scripts will spend a decade or more, bouncing between various production companies, waiting to find the right fit.

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#6. One final consideration might be: Neurodiversity. Meaning neurodivergent writers. The short definition of neurodivergent is one who may think differently at base neurological levels—specifically someone with a ‘spectrum disorder’ such as ADHD, autism or Asperger’s; those of us who process language and thoughts in non-neurotypical ways.

Okay, so a disclaimer. I don’t really think there’s anyone in this world who’s “normal”. It’s a colloquial, catch-all word that defines… I’m not even sure of what personality type it defines. (Perhaps boring?) I’ve also recently heard the word allistic as a suitable, less-offensive alternative to neurotypical folk. Yet a great many people who don’t consider themselves as neurotypical do consider themselves very neuro-creative. Many of the artists, musicians and writers I know personally are brilliantly off-center in one way or another, and wouldn’t have it any other way. Nor would I.

Yet, throughout history, I suspect a great number of creative folk were neurodivergent—maligned perhaps, and yet managed to successfully publish. (I mean,  you can’t tell me than Poe was just your ho-hum Average Joe.) And as technology has made the writing process easier, or at least more available—voice-to-text dictation apps like Speechnotes, Otter and Dragon come to mind—new methods of “non-traditional writing” are proliferating. And the upcoming acceptance of AI—unless it revolts and kills us all—may make alt-writing methodologies and idea prompts feasible.

The biggest obstacle I’ve heard from neurodivergent writers is how difficult the writing process can be for those of us who ‘think differently.’ While a neurotypical writer may take 10-20 minutes to complete a page, a neurodivergent writer may take days or weeks or months. The information flowing through our brains is there, just that the transition phase—from ethereal daydream to the excruciatingly linear extraction of thoughts on a page—may feel prohibitive. Reading how-to books designed for neurotypical writers can actually dissuade spectrum writers from even trying, because so few of the accepted rules apply.

I can also add my wife to that list of spectrum writers. She’s published two non-fiction books. She’s often told me that her thoughts appear as ‘holographic movements of energy’ inside her head, not in a linear cause-and-effect model that many of us perceive. That transference between head and paper, she says, is often hard to distill, and her process is often tortuous.

I don’t pretend to know the intricacies or underpinnings of the neurodivergent mind. I’m aware, however, that goal-setting is often an issue. So if you find yourself chronically troubled starting a story or book, or having trouble getting through that first chapter or scene or even page one (and you feel that you think a bit differently) perhaps one possible solution is Outlining. An outline is simply a rough guide or roadmap—and can be a relatable buffer when trying to connect the ‘creative idea’ phase of writing and the ‘doing the deed’ phase of putting words on paper in a concerted, organized fashion.

Another option might be, if one’s so included to experiment: Write your book’s first scene or chapter, then write your book’s final scene or chapter—even if your last scene is intuited—vague, but promising. And then connect the dots. Knowing where you’re going (my wife’s told me many times) is essential for soothing the neurodivergent mind. As true in writing as it is in cross-country road trips.

Also, fight the urge to constantly check the clock or count your words. Write at the speed you find most comfortable. Write (and this applies to all writers) what’s fun to write. If you’re not having fun… why bother? Write the story that you want to write—even if you feel that the world’s not ready to hear your voice. (You won’t know if you don’t try.) Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, after all. And there’s no such thing as a ‘normal’ story. Take your time. Don’t write what you feel a neurotypical world might want to read. Write from the heart. Currently, publishers are looking for different approaches from new perspectives from forgotten, maligned and undervalued voices.

Also see First Drafts, for more info on The Idea vs. The Implementation transition. (And why that may matter for neurodivergent writers.)

FYI: There’s a fairly extensive list of neurodivergent writers on Goodreads. The most famous of the neurodivergent novelists (presumed ADHD) was Earnest Hemingway. Which explains much of Hemingway’s stylistic approach, IMHO.

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Not ready to give up on your current manuscript? Not ready to give up the prospect of being a novelist? One final suggestion. Put the manuscript away for at least two weeks. Maybe a month or more. Allow yourself sufficient time to clear your head, or to formulate new ideas (write a short story or two, perhaps?) and then approach your your manuscript with a newfound thrill and a fresh perspective. Sometimes, that down time can work wonders.

 

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Character Development

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A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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How to Create Complex, Interesting
and Memorable Characters
Also: The difference between
plot-driven and character-driven novels.

Allow me to reiterate: A good novel isn’t about What happens. It’s about What happens to whom. This post is all about the whom. Because if readers can’t identify and empathize with your characters, your plot probably won’t matter much.

The simple truth is this: Every plot imaginable has already been written—many, many times over. Plots written today will seldom, if ever, be truly unique. However, your characters are (or can be) utterly unpredictable, oozing with complexity and charisma. Putting new personalities into established (old) plot lines can create the illusion of originality. If your characters are empathetic, readers won’t mind if the plot feels vaguely familiar—and, hey, they might not even notice. Fully developed characters can be memorable and (imho) the key to a successful novel.

But, first! A preamble.
(Plot Driven vs. Plot Driven Stories)

Fiction typically falls into two major classifications: Plot-driven stories and Character-driven stories. By default, a third also exists, the Hybrid novel—a fairly equal combination of plot-development and character-development. Is the hybrid plot structure better? That potentiality depends upon the writer. And the story. And one’s stylistic approach. And one’s audience. We all have our preferences.

Need examples?

J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye is a character-driven novel. It’s all about a teenaged Holden Caulfield and his various attempts to fit into an uncertain, unrelenting society.

Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park is an example of a plot-driven story. It’s all about the dinosaurs, and their escape from captivity. Crichton’s characters are onlookers, instigators or snacks.

Mario Puzo’s The Godfather is a hybrid novel. The books offers a solid sequence of unfolding plots and sub-plots, yet also features a great, fully-formed ensemble cast. (I consider most sagas and serials to be hybrid efforts.)

Typically, in a character-driven (CD) novel, a story’s focus centers on a character or characters who encounter a plot—or more typically a series of semi-relevant plots or adventures, rather than the singular event that dictates the characters’ roles throughout the story. The author is internalizing much of the story—via thought bubbles (internal monologue) and strong (or unique, or eclectic, or eccentric) POVs. And while a character’s growth arc isn’t absolutely necessary in a CD novel, it’s anticipated. And strongly advised.

In a plot-driven (PD) novel, a singular ‘umbrella’ plot typically takes precedence over a character or characters who are driven or forced into action solely by the plot’s unfolding. One’s inciting incident usually gets the ball rolling. A PD story is often revealed externally (visually) rather than focusing on the personality (or emotional stability or the inner complexities) of a character—or more commonly will contain a group of diverse characters, rather than a single POV. Together, these characters can provide various, disparate, often conflictive, perspectives as the plot unfolds.

As previously stated (See Simple, But Exciting), a novel consists of three main components: 1. Solid plot-momentum; 2. Solid character development, and; 3. Appropriate scene/realm building. When writing a novel, little else matters. Structurally, a PD novel may contain a far greater percentage of plot structure and a relatively smaller amount of character development. Conversely a CD novel will contain a greater percentage of character development—and likely a greater insight into a character’s inner being. Scene/realm building is equally important in both formats.

In Mark Helprin’s character-driven Winter’s Tale, a magically-tinged reality sets an elegant, almost fairy-tale quality to accentuate the mythic qualities of Peter Lake, the story’s MC. It’s difficult to separate the complexity of the book’s grounding (scene-setting) from the personalities who inhabit the story—and only serves to strengthen the bond between author and reader.

In Tom Clancy’s plot-centric techno thriller The Hunt For Red October, the same rules apply, Clancy providing proper grounding for a target (techno-savvy!) reader base. Clancy spends an inordinate amount of time describing the technical details and operational components of a Soviet Tycoon-class submarine—and those fictional sailors aboard the Red October better damn well know those features as well. And although Clancy’s characters remain largely focused on the emerging plot (one will seldom see Jack Ryan at a PTA meeting, for instance) they remain complex enough to keep the drama riveting.

Whether character-driven or a plot-driven, both formats require proper grounding. (See Scene-Setting.) So don’t skimp on building a suitable location or realm that will suspend disbelief. Grounding readers also requires a good deal of continuity (AKA, a character’s choreography from scene to scene). So be sure to update every character’s current environment before continuing forward plot momentum. Has night fallen? Have several hours, days, weeks passed between scenes? Has a character moved from a deep forest wood to a bustling city? Has a character’s mood or emotions changed? Has a bright, sunny morning turned to a gray, rainy afternoon?

How do you acknowledge new characters who first appear in a scene? One suggestion: don’t just throw readers a random name—give each character a bit of personality and/or motivation as well. Just a line or two is sufficient for the moment. If that character is to reappear again in the story, give them sufficient identity for readers to remember them 5 or 10 or 50 pages hence. One not need build an elaborate dossier every time you introduce or re-acquaint readers with a character, but drop a few hints about who this new character might be. Such as:

“Hello,” Richard said. “I’m your new neighbor.“
“Hello, Nice to meet you,” Richard replied.

Might become: “Hello,” the young man said, smiling broadly, holding out a bottle of pino noir. “Welcome to the neighborhood. My name’s Richard. I live next door.”
‘. . . . .” “Nice to meet you,” Phil replied. He couldn’t help notice the ragged scar that sliced across Richard’s cheek. An old war wound, Phil assumed, shaking his new neighbor’s outstretched hand, returning the smile, albeit warily.

That’s all it takes—a snippet of personality, an off-hand comment, a curious presumption. Readers will remember those small touches, if adroitly placed.

Occasionally, an avant-garde or experimental story idea may come along, offering little more than riveting dialogue from unique personalities. Solomon Northup’s Twelve Years a Slave, or example. Or Manuel Puig’s richly intimate, dialogue-heavy The Kiss of the Spider Woman. Or—and these are cinematic examples, BTW—1981’s My Dinner With Andre and 1990’s Mindwalk. These plot-lite stories may only hint at any sort of tangible story line. The unfolding drama stems wholly from dialogue and personality/perspective.

Building the Basic Beast: What to Consider.

When you begin to write a story, you’re introducing characters who are new to you, and also new to readers. However, these paper-people have been (theoretically) living full, complex lives long before they appear on the page. Thus, even if your plot dictates that your characters attempt to save the world—rocket scientists who discover a giant meteor about to obliterate Mankind, for instance—they have presumably led full lives filled with various ups and downs. Some have perhaps endured difficult childhoods, lost (or won) love and probably come into focus with a great deal of emotional baggage. What to omit? What to include? And when? That’s up to you. Do you immediately describe their past lives in great detail to readers? Absolutely not! But it’s important that you know who they are, and who they’ve been, and what makes them tick. And then you begin to parse those personalities/POV’s/motivations slowly to readers.

In other words, if the end of the world is around the proverbial corner, the rent’s still due, or maybe your MC’s getting divorced, or someone’s having mother-in-law issues or has a runaway kid sister. Maybe somebody discovers that the meteor’s actually a giant diamond and thwarts any effort to destroy it before he can scoop up a fortune for himself. The more conflicted or erratic or flawed your characters, the more likely they’ll feel “real” to your audience. Readers love relatable (and yet unpredictable) characters.

So bring your characters into your story fully formed…at least inside your head.

However! I do think it’s important to reveal certain atypical, physical traits ASAP. For instance, if a character stands 7-foot tall, or is wheelchair-bound, or is a pointy-eared, 3-foot tall Orc, readers don’t want to be surprised to discover such visual attributes 100+ pages into the story. Introduce those atypical aspects as soon as you can, to help readers create a reasonable mental image of your cast.

In this age of fractured cultural norms and political correctness, one should be aware of treading carefully if a character is Black in a sea of white faces, (or, a white face in a sea of otherwise Black characters.) So give readers visual clues ASAP. Avoid stereotyping or using outdated clichés as shortcuts.

For instance, if Edward’s lost a leg, long ago in some obscure Afghanistan battle, mention it once and, unless there’s a plot-specific reason, don’t mention it again. So I strongly suggest not mentioning Ed’s a one-legged Afghan vet every time he appears on a page. Give your readers credit for remembering such characteristics and traits.

The same rule applies to atypical emotional traits—PTSD, ADHD, Asperger’s, co-dependency, malevolent narcissism, severe anxiety, insanity. You need not directly reveal these traits upon introduction (or ever, unless relevant to your story) and can hint or imply such neuro-divergency through speech patterns, or dialogue, or other characters’ speculations. Or simply allow readers to deduce such traits for themselves.

A few potentially major stumbles that some writers (and many new writers) make are believing that:

  1. Your characters are here only to serve your plot.
  2. Your characters must be fully developed immediately upon introduction.
  3. Your characters are ‘born’ the moment you introduce them on the page.
  4. Dialogue (and linguistic patterns) aren’t that important….

Let’s evaluate each.

1. Your characters are only here to serve your plot.

Not so! It’s probably more accurate to say that your plot’s here to serve your characters. Your characters are your story’s sensual presence. It’s through their fears, or curiosity or humor or warmth or love that readers will respond to the humanistic quality of your story. Without characters present, a giant meteor hurling toward Earth is simply a story about two rocks colliding. But place a handful of likeable astronauts and physicists and that one, young, misunderstood assistant rocket-scientist with a crazy idea of how to save the planet—and now you’re ready to manipulate the emotions and gain the empathy of a bejillion breathless readers.

2. Characters must be fully developed immediately upon introduction.

Nope. Nobody wants to read a dossier on page 1. By gradually revealing fragments of proper scene-setting (your story’s physical realm) and plot momentum (leading readers from here to there), you’re gradually revealing various snippets of a character’s personality as well. You’re basically teasing readers—challenging them to read on and discover more about the people who inhabit your story. Every scene you write should contain all three elements—a little of this, a little of that, and then a bit of the other. Meaning a writer can allude to a physical appearance, a personality (quirks and all) and possible plot-related motivations over several scenes or chapters. It’s okay to tease readers about those paper-people who inhabit your book. Sure—just as IRL—it’s fine to make a memorable first impression, but give readers room to gradually acquaint themselves. Curiosity is a great motivator—and a motivated reader will turn page after page after page….

3. Your characters are ‘born’ the moment you introduce them on the page.

This one’s tricky. You, the writer, have soooo much to reveal about the characters in your story. However, it’s important to realize that these people existed (existentially, of course) long before you decided to drop them onto the page. Some are going through personal issues—an impending marriage, or divorce, or maybe one has a gambling addiction, or is confronting a recent, tenuous sobriety, or maybe has a kid sister who disappeared 14 years ago—all of which may have little or nothing to do with your primary plot. (…or might they?)

Secondary plot-lines can have tremendous value in character-building. A singular plot, with various characters auto-focused on a single resolution… sorry, but that can get tedious or monotonous. However, give characters additional issue or problems (“What do you mean my check bounced?”) can infuse nuance, rapport, insight and empathy to your characters. I mean imagine that the aforementioned meteor’s going to strike Earth in 23 days. And your MC’s just been evicted from her apartment. Throwing obstacles large and small can humanize your story and make your paper-people feel very, very real.

4. Dialogue isn’t that important.

Dialogue can make a break your story. Good dialogue can transform cardboard characters into real people. Great dialogue can transform well-written characters into literary icons.

“I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.” This infamous line from the lips of author Thomas Harris’s far-from-vegan Hannibal Lecter. Or take George R.R. Martin’s classic, off repeated line; “Hodor!” Because sometimes a single word (even from a minor character!) can reveal an astounding character-trait or plot device that might just become eternally meme-able. Such is the power of dialogue.

Other memorable quotes? How about:

“You know how to whistle, don’t you Steve? You just put your lips together and blow.” Lauren Bacall to Humphrey Bogart in To Have And Have Not.

“It was a pleasure to burn.” Montag in Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451.

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.“ Jaques in Shakespeare’s As You Like It. (Not to mention Hamlet’s “To be, or not to be….” a line that’s almost become a parody of famous literary quotes.)

“After all, tomorrow is another day.” Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind. (As well as Clark Gable’s—as Rhett Butler—“Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”) BTW, In 1939 the Hays-Code era censors went ballistic with this one.

“Time is the longest distance between two places.” Tom Wingfield in Tennesee Williams’ The Glass Menagerie.

“My God. It’s full of stars!” Keir Dullea—as David Bowman—in Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey.

…but I digress!

I suspect that few/none of these memorable quotes are accidental comments. None feel ‘off the cuff.’ Meaning I cannot emphasize enough the importance of well-considered dialogue.

They say that the eyes are windows to the soul. In fiction, dialogue is the window to each character’s soul. (See Dialogue—parts 1-thru-8—for more in-depth info.) However, in the here and now, do realize that for many writers, dialogue adds the necessary depth to produce well-developed characters. For those writing a story in First Person POV, internal monologue (What secret is Emma keeping from me, I wondered. What isn’t she telling me?) is as equally important; absolutely essential for readers to fully understanding the complexity of your solitary MC. I’m aware of some novelists who try to avoid inner monologue (a fear of deep emotional commitment perhaps?) when writing First Person narratives—but I wouldn’t recommend it. IMHO, First Person POV demands that type of soul searching. If plumbing the depths of a character’s soul isn’t as important to you as developing nifty, Adrenalin-packed plot structures, then I suggest sticking to writing in Third Person POV. (…which isn’t a slam, BTW, just an observation. We write what we write best!)

One last word of a advice. A fictional character should (typically, but not always) be larger than life in certain ways. I’m not talking superhero type awesomeness; just that novelists typically emphasize both the good and bad in everyday people. All my protagonists are a bit smarter, better looking, nicer and far more extroverted than I’ll ever be. Everyday people inhabit an everyday world. But in fiction feel rather blasé—so accentuate and embellish whenever possible.

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Story vs. Plot

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A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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Story vs. Plot. What’s the dif?
(Also: How to resolve the
“My story’s-too-short” dilemma)

I’m aware of confusion among many newbie novelists concerning the difference(s) between plotting and storytelling. So what exactly is a plot? What exactly is a story? Are plotting and storytelling identical? While the two terms might appear synonymous upon first glance—they are not.

A fictional plot contains a series or sequence of events, circumstances or the collective steps of a journey (physical, emotional, spiritual) that typically begins with an inciting incident and unravel in linear fashion—from your story’s Once Upon A Time… until the conclusive The End.

A story is a fusion of the three primary components necessary to create a complete, believable fictional reality. A story must include: 1. Plot momentum, as well as; 2. Character development, and; 3. Proper (meaning sufficient) scene-setting. A good story will seamlessly blend all three components — and will comprise little else. (See Simple, But Exciting.)

Character development should be self-explanatory. That is, the deeper, more fully formed and complex your characters, the truer-to-life those paper-people will become to readers. Insufficient (wooden, superficial, mundane, re-active*) characters lack the charm, attitude, unique individualism and compassion (for a protagonist) or else lack sufficient heartless, conniving and/or downright evil (your antagonist) qualities. Pro-active characters will skillfully, creatively and intuitively create or solve problems — and proactive protagonists won’t simply and repeatedly react to whatever obstacles a writer dumps in their way.

Proper scene-setting is more than simply visualizing a bare-bones environment for readers. Scene-setting means providing characters with proper stage-setting, and the subtle visualization of all necessary elements in a scene. Scene-setting also allows readers to occasionally stop and smell the flowers (for no other reason than stopping to smell the flowers). With each new scene or chapter you begin, it’s imperative to update (if necessary) the scene’s new whereabouts, any new time frame—has darkness fallen? Have days passed? You’re even noting any mood or emotional shifts in your characters. Your job is to note any relevant changes and make the appropriate updates.

Scene-setting also means providing readers with necessary sounds, smells, and attitudes… so don’t skimp on using a multitude of senses. The aroma of a sizzling steak or the screech of a hungry osprey can be as emotionally relevant to readers as defining a quaint village, a crumbling hillside castle, an angry sea or a cadmium colored sunset. In terms of a timeline, do you begin your new scene on a new day (or night), the following day, next Tuesday, or 2027? So if your last chapter ends around noon, and 10 or 12 pages into your new chapter, readers discover street lamps aglow, you’d have better revealed to us right up front that night has indeed fallen.

Or, to put it very simply:

PLOT: Is what happens.

STORY: Is what happens to whom.

Need more prompting? Okay, so let’s say you want to write a story about a ship sinking. Let’s call this tub the R.M.S. Titanic. A rough outline of your plot might be that of an unsinkable ocean liner speeding across the Atlantic, hitting an iceberg and gradually descending into the icy depths of history. Good plot (and certainly the tragedy’s been written enough). The choreography of the ship’s sinking — the unseen iceberg, the waterproof bulkheads failing, the boilers blowing up, the eventual founding and the ship ultimately splitting in two — that all makes for a riveting plot. But where are the people? How do they cope? Without a host of characters integrated into your story, you’ve basically written a book about buoyancy, or the lack thereof.

But put 2240 souls aboard that sinking ship — and perhaps focus on a dozen of those passengers, each with a different, dramatic, chaotic story to tell — now you’ve turned that very basic plot idea into a very spine-tingly, emotional story. Who’s the hero? Who’s the coward? Who survives? Who doesn’t? Who watches their loved ones go down with the ship? Again, a good story isn’t necessary about the what, it’s about the who.

Finding yourself with a too-short page count?

Newer writers, working on early drafts, tend to work primarily on plot-development first and foremost—which is perfectly okay. When you’re in draft mode, ain’t nothing wrong with defining your plot from beginning to end before you begin to embellish and elaborate. After all, you want to know where you’re going and how to get there. But once a writer’s sure of that destination, it’s all about plumping up character personalities and motivations, and grounding readers in the here and now.

Typically (and this is a generic observation… exceptions always exist) for every 100 pages of plot momentum, one can easily write 100 pages of character development as well, some of which may directly or indirectly influence your plot as well, but can also add back-stories or side-stories or include secondary characters who fail at their tasks (or intentionally thwart your MCs…who then have to try again). And a writer can easily add 50-100 pages of scene-setting, exploring/explaining realms, adding visual excitement to scenes. Heck, some writers (and George R.R. Martin comes to mind) can write a dozen pages simply visualizing a feast, setting the table and choreographing a scene before the action even begins.

So if you find your characters moving mechanically through the book, mindlessly following the plot—realize that there’s room for all sorts of embellishment and unexpected twists and nuance. How many times have you seen a character fail to start a car, when time is of the essence? Those few moments of frustration aren’t directly plot-related, they’re intentional interludes meant to add tension and drama. You’re upping the emotional ante and giving readers additional reasons to turn the page.

Should you decide to throw in a few extra characters to foil your MC’s efforts, you can add dozens or hundreds of pages to a manuscript that don’t directly influence/effect the plot, but that add to the overall thrill ride. Not to mention that you’re creating characters far more exciting (clever or scary, unlucky or frivolous or devious…or whatever) for readers to discover.

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* What’s a reactive character? That’s a character who’s always (or most often) responsive to an unfolding plot. Reactive characters typically resolve obstacles through luck or <gasp!> coincidence. (More than one or two discreetly placed coincidences and your novel may begin to feel fake or unbelievable.)

A reactive character wanders from scene to scene, and has little need for personal growth (See: Character Arcs), rational deduction, fortitude or tenacity. Sure, protagonists often initially react to initial drama or danger (again, your novel’s inciting incident) and occasionally to various situations beyond their control, but once a protagonist is motivated, it’s up to him/her to actively confront said drama or danger, to make important decisions and take control of the situation, no matter the risk.

For instance, your disgruntled PI can’t simply solve a crime by sheer luck alone, blundering into clues and having witnesses suddenly pop out of the woodwork, pointing fingers. Your gumshoe must make logical, skillful pro-active choices to solve the case. Or maybe your MC wins the lottery. (Somebody has to. Why not her?) But a character who’s flat broke, finds a dollar bill on the sidewalk and then spends it to win a billion dollar lottery, a day before her eviction, divorce and potential suicide? That’s borderline coincidental. So is the cop who defuses a bomb with 3 seconds remaining on the timer. (How many times have you seen that one? It’s not only coincidental, it’s pretty much a cliché.) Your protagonist(s) must actively rely on their cunning and knowledge to survive (or fall in love, or solve a dilemma or win the big game, or whatever). Sure, protagonists must be occasionally lucky… but too damn lucky? Unless you have an ironclad reason — a literary equivalent of a last-second Hail Mary Pass that wins the Superbowl — that’s pretty much taboo.

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Emotional Triggers

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Understanding Our Behavioral Triggers

Commentary by
Eileen Workman

FATIGUE, STRESS, CONFUSION, fear and anxiety too often serve as behavioral triggers, causing many of us to abandon our emotional centers and jettison our inner peacefulness out of the mistaken belief that we can “fix” our feelings by fixing our surroundings.

The problem with that assessment?

These “surroundings” often include other people who have little to no idea that we are experiencing any of the above emotional symptoms. So when we direct attention outward and misidentify “others” as the source of our triggering, we actually bypass our own deepest source wisdom that is lovingly informing us what we truly need.

Why do we experience these symptoms in the first place? We experience fatigue because our body signals that it needs rest and recharging.
We experience confusion because our mind signals that cognitive dissonance has arisen and we need to relax and stop trying so hard to make sense of what we don’t yet understand.

We experience fear because our emotional body is signaling an urgent need to move away from vibrational frequencies we feel, but cannot see.
We experience stress and anxiety because our entire system begs for relief when we have over-invested in past stories and future expectations.
Notice that these signals are internal mechanisms designed to inform us how to be or not be—not to inform us how to change or fix others, or how to change or fix our environment.

Too often, we interpret our own inner distress as motivation to blame, shame, or guilt “others” into radically altering their own behaviors so that we no longer need to experience these important feedback signals. But what happens when we take radical self-responsibility for attending to these inner feedback loops and use them to inform us what needs changing—within our personal field of awareness?

When fatigue arises while we are in a public setting, we can gracefully extract ourselves and go rest as a form of loving self-care.

When confusion arises while we are engaging in dialogue, we can take a moment to breathe in and allow the mind to calm itself, or we can simply drop our attachment to thinking “about” whatever seems to be troubling us in the moment.

When fear arises, we can come more present and aware of why the frequency of fear has arisen. If it’s a genuine emergency, we can move away from the perceived threat. If the fear has arisen because we have misinterpreted the vibrational frequency of others as “dangerous” to our well-being we can relax and allow the feeling to pass, because likely it’s simply an echo of a past situation.

When stress and anxiety occur, we can realize these signals serve as invitations for us to come more alive to THIS present moment and to be lovingly and tenderly compassionate with ourselves.

This does not mean we stop changing things, or that others will now not ever change because we haven’t actively sought to fix them. What it does mean?

We have reclaimed our inner power to reconnect with our souls, hearts, minds, and bodies in ways that best serve us, without us needing to apply physical force, the emotional abuse of shaming or blaming or guilting, or the mentally prompted repression of others in order to “fix” what presently disturbs us.

Embracing and honoring the wisdom of our own inner feedback loops empowers us to live our healthiest, happiest, and most creative lives with peaceful intentionality.

— Eileen Workman
Author of Raindrops of Love For a Thirsty World
and Sacred Economics (The Currency of Life)

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