What’s your intention?

Posted on August 23, 2014 by Dave Workman

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A blog for fiction writers and impending writers. An editor’s perspective.

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What’s Your Intention?

Each chapter (or individual scene) that we write must have a specific intention. Sometimes in frenetic scenes, we might suggest multiple intentions, but one in particular—the scene’s major premise—should dominate. (Other concepts—a scene’s minor premise(s)—can be alluded to or hinted at, but those concepts will be more fully developed at a later scene, a more appropriate time.) Writing is a linear* process, so each intention should have a specific, chronological time and place. And why outlining scenes can be so important. We must give ourselves (or at least visualize) a logical roadmap and an eventual exit strategy for each scene we write.

Our goal, of course, is to propel the story rationally forward in terms of: scene-setting, character-setting and/or plot development. Each scene has, to some degree, a beginning, a middle and a conclusion—or if not a definitive conclusion, a consequence. A predicament. A mystery. Each scene moves the reader from here to there (or to almost there) with both precision and passion.

Even truncated scenes, brief interludes and segues—often the most difficult scenes to write—have an intention, if only to kill time (The icy grip of winter passed slowly while Martin languished in prison.) or to change a location (The next morning, Wendy took Flight 857 to Zurich.) or to shift POV and/or the reader’s attention (“But enough about me, Bernard. How was your summer?“) Thus, each chapter—each scene, paragraph and every line within—must be lovingly manipulated to best accomplish that task at hand, and then provide a smooth and believable transition to the next task at hand. Which would be writing the subsequent scene. When we’ve finished writing a scene, it’s probably a good idea to double-check both it’s clarity and its intended purpose: Have I sufficiently clarified the scene’s purpose? Have I whittled away unintended and extraneous prose? How has this scene advanced my story? Does this scene’s conclusion aptly set up the next scene or chapter? Or, should you be writing a cliff-hanger, does the scene snap at just the appropriate moment, creating urgency or uncertainly or sufficient dramatic impact? If we can’t mentally validate those objectives, we probably need to rethink the purpose, or the construction, of that scene.

Remember, whatever a scene’s intention, our underlying stylistic and mechanical approach must remain sacrosanct: clear and concise sentence construction, told dramatically and passionately.

For instance, while editing, I’ll sometimes come across a scene containing a character who is confused or muddled (or an amnesiac or drugged or dreaming) and the writer had decided to mirror the character’s vague and perplexed state by writing vague and perplexing prose. Absolutely not! Rule #29: Your characters may be elusive or distracted, but your prose must remain clear and concise. The writer must always maintain clarity, and in solid communication with the reader.

This excerpt, the opening of the cyber-thriller Mind Games, an unfinished (but oh-so-hopeful) manuscript by yours truly:

He remembered only colors.

Neon spirals morphed into a myriad of indecipherable images, bright kaleidoscopic fragments of light that filled his sleeping mind—colors he had never before known, nor would remember again. He felt both terror and awe as his brain swam chaotically through the illusion, seeking the encroaching pallor of consciousness. Finally, exhausted, he opened his eyes to an empty room, the residue of color fading from memory. The dim haze of approaching dawn painted the small room’s only window and, rising unsteadily from a dirty linoleum floor, he peered toward an unknown and distant landscape, mute with the greys and browns of an unwelcomed reality.

The intention here being the introduction of a character in the midst of an undefined mental anguish, perhaps on the verge of emotional collapse. And yet told—one might hope—with a lucidity that hints of both a specific setting and the character’s state-of-mind. A writer might include the character’s name—but then again, why? A nameless character feels more disconnected, uncertain. Or a writer might want to include the character’s age or visual description or where he was born—but all these attributes are unnecessary at the moment, and only serve to slow the pacing and the scene’s intent: to portray somebody emerging from unconsciousness. Readers will intuit that many other aspects of this character will appear in subsequent pages. If we’ve done our job as writers, those readers are willing to wait for further clues, enjoying the mystique and uncertainty of the moment. And, as writers, we’re enjoying this game of parsing out suspense, one bread crumb at a time.

Hollywood’s directors are often screaming at struggling actors; “What’s your motivation?!” In fiction writing, that relentless director inside your head should be screaming those same words. What are my intentions on this page! What am I trying to achieve here? If you’re writing a visually intense action scene, (a battle, two lovers embracing, hoards of blood-thirsty zombies) are you providing sufficient clarity, grounding the reader in sights, sounds and textural richness? In an action scene, are you including only what’s visually necessary to create excitement; excluding prose that might slow pacing; e.g.; random conversations about the weather or who’s winning the Super Bowl? When being chased by zombies, the only thing on a character’s mind is escaping the undead with an intact brain.

All that idle chitchat and thoughts about mom’s apple pie—that will come either before or after the action. (Because one should always juxtapose scenes of action with info. (For more details, see Active Voice.)

In other words, in action scenes, our intention is to embroil readers in a rush of adrenaline. The verbiage above, in red, may indeed be integral to the story—but not here. No flashbacks. No philosophical rhetoric. No irrelevant supposition. This is a literary inhale (action!) after all. The extraneous facts are the exhale (Refer to Rule #8 again, if need be)… and belong elsewhere, when the action is complete, or before it begins.

Or, should two characters fall in love, are we clearly identifying those essential characteristics—two young, confused lovers pondering their next move as a couple? Even if our lovers are doomed to ultimately fail, are we clearly elucidating only those first tender moments—and not telegraphing the heartache that will appear 200 pages later? Because revealing too much is as erroneous as revealing too little. Our intention—in this particular scene—is to delve into their burgeoning passion. What comes before and what occurs next—well, everything in its own sweet time. (See Rule #16: Focus on the now.)

*Linear. Defined by Mr. Webster as: Progressing from one stage to another in a single series of steps; sequential. Meaning (for writers) one word at a time, word after word after word, and also one coherent, complete thought/concept at a time. Try squeezing too many concepts, or fragments of concepts, into a paragraph or scene and now you have chaos. Confusion. Incomplete thoughts, uncertain interruptions, a lack of continuity or direction. So, take your time! Complete your intention before moving to another.
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Show. Don’t Tell.

Posted on August 4, 2014 by Dave Workman

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A blog for fiction writers and impending writers. An editor’s perspective.

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Readers don’t want an encyclopedic
rendition of what you know about vampires,
A reader wants to feel those fangs
sinking into that poor woman’s naked flesh.
(Also: Exploring E-Prime Writing.)

Show, don’t tell. Most writers are at least vaguely aware of the adage. Yet some of us continue to persist in taking shortcuts that strip the passion and vision from our creative intentions.

However, since the phrase show, don’t tell is bandied about so often, it’s not always easy to glimpse that archetypal forest through the proverbial trees. Perhaps the time has come to dissect its meaning, splatter some metaphoric blood, and see what makes the damn thing tick.

A writer I know once elucidated, rather ineloquently; “It means make love to me with your prose; don’t just fuck me with words.”

Or, as Wikipedia states: ‘Show, don’t tell’ is a technique often employed…to enable the reader to experience the story through action, thoughts, senses, and feelings rather than through the author’s exposition and summation.

Simply stated, some writers are so busy telling us a bare-bones story¹ that they forget to show us the underlying excitement. John came home. He went upstairs. He found his wife lying in a pool of blood. John ran screaming out the door, and then he called the police. An hour later, an old sergeant named O’Mally said; “It looks like murder, Mr. Smith. And you’re our only suspect.”

The above writing may be plot-driven, but it lacks passion—the narration is simply a dry “shopping list” of chronological events. We might see John, but we certainly don’t know John. But by showing readers who John is, and not directly telling us, the writer can offer glimpses into John’s soul while still gradually revealing John’s story, allowing us a long, honest look inside John’s mind. Readers can begin to know John’s personality, ponder his motivations, even if we don’t know for sure whether or not John murdered his wife. That John isn’t telling the reader (yet!) isn’t a stylistic problem…it’s building suspense.

There’s been a recent influx of fiction writers who strictly adhere to the principle of E-Prime (short for English Prime) storytelling, and that is to avoid the use of the often bland or inexpressive ‘to be’ verbs. (He was unhappy. They were hungry.) E-Prime verbs also exclude language (such as wanted, thought, believed, hoped, felt, loved or hated, bad or good…) that can lead to passive, uninspired voice. Or, in other words, lazy writing.

I do equate showing with Active Voice and telling with Passive Voice. Not that sensory details and voice structure are synonymous, but they are compatible. I usually find that a writer plugged into the showing/not telling psychology is likely more aware of the importance of exciting, passionate writing. To me, a good novel is one that continually imparts basic grammar and story-telling mechanics (Subject-Verb-Object)² with a powerful, dramatic voice.

I consider the above-mentioned exposition and summation to be lazy writing. Or at least tired writing. (Certain stylistic machinations can effectively work, if properly orchestrated.) But let’s face it, even Hemingway used active voice only marginally—imho—and often slipped into a dispassionate “telling”. Would Hemingway be published today? Interesting question.

Because if you find yourself constantly beginning sentences with: “It was…” or “He was…” or “They were…” you’re pretty much writing in a passive, superficial voice that most readers will discover devoid of feeling. I guarantee that 9 times from 10, a writer can easily find a more passionate resonance.

Consider: Jayden overslept. Or, Jayden was late for work.

With little effort, one can concoct a variety of active, far more visual solutions to stimulate excitement:

The alarm bell’s shrill scream sliced through Jayden’s sleeping brain like a hot knife.

Jayden hated mornings. He hated the sunlight playing peek-a-boo through his blinds, tormenting his eyelids with brain-numbing brightness.

Jayden hazily recalled having closed Wiley’s Tavern the previous night with a final whiskey sour, grinding out his last cigarette twenty minutes later. He dreaded the encroaching dawn with a mental anguish that bordered on physical pain.

Thus, even the ordinary can become an unexpected and pleasurable experience for the reader. Plots are finite. Imagination is not.

Passion should be—must be—a staple constant in your novel. If you find yourself writing dispassionately, ask yourself whether the content belongs in your book. Often, you’ll discover the material extraneous, or redundant, or not fully refined, and your brain’s sending you signals. If your brain doesn’t want to be here… a reader probably won’t want to be either.

Writing is passion. If you don’t consider a novel as you would a jealous lover with expensive tastes—one requiring the diligence, the selflessness, the patience and the isolation (from all your other friends)—think again. And if you’re not ready for the commitment, perhaps its time to find a new lover.

¹ Understand that the ‘Show, Don’t Tell’ axiom isn’t a license to kill. Numbing a reader’s senses with unchecked imaginative spewing isn’t going to play either. So stay away from this sort of showboat overload: The fiery explosion of daybreak shattered the tranquility of Jayden’s repose, scattering his thoughts into a billion imprecise fragments that danced in tiny pirouettes throughout his subconscious mind as might a shower of meteors bursting toward far-off galaxies on their disparate journeys through the harsh, relenting silence of space, poor Jayden never again to know the love of a good woman or the taste of a good beer.

Because simple, coherent prose is the yin to creativity’s yang. So, yes—free the reader’s senses to run wild, but do so in basic, uncomplicated sentence structure: Cogent thoughts, simply told, in precise chronology.

²Subject + Verb + Object (SVO); otherwise known as Active voice. Conversely, OVS is often viewed as Passive voice. Consider—once again, because it’s important—the Jumping Cow Rule:

Active: The cow jumped over the moon. (SVO)
Passive: The moon was jumped over by the cow. (OVS)
 Bad passive: It was the moon that was jumped over by the cow. (O,OVS)

‘It’ being an abstract representation of the object (and also a repetition of that object): Basically a clunky sentence structure… although the rare exception exists when you might find this phraseology perfect for your needs. If so, by all means use it:

“It was beauty that killed the beast.” (Fictional Carl Denim in King Kong.) And how could that line have been spoken any other way?

Rules can be broken…but sparingly, please.
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Action/Reaction

Posted on July 1, 2014 by Dave Workman

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A blog for fiction writers and impending writers. An editor’s perspective.

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Action/Reaction.

Sir Isaac Newton should have been a fiction writer. When one of the most famous minds of the 15th century proposed his 3rd Law of Motion; that For every action force there is an equal and opposite reaction force, he may as well have been speaking at a writer’s workshop, wearing corduroy and sipping a cappuccino.

Because old Fig was absolutely correct. This rule applies not only to the nature of the universe, but to the nature of literature as well. Because for every action one writes in fiction, one should create a reaction. Conversely, for every reaction one writes, there must be a new action (or a re-reaction.)

We shall make that Rule #10: In fiction, for every action, provide a reaction.

Life’s like that. Reality’s like that. Fiction’s like that too—at least good fiction. Why? Because that’s the way our brain registers life.

An example:

Action: Jason pulled a pistol and pointed the weapon quite calmly at his wife’s head.
Reaction: Martha screamed.

However, let’s back step a bit:

Action: Martha stormed into the den, where her husband sat, writing a letter. “You’re an evil, conniving bastard,” she screamed, raising a kitchen knife. “I’m going to kill you!”
Reaction: Jason pulled a pistol and pointed the weapon calmly at his wife’s head.

And again, another back step:

Action: Martha’s brother, Bob, a Morristown deputy sheriff, revealed on the phone that he had proof Jason murdered their mother to claim the insurance money. Bob told Martha not to “do anything stupid” until he got there.
Reaction: Martha stormed into the den. “You’re an evil, conniving bastard,” she screamed, raising the knife. “I’m going to kill you!”

One more hit, bartender:

Action: Martha’s ex-lover, Bruce, erroneously told Sheriff Bob that a surveillance camera had captured the image of Jason, killing his mother. (Although the man in the surveillance photo was really Phil, Jason’s long-missing twin brother.)
Reaction: Bob told Martha that he had proof it was Jason who murdered their mother to claim the insurance money.

See how this works? (The principle applies seamlessly as forward chronology as well.) An entire novel is essentially a ping-pong game of actions and reactions—each reaction also becoming an action in its own right.

A good novel is the literary perception of the Butterfly Effect—mathematician Edward Lorenz’s example of chaos theory—in which a small change (the air movement created by the flap of a butterfly’s wing) could conceivably create a much larger phenomenon; theoretically in Lorenz’s case a hurricane. Filmdom is filled with such examples (ironically including the time-traveling head-scratcher The Butterfly Effect). Another nifty example is 2003’s John Cusack-starring film, Max. In Germany, a Jewish art dealer befriends a young, unpopular, confused artist named Adolf Hitler. A tenuous friendship blossoms. Yet—sorry, a spoiler!—when Max is indiscriminately killed by thugs, an enraged Adolf Hitler forgets his budding art career and becomes—well, y’know. In terms of dramatic impact, a very good example. A terrific film.

After all, who are we as writers, if not those who can ask; “What if?”

Breaking the Rules (Sort of)

Simple? Ah, but what about this scenario:

Action: “Mrs. Tummins,” said the brain surgeon, “your loving Harold, your husband of 21 years, the father of your children, the keeper of the magic key, did not survive the operation.”
Reaction: “Thank you, doctor,” replied Mrs. Tummins calmly. She walked outside without another word, across the street to the Nuvo Café and ordered espresso and a bagel. She began flirting shamelessly with the waiter.

A valid reaction? On the surface, it’s an avoidance. Mrs. Tummins’ sudden, nonchalant detachment provides us with a delicious response—but not quite the reaction anyone might expect. If readers have already been introduced to Mrs. T as a rational, loving wife, then—for the moment—the writer’s got us hooked. But a writer has to keep us on that hook. We’re looking for an ultimate reaction. And if Mrs. T’s response isn’t ultimately revealed… then it becomes a bit of negligent plotting. (And, no—it’s not up to a reader to “determine” her rationale. That’s a cop out. It’s the writer’s job to divulge.) See: Rule #17: Don’t hide from your characters. (…coming soon.)

A sly writer may not reveal Mrs. Tummins’s inner truth until the next page or the next scene or even late in Act III—but her eventual reaction is crucial for the story. If Harold’s death proves unimportant to her, then why should it be important to us? So if Mrs. T’s reaction is never explained, her action remains an avoidance… and thus the action/reaction principle stalls. Miscue a few reactions as avoidances and the book may not ultimately ring true. Why? Characters can keep secrets from other characters, but the writer should not keep secrets—unless plot-essential and ultimately necessary—from the reader.

By the way, don’t confuse the action/reaction principle with Rule #8: Keep characters moving. (Although these two principles can work seamlessly together.) Tensing and relaxing the plot—that is, pushing characters tenaciously (inhaling) toward action, or retreating wearily (exhaling) from action—provides an overarching ebb and flow to dramatic impact—the calm before (and after) a storm. A good novel might alternately inhale and exhale once or twice each scene, or perhaps each subsequent chapter. (Tolstoy’s War and Peace for example. There’s war and then peace. They fight, they talk; they fight, they talk; they fight, they talk.)

Realize that the action/reaction principle can occur on the macro level (scene by scene) but can also function on micro levels; for instance, as immediate as alternating lines of a terse dialog—snap, snap, snap—fast and furious. One character shouts furiously and shakes his fists. The other walks away in a brooding funk, each action (or reaction) providing valuable dramatic impact and pushing or pulling the characters or the plot into deeper levels.

Both Rule #8 and Rule #10 are critically important to a novel’s success. No breathing, no reacting, and a novel will simply sit… like a lump, like a wet fuse, like a sleeping tiger, like an idling car awaiting a foot-stomp on the gas pedal. Remember, action/reaction need not be physical attributes—for instance, love found, love pondered, love lost, love rekindled, or an internal struggle with mental illness perhaps—each depiction of internal or external action followed by a reaction, continually, like the rise and fall of a butterfly’s wing, flapping furiously, anxiously anticipating that ultimate hurricane.
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Perfection

Posted on June 9, 2014 by Dave Workman

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A blog for fiction writers and impending writers. An editor’s perspective.

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Perfection.

Ah, that elusive, manipulative, petulant little imp known as perfection. I mention the illusion of perfection in a previous post (See: Where to Start) but it bears repeating. Rule #25: Perfection in writing doesn’t exist. Stop trying to find it.

If you’re goading or flagellating or juicing yourself into writing a perfect novel, waiting for all those perfect ideas to fall—bump, bump, bump—into place, understand that you’ll discover no Holy Grail. No perfect chapter, nor page nor sentence occurs in a writer’s reality. Any word, any phrase, any idea, can be altered. Nudged. Tweaked. Deleted. As a writer, I can spend the remainder of my lonely days chasing a phantom that doesn’t exist—or I can sit down and write a story to the best of my ability. To the successful writer (or at least to a sane, successful writer), the glass is always half full. Knowing when to “leave it be” is key.

As scribes, we accept our limitations and strive for a single goal: Doing the best we can. So here’s Rule #4: Do the best you can.

Don’t think of Rule #4 as settling for meh. Rule #4 isn’t about compromising your talents, it’s about stretching your genius—taking the time and making the effort—and trusting that your next book will be a tad better than your last. Only in a world unencumbered by perfection does room for improvement exist.

I bring up the notion of perfection again because I suspect a vast number of novice writers begin a manuscript with the expectation of reaching literary nirvana, the anticipation of soon seeing themselves at #1 on NYTBSL. Somewhere around page 3 or 30 or 300, those writers begin to realize instant fame isn’t going to happen. Some give up, leaving talent and a worthy, half-finished (and perhaps nearly awesome) effort behind. Pity.

Interesting mathematical statistic: 99.9% of all writers never make the New York Times Best Seller List. Many of them still find a way to live happy, fulfilling lives. Some even have cats.

I’m personally aware of several writers—and very good writers—who’ve been slowly chipping away at the same novel for years. Why? Some of us are seeking perfection, and not finding it, or maybe we’re simply seeking “good enough” and not finding that, either. (Occasionally we’re simply methodical writers—and that‘s a damn good excuse. A word of advice: Write at your own pace. Writing a novel isn’t a race, it’s an achievement.)

However…! Seeking perfection (and not finding it) is an entirely different dilemma. Occasionally, a story isn’t good enough. One’s writing isn’t fully developed or else bumps into impossible obstacles that we find ourselves unqualified or emotionally unable to handle. Most of us have a novel (or two) that has “gotten away”…that sits unfinished in our closets or in some obscure folder on our desktop. And that’s okay too. I consider those failed attempts to be a necessary learning curve. Those manuscripts are part of the process, part of our eventual success. Let them rest in peace.

So what are a few possibilities for a stalled manuscript?

Seeking perfection. Right. Doesn’t exist. Refer to the above.
Fear of failure. Understandable. Although… d’ju know what’s worse? Thinking you might have the gift, but not even trying. On your deathbed, trust me, that’ll be a big regret. You’ve been warned.
Fear of success. Although I’m not sure why. Talent deserves success.
Fear of the future (good or bad). As in…what if it doesn’t sell? What if it sells big, but my next book sucks? What if people begin to love me for all the wrong reasons? Or hate me for all the right reasons? What if I take a tumble heading toward the stage to collect my Pulitzer. Please refer again to Rule #100: Get Over Yourself. (In it’s own humbling way, it really should be Rule #1.)
Writer’s block. Yeah…a bummer, but the phrase ‘writer’s block’ is really a catch-all for various reasons not to write: An emotional, psychological or physical fatigue when words and their meaning become lost in a haze, or simply run away from your brain. You’re overtired or stressed or simply out of ideas. Don’t worry, because the empty vessel will eventually refill. But if the vacuum persists, it’s possibly something else. Eventually, it becomes an excuse (valid or otherwise). One can insist to family and friends “I have writer’s block,” for a year or two…but then we just smile politely and realize the book’s not forthcoming. (It’s OK, we still love you.) But either the book’s wrong for you, or you’re wrong for the book. And, hey, it’s not your fault. For creative folk, new ideas are always forthcoming.
……I wanted to be an astronaut once. Never was. Moon block. By the way, my own personal solution for writer’s block? Stepping away from the computer and watching a Firefly or True Blood marathon—and guilt-free, because self-loathing will ultimately get you nowhere!—or else reading a book I absolutely love… for the 4th or 5th time. (Recently for me: The World According to Garp, The Forever War, The Sirens of Titan and Elmore Leonard’s Cat Chaser.) When my eyes blur or my head clogs, I clean the garage or drive up the coast. I give myself permission to declare a mental-health holiday from writing. It’s part of the process. If you find that your mind’s still writhing with uncorked creativity, write a short story or work on an outline. Dream up another novel. Paint a picture. Take some photos. Often, alternate forms of creativity can replenish your writer’s drive. Give it time. That creative lust will eventually return.
Fear of ridicule. (Rare, but it happens.) Your friends may find you pretentious for even trying. Seriously? Find new friends.
Fear of offending somebody. And that somebody is usually a friend or family member, and a typically unsavory character prominently featured in your tale. Sorry, Aunt Lucy! The homicidal maniac in chapter 8 isn’t really you. Trust me, they won’t see themselves in your book. Just be sure that you change the names.
Fear of offending yourself. Ah, but here’s where the circle closes. We’re back to looking for perfection. Refer to Rule #25 again.

While I have no degree in shrinkology, most fiction writers are somewhat familiar with the above ambiguities. Most writers can relate. So… don’t worry, just write.
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Active Composition

Posted on April 21, 2014 by Dave Workman

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A blog for fiction writers and impending writers. An editor’s perspective.

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Active Writing (Part 3): Active Composition (Plotting)

To recap: I look for active writing—the life of a novel—on three distinct levels: 1. Voice. 2. Language. 3. Plot.

The late, great Elmore Leonard addressed this dilemma very well: “I try to leave out the parts that people skip.”

Simply put: Tell an exciting, engaging story. A writer divulges the highlights and skips the low points. Determining those potential chapters, scenes, paragraphs, sentences and words to exclude is no less important than what is written. Active composition is knowing the difference.

My advice (to reiterate from Simple, but Exciting): include only those ingredients that 1) build or strengthen plot development; 2) build or strengthen character development, or; 3) set the scene for the reader (where, who, when… perhaps why and how).

I shall chatter many times in this blog about the necessity of plotting… but it’s best to begin at the beginning. How does one go about preparing a good plot? It’s good to think ahead.

The most important preparation of Active Composition is this: Before you begin to write (or certainly before you write too much… as some writers approach a blank page, a fresh idea, a new novel, with blissful ignorance) is know where you’re going. Certainly before you finish your first chapter, I recommend knowing—at least intuiting—where your story will end.

Rule #14: Before you wander along too far, develop your story from A-to-Z. Meaning, formulate a solid game plan, either in your head or outlined on paper, ASAP. Be sure you have both your plot and your characters fairly well determined—with no insurmountable obstacles—from page 1 to THE END.

A hypothetical. Let’s say I want to write a novel about Lisa, a young, adopted woman with a prosthetic leg, who decides to walk from Miami to Seattle—a 3300 mile trek—to meet her birth mother for the first time.

In one sentence, I’ve outlined a credible protagonist, her intent, and the probable (or at least possible) conclusion of her ordeal. I can begin to intuit a host of conflicts and stimulating engagements along the way, an opportunity for personal growth (did I mention that Lisa’s afraid of the dark?), the chance of encountering many delightful or mischievous characters and, of course, the obligatory dramatic conclusion.

While I probably won’t know (not yet, not exactly) all of Lisa’s trials and tribulations along the way, I’m already intuiting my story ending in Seattle, with an encounter between Lisa and her mother. Will the woman be receptive? Will she be dismissive? Perhaps that element remains hazy. However, as a developing plot, I’ve mapped myself much or most of an A-to-Z game plan—a beginning to an end. I trust that I know enough about my character, and about myself as a writer, to begin my story.

It’s okay at this point that neither my protagonist nor I know what’s lurking around every corner. I may not know what specific event will transpire on page 25, or on page 250. Maybe Lisa finds true love along the way—but where? Walking through Georgia? Through Kansas? Through Oregon? Those specifics may still be whirling around my head. We need not know every detail before we embark. And even if we think we know, much will likely change as we continue the journey.

As I begin to compose the basic plot points of my novel, I’ll highlight only the highlights (and low-lights) of Lisa’s marathon walkabout that matter to a reader. It’s important to write only those situations or events that maximize drama and add relevance to your story. That’s Rule #12, by the way. I need not depict every one of the 6,508,014 steps that Lisa will endure to complete the trip—but I definitely want to mention the 2am tornado she encounters in Nebraska, the kind stranger in Tennessee, the motorcycle gang in Missouri and the moment she finds true love in Montana.

So active composition means including only the essential elements of her story, while eliminating or ignoring those parts that don’t move the plot forward. If Lisa picks up a discarded gum-wrapper on Interstate 40, outside of Rapid City—what’s the big deal? Doesn’t interest readers in the least. However, if Lisa finds a gum wrapper in Gainesville and vows to pick up every piece of rubbish she discovers along the way—that development becomes an important character trait and a plot point! As an author, I need not document every piece of trash she picks up, but show me a few unique examples… oh, and include the discarded Lottery ticket she plucks from the roadside in Buzzard Springs—that happens to be a $180 million winner. That’s probably worth a mention.

So, yeah, Rule #12: Leave out the boring parts. (Write only what matters to your story.)
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