The Storyteller's Art: How not to bore your reader to sleep, tears, or homicide Francis W.

Porretto Smashwords Edition Copyright (C) 20 0 by Francis W. Porretto Co!er art by "onna Casey (http#$$"igital"onna.Com) "isco!er other wor%s by Francis W. Porretto at &mashwords.Com Smashwords Edition License Notice: 'han% you (or downloading this (ree eboo%. )ou are welcome to share it with your (riends. 'his boo% may be reproduced, copied, and distributed (or non*commercial purposes, pro!ided the boo% remains in its complete original (orm. +( you en,oyed this boo%, please return to &mashwords to disco!er other wor%s by this author. 'han% you (or your support. --./0-Foreword: The Curmudgeon Speaks! 1FWP: 2 (ew words o( e3planation are in order be(ore you proceed. 'he essays below were written by my 4alter ego,4 the Curmudgeon 5meritus. 'ranslated (rom the /bscure, a 4curmudgeon emeritus4 is 4an ornery old coot who6s earned the pri!ilege.4 'he old boy seems to thin% he6s the second coming o( W. &omerset 7augham. 'here6s no point arguing with someone that pigheaded8 at any rate, + ga!e up long ago. With that in mind, please (orgi!e me (or allowing his essays to share my byline here at &mashwords. +6ll try to atone later.9 )our Curmudgeon once %new a man who belie!ed that 4e!eryone has at least one boo% in him.4 +t6s possible he was correct...whether or not that6s a good thing. 'he problem is, not e!eryone %nows how to tell a decent story. 'he demise o( the oral tradition, both in (iction and in social history, is part o( that. 'ime was, everyone was e3pected to be able to tell a story properly. /( course, that included stories composed by others8 not e!eryone can compose an original story. Hot Flash to the Dubious: )es, storytelling is a necessary s%ill. +( you6re in business at any le!el, whether as an o((ice drone or a tradesman, you need to be able to tell a story ** granted, a non*(iction one, but a story nonetheless. 'hat ability is critical to e((ecti!e communication with your customer# i.e., whoe!er pays your salary or your in!oices. Not because you need to decei!e him, but because the correct se:uencing o( e!ents, the correct delineation o( causation, and the correct placement o( emphasis, is !ital to con!eying a message o( any sort. 2 plumber needs it :uite as much as a C5/. 'his little boo% is a compendium o( essays on ** drumroll, please ** the principles o(

e((ecti!e storytelling. 'hey address (ictional stories speci(ically, but the principles that apply there are portable to any other sort o( narrati!e. 'hey aren6t many, and they6re by no means obscure. ;ut they are imperati!e. <igorous adherence to them will, at the !ery least, preser!e your reputation among your (riends and companions. 2t best, they6ll ma%e you into the ne3t &tephen =ing. What6s that you say> )ou don6t want to be the ne3t &tephen =ing> )ou6d rather be the ne3t 5. 2nnie Proul3 or "om "e?illo> &orry, then this boo% is not (or you. &orrier still, no re(unds@ --./0-! Say Something! 2s we all %now, stories come in many lengths. 2 story may be as short as a (ew doAen words, or as long as <obert Bordan6s multi*million*word The Wheel Of Time series. ;ut many persons, and no (ew would*be storytellers, ne!er ponder what it is that dictates the length o( a particular story. 'he sub,ect is at some remo!e (rom (undamental considerations. 'he ma,or elements o( any story are# ** theme, ** plot, ** characteriAation, ** and style8 ?ength is not among them. Which o( these, i( any, should dictate the appropriate length at which to tell some particular story> 7any would nominate plot. 2(ter all, a long plot, with lots o( separate s%eins and e!ents, will necessarily ta%e a lot o( prose to relate, won6t it> +t surely will ** but is the plot the story? +( it is, ought it to be? +( you6!e ne!er encountered a no!el that seemed unbearably long, despite its pro(usion o( related e!ents, you6re a (ortunate soul. )our Curmudgeon could rattle o(( two doAen titles without pausing (or breath, at the conclusion o( each o( which he ardently wanted to %now whom he could sue (or a re(und o( the time he6d wasted. Plot is a ma,or element o( all (iction, but it6s not as (undamental, and there(ore not as determinati!e, as theme. +ndeed, plot6s whole point is to e3press or illuminate the story6s theme. +( the plot, which one would accurately assess as the 4pro3imate cause4 o( the story6s length, o!erruns what6s re:uired to e3press the theme, the story will be percei!ed as too long and possibly hea!y handed as well. +( the plot is insu((icient to e3press the theme, the story will be percei!ed as either too short or, worse, themeless. Cirtually e!eryone understands plot, characteriAation, and style, both as mechanical

matters and as necessities without which one cannot write (iction. ;ut a depressing number o( writers ha!e no grasp o( theme. +ndeed, themelessness and thematic incoherence are probably the most common (ailings in the (iction o( our time. DDD +t6s o(ten been said, and in uni!ersity classrooms at that, that what one li%es or disli%es about a particular storyteller is his style ** that is, the particular way in which he chooses to string words, sentences, and paragraphs together, with speci(ic attention to his use o( literary de!ices, descripti!e images, and wordplay. 'his sentiment is in %eeping with the pre!ailing trends in 2merican 4literary4 (iction, which tends to emphasiAe style so greatly that plot, characteriAation, and theme are all but e((aced (rom the scene. +t6s your Curmudgeon6s (irm opinion ** and no, it6s not a humble one8 it6s actually rather arrogant, but it6s :uite (irm (or all o( that ** that this is the reason most readers cannot abide 4literary4 (iction. For a rather remar%able e3tended e3egesis upon this sub,ect, please re(er to ;. <. 7yers6s now*(amous essay 42 <eader6s 7ani(esto.4 /n the basis o( a nearly (i(ty*year ac:uaintance with the written word ** in all its (orms but, most apposite to this discussion, especially with (iction ** your Curmudgeon has re,ected the 4style uber alles4 gospel with e3treme pre,udice. &tyle, di!orced (rom theme, is as pointless as prestidigitation. +t6s pure pac%aging, de!oid o( content. +ts proper place is to tell a story that has a worthwhile theme. When (etishiAed, it depri!es the reader o( his (undamental reason (or reading# to ac:uire new %nowledge about li(e, or a new perspecti!e on it, by !iewing it through the eyes o( a percepti!e and articulate obser!er. ;ut why, then, does a reader become especially (ond o( some writer or group o( writers> &tyle is their most ob!ious distinguishing :uality, is it not> +( it6s not their style that holds his a((ection, what could it be> )our Curmudgeon proposes# sensibility. )es, writers ha!e !ery di((erent styles. &ome are austere and distant, (ormalists o( classical discipline who regard a dangling preposition as something up with which one should ne!er put. /thers stri!e (or a Hemingwayes:ue simplicity, 'hey write short, single*clause sentences. 'hose sentences contain nothing but nouns and !erbs. 'hey lea!e all else to the reader6s imagination. &till others are Faul%nerian in the lu3uriance o( their prose, e!ery sentence a labyrinthine maAe o( baro:ue elaboration decorated with as many descripti!e and e!ocati!e elements as one can digest be(ore running out o( breath. ;ut this is pac%aging (or a story and, beneath the story, supporting it with rele!ance and timeliness, its theme. 2 writer6s sensibility is composed o( the sorts o( themes he li%es to e3plore, and the angle (rom which he approaches them. +t parta%es greatly o( his moral !ision. +ndeed, it cannot be separated (rom his grasp on the moral order o( the uni!erse...whether or not he belie!es there is one.

Eentle <eader, ha!e you e!er encountered a writer whose command o( the language is superb and precise, but whose stories proclaim ideas that you simply can6t abide> Ha!e you e!er encountered a writer whose wor%s, despite serious shortcomings o( style, throb so power(ully with truth that you can6t imagine e!er (orgoing them> +( so, you6re peering down the barrel o( auctorial sensibility. )ou6re staring the bullet o( theme right in the (ace. +t6s the ultimate weapon in the battle (or the reader6s time, money, and attention. DDD Feedless to say, a writer6s sensibility can only interloc% with the a((ections o( readers who share his (undamental moral !iews. 'hat6s why your Curmudgeon can6t abide Bohn +r!ing, despite his stylistic gi(ts, and why he owns e!ery mar% on parchment <obert ;. Par%er, no stylist as the term is generally understood, has e!er produced. 2rdent admirers o( Bohn +r!ing resonate to his moral and political !iews8 they see the world as he sees it, which gi!es his stories the ring o( truth and signi(icance to them. Few o( them would ha!e any patience (or Par%er6s :uite di((erent !ision. 2 writer6s sensibility, which compounds his moral !iews and his sense o( human character into themes that can be (ictionally e3plored, is near to unalterable. Probably no writer o( note e3empli(ies this better than the late <obert 2. Heinlein. Heinlein wrote (or more than (i(ty years. +n sur!eying the sweep o( his wor%s, one can see a dramatic e!olution in his style, and comparably large changes in his attitude toward plot. ;ut his underlying sensibility ** his penchant (or writing stories about men compelled to be competent and independent in the (ace o( se!ere challenges ** ne!er changed. His (iction was always an e3pression o( his innermost con!ictions about the nature o( 7an and the obligations incumbent upon manhood. 7uch the same could be said about Bac% Cance. 7any a writer disco!ers his sensibility by trying to !iolate it. 2yn <and wrote a dramatiAation o( this titled 4'he &implest 'hing +n 'he World,4 whose protagonist, desperate to brea% into the world o( commercial (iction, strains without success to write a story whose theme cross*cuts his own moral code. )our Curmudgeon has his own sensibility, o( course8 it should be :uite e!ident (rom the stories on display in the Fiction wing. +t6s a sensibility that6s out o( step with what6s currently commercially (a!ored, but what o( that> 'o try to set this 4ill*(a!oured thing, but mine own4 aside in (a!or o( something that would sell would nulli(y whate!er piddling !alue your Curmudgeon can bring to a story. +t would e!entuate in themelessness ** the inability to say anything worth reading ** or thematic incoherence ** a hard*dri!en clash between the actions o( the story6s characters and the writer6s con!ictions about the nature and moti!ations o( 7an. +t would be a waste o( per(ectly good words. DDD 'here are a lot o( aspiring writers in the world. Fo doubt a (ew are readers o( Eternity Road. 'here6s a lot o( ad!ice being o((ered to aspiring writers, o(ten at high prices and

mostly by people who couldn6t produce a decent shopping list. 'hough there are no magic (ormulae by which to achie!e publishability and commercial renown, there are de(initely (atal errors by which one can lose one6s writerly sel(*respect, a commodity (or the loss o( which no degree o( e3trinsic success will compensate. 'he biggest and most seducti!e o( the (atal errors is the betrayal o( one6s sensibility. When you write, say something. 2lways ha!e a conscious theme. 7a%e it something that6s critically important# to you, and hope(ully to the larger world. 'hat will energiAe you and call (orth your passions in ser!ice to your prose. 'hen ma%e sure your story6s characters act in such a (ashion that the story6s e!ents, and abo!e all its ending, are (oreordained, and e3press your theme with all the clarity and grace you can muster. +( you already %now your sensibility, stay true to it. +( you don6t ** i( this entire discussion has appeared to you li%e water to a (ish ** you can only disco!er your sensibility, and bring it to its pea% o( e3pressi!e power, by choosing your themes according to your passion (or them, and then by writing (rom the heart. When you6!e done that (or a while, return to this essay. )our Curmudgeon guarantees you an 4o( course@4 e3perience. --./0-"! Felicity o# Style 2s <obert 2. Heinlein once said, you can6t ma%e an enemy by telling a mother her baby is beauti(ul. 2nd so, with the (ollowing 5*mail, reader ?inda has placed hersel( at the top o( your Curmudgeon6s Christmas list# + greatly en,oy your op*eds, and always loo% (orward to new ones, but your (iction blows me away. ;ut something puAAles me. When you write about (iction writing, which + hope you6ll do more o(, you always seem to be running down style as a (actor in good (iction. )et you ha!e one o( the most uni:ue styles +6!e come across in all my years (don6t as% how many) o( reading. What gi!es> Eentle <eader, that was enough to light up your Curmudgeon6s day, as you can imagine. He (ancies himsel( a (air wordsmith, but the abo!e is...well, let6s ,ust say he (eels unworthy. &till, it6s stimulus enough to pro!ide the topic (or this morning, apart (rom anything your Curmudgeon might read later in that bete noire o( his li(e, whose crossword puAAle the C.&./. insists she cannot li!e without# the &unday New York Times. DDD &emi*obscure French writer and naturalist Eeorge*?ouis ?eclerc, Comte de ;u((on once said that 4'he style is the man himsel(.4 5!en i( we discount his nationality, we must suspect that ?e Comte spo%e out o( a raw place in his writer6s soul, where he hid his (rustration at ha!ing little to say, and no gi(t (or character or plot. Certainly many o( those who6!e parroted him since ha!e been thus mo!ed. ;ut the notion too% hold, and has

greatly in(luenced the e!aluation o( (iction in our day. Possibly no other idea, howe!er high*(lown, would ha!e done an e:ual degree o( damage to stylistic grace. For consider the implications# i( the style is the man, then the man (by the symmetric property o( the e:ui!alence relation 4is4) is the style. 'here(ore, to be more than what one currently is re:uires elaborations and re(inements o( one6s style, without regard (or substance. ;ut style is pac%aging. 'hough ideas re:uire pac%aging ** no story or theme can be con!eyed in a completely style*(ree (ashion ** style itsel( has no essence to which one can recur (or %nowledge, wisdom, or spiritual sustenance. 'here(ore, a monomaniacal concentration on style robs the writer o( the chie( instrument by which to imbue his wor%s with enduring !alue. +t impels him to slough content and worship (orm. /ne o( the greatest geniuses e!er to set pen to paper, Bames Boyce, (ell into this :uagmire a(ter the completion o( his no!el lysses. Boyce6s earlier writing was limpid o( style and rich in thematic !alue. His no!ella 4'he "ead4 may be the (inest wor% o( (iction e!er set down in 5nglish. ;ut (or reasons at which we can only guess, he became bored with his (und o( themes and the more or less con!entional "ublin bac%drop against which he painted them. With lysses! he began a ,ourney away (rom his earlier lucidity and into the twilight o( the subconscious. 'hence, his ,ourney continued into the dar%ness o( sleep and dreams, whose terminus he reached in the tragically unreadable "innegan#s Wake. Boyce, ha!ing used up his (und o( themes and stories, turned to ambiguities o( style in lysses and thence to complete opacity in "innegan#s Wake because that was all that was le(t to him. Cle!er seinings o( the latter (or its 4deeper meanings4 are uni(orm in their risibility. 'he boo%6s incoherence, o(ten disdaining e!en to use real words, guarantees that any 4interpretation4 o((ered (or it will re(lect the premises and belie(s o( the interpreter, and not some deeply buried message (rom Boyce. When he wrote "innegan#s Wake! Boyce had nothing else to o((er. &o was a mighty intellect betrayed by its own power. DDD )our Curmudgeon6s (irst con!iction about style is that it must remain subser!ient to the telling o( the story. 42ha@4 you e3claim. 4He leads o(( with a platitude and e3pects us to thin% him pro(ound@4 Fo doubt it might seem so. ;ut there6s a partially de(ined term in the statement that ought to recei!e its due# story. 7any would say that the story is the 4plot4# the se:uence o( e!ents in which the story6s characters are in!ol!ed. +n point o( (act, that6s the story6s plot line$ plot is more comple3. &till# i( a story is not the se:uence o( e!ents it depicts, or is something more than that, then what is it> 'he starting point is the distinction, once emphasiAed in (ormal studies o( literature, between 4plot line4 and 4plot.4 +( one simply writes out a time line o( a story, with names,

e!ents, places, and dates, one has constructed its plot line. 2 simple plot line would read as (ollows# 'he %ing died, and then the :ueen died. Fote what6s missing (rom the abo!e# causality. 'he two e!ents are not gi!en any relation to one another e3cept se:uence. 'he trans(ormation (rom plot line to plot begins with the in,ection o( causal connections# 'he %ing died, and then the :ueen died of grief. 'he causal stro%es delineate what the writer is really interested in writing about. =ings die8 :ueens die8 stoc%bro%ers, beat cops and no!elists die8 moreo!er, some o( these persons are (ound (reshly dead e!ery day. 'here6s no substance to the matter unless we del!e into why. 4Why4 may be the most potent word in any language. (4+(4 is the most (rustrating, 4but4 the most irritating, and 4should4 the (unniest.) When we spea% o( the reasons (or things, we are e3ercising humanity6s de(ining di((erence# our ability to assemble time se:uences into causal relations. When we get them wrong, we sow the seeds (or new crops o( tragedy. When we get them right ** when we penetrate to the true and reliable reasons why 2 in the !icinity o( ; causes C ** we grow as indi!iduals and ac:uire something o( !alue to con!ey to others o( our %ind. 'he embryonic plot abo!e could be re(ined in se!eral directions. 'he :ueen6s grie( caused her death...but why did she grie!e> For the loss o( her belo!ed husband> /!er her imminent descent into a dowager6s irrele!ance> /r because the ne3t %ing was sure to abuse her or her people> 'he deeper, wider, and more coherent the causal e3plorations become, the more story the storyteller has to tell. )es# )our Curmudgeon is saying that 4story4 li!es in the causal interstices o( plot. 'hose causal representations are the writer6s model o( human moti!ation. He sees certain categories o( people as mo!ed by certain in(luences in speci(ic ways8 the story6s characters are intended to symboliAe those categories, and their decisions and actions present a template according to which, in the writer6s opinion, all or most o( the people in those categories would act. 2bstracted (rom the speci(ics o( the story, its embedded causal model and the conclusions one may draw (rom it are the writer6s message, or theme. (2 side note# /ne cannot layer too much causality onto a plot line as simple as 4'he %ing died, and then the :ueen died.4 2 comple3 depiction o( human moti!ations and interrelations will re:uire more e!ents, structured more elaborately, than a simple one. ;ut this is a topic best le(t (or another screed.) DDD

&tyle must be subser!ient to story because the story is the point o( the a((air. 'he style must ser!e the story6s needs (or pacing, emphasis o( decision points, and clarity o( resolution. 'hus, a story such as 4'he "ead,4 which (ollows writer Eabriel Conroy through an aw%ward (ormal dinner with his e3tended (amily, probing the distance that6s grown between him and them, while depicting the more pain(ul ri(t that had grown between him and his wi(e in gentle dabs o( detail, needed to be plainly told. 'he setting had to be laid out simply. 'he third*person narrator had to relay the actions and statements o( the characters without embroidery. Boyce6s discipline in this stunning piece was the hallmar% o( a master ** and the more impressi!e because e!en be(ore lysses and "innegan#s Wake! he had e3hibited a penchant (or high*(lown articulation and a willingness to car!e !erbal arabes:ues to match and better the best. ;y contrast, there are writers who seem determined not to tell a story in your Curmudgeon6s sense. +nstead, they re!el in ambiguity. 'hey bewilder the reader with alternate e3planations o( crucial decisions and e!ents. 'hey withhold critical in(ormation that would permit the reader to %now the whys o( the a((air. &ometimes they deliberately introduce 4red herring4 characters to muddy the waters o( implication and moti!e. 'he point is to deny the reader a clear causal depiction, lea!ing him on his own to decide 4what it all means.4 &cience (iction writer Eene Wol(e rose to prominence on the strength o( such a story# 4'he Fi(th Head /( Cerberus.4 'he bones o( the tale are plain# a young (irst*person narrator character who6s ne!er called anything but Fumber Fi!e is being e3perimented on to his detriment by his (ather, who is determined to %now why his clan does not rise in power and prestige. 'he boy wa3es in resentment and determines to murder his (ather, as his (ather had done in his turn. 'he sole connecting lin% o((ered (or this chain o( brutality and tragedy is that the boy is a clone o( his (ather, as his (ather was o( his grand(ather. 'he story is littered with characters o( :uestionable rele!ance# a hal(*brother, a robot, a whore, a !isiting 3enoanthropologist, and a personality simulator who (unctions as the narrator6s tutor. 'he (ocus is ne!er s:uarely on what Wol(e would ha!e us ta%e as the central point o( his tale# how monomania can lead one to wor% against the !ery things he claims to desire. +t meanders mur%ily through se!eral thousand words, all in a most in!olute style, allowing the ambiguities to mount all the way to the end and ne%er resol%ing them. +t6s some measure o( Wol(e6s talents that he %eeps the reader going through such deep, dar% thic%ets...but the story concludes unsatis(yingly all the same. 'o be as (air as possible, 4'he Fi(th Head /( Cerberus4 has some color. 'here were reasons to read it and en,oy it, and apparently many people did, as it was the winner o( se!eral awards, some o( them awarded according to a popular !ote. ;ut it wasn6t coherent, it o((ered no message or theme, and so it (ailed as a story. +t is li%ely that, gi!en that he was determined to emphasiAe the ambiguities in his story, Wol(e could not possibly ha!e told it in a straight(orward (ashion. ;ut your Curmudgeon must also note that the ob!ious and considerable e((ort Wol(e put into stylistic (lights did not create a core o( causal substance where none had e3isted be(ore.

DDD Finally (or today, your Curmudgeon will comment brie(ly on the lin%ages among style, tone, and setting. 7aster suspense writer ?awrence ;loc%, in his writers6*ad!ice boo% Telling &ies "or "un 'nd (rofit! presents the (ollowing e3ample o( the use o( an arch tone to speci(y a setting# 'he ele!ator, swi(t and silent as a garrote, whis%ed the young man eighteen stories s%yward to Wilson Colliard6s penthouse. 'he doors opened to re!eal Colliard himsel(. He wore a cashmere smo%ing ,ac%et the color o( !intage port. His (lannel slac%s and broadcloth shirt were a matching oyster*white. 'hey could ha!e been chose to match his hair, which had been e3pensi!ely barbered in a leonine mane. His eyes, beneath sharply de(ined white brows, were as blue and bottomless as the Caribbean, upon the shores o( which he had ac:uired his radiant tan. He wore does%in slippers upon his small (eet and a smile upon his thinnish lips, and in his right hand he held an automatic pistol o( Eerman origin, the precise manu(acturer and caliber o( which need not concern us. 1From the opening o( ;loc%6s story 4'his CraAy ;usiness /( /urs.49 'he description is entirely o( Colliard, an elderly pro(essional hit man ma%ing the ac:uaintance o( a young one, but the tone is highly e((ecti!e (or coloring, in the reader#s mind! the surrounding physical en!ironment. Without saying a word about it, ;loc% leads us to see it as plush, e3pensi!e, and (aintly anti:ue. &imultaneously, he in(orms us, sotto %oce! that the story will concern grim deeds done in casual de(iance o( the norms o( society, norms the principal characters ha!e decided not to ta%e too seriously. ;loc%6s command o( the arch, (aintly moc%ing style shown abo!e allows him to dispense with perhaps two hundred words o( description, while simultaneously pro!iding the reader with a wealth o( indicators about the characters6 stations in li(e and the attitude o( the narrator toward the e!ents to (ollow. 2 better e3ample o( narrati!e economy would be hard to (ind ** and it was done by the adoption o( a style (ar distant (rom the more plainspo%en one (or which ;loc% is best %nown. Care(ul, boys and girls# ?awrence ;loc% is an e3pert. 'ry this at home i( you li%e, but be sure to string a net (irst. 7ost o( us are plainspo%en men, most o( the time. )our Curmudgeon is a little o((*a3is in this regard8 his speech and writing ha!e an archaic bent, which some people (ind charming and others consider pretentious. ;ut the most salient thing about a style is that it should come naturally. +t6s a tool in the writer6s toolbelt, to be used to con!ey the stories he chooses to tell, but it should be a tool that6s natural to his hand. +t6s not in(initely ad,ustable. 'he more he has to thin% about how to hold it and wield it, the more stilted and (orced his prose will be.

/ne o( the oldest ma3ims o( the (iction world is that one should write about what one %nows. 'his applies broadly# to situations, to physical settings, to !arieties o( people and systems o( belie(, and so (orth. )t also applies to style. +n (act, a strong corollary o( that ma3im is that, i( a writer6s style seems inade:uate to the material he wants to write about, he should probably be writing about something else. "o not attempt gothic (iction i( you can6t bring yoursel( to deal in macabre metaphors about shadow*in(ested settings and intimations o( doom looming in the gloom. "o not attempt 4ad!anced4 romance i( you can6t deal with suggesti!e loo%s and (leeting but meaning(ul brushes o( hands or (eet, or write indirectly but e!ocati!ely about se3ual desire. "o not attempt (antasy i( the depiction o( su((ering, honor, or the clash o( good and e!il ma%es you cringe with embarrassment. "o not attempt science (iction i( you6re a technophobe incapable o( bringing a sense o( wonder to the description o( an imagined de!ice. "o not attempt 4high literature4 ** at all. )our Curmudgeon6s style is mated to his limitations# his a((inity (or a somewhat archaic mode8 his (ascination with things unseen and things o( the spirit8 and his con!iction that each o( us is a treasure house o( power, %nowledge, and (ortitude, with the %ey already in the loc%, waiting only (or the right hand to turn it. He could ne!er write a war no!el, a hard*boiled detecti!e story, or a Harle:uin <omance...unless there really is a pac%age o( 7icroso(t WordG macros (or composing the latter (rom a twenty*(i!e word statement o( place and time. (Cisual ;asic (or Word is power(ul stu((8 <oald "ahl6s 4Ereat 2utomatic Erammatisator4 could be closer than we thin%.) He stic%s to the sub,ects to which his style is suited, and gi!es regular than%s that they6re the ones to which he6s most power(ully drawn. 2nd you, Eentle <eader, should you elect to try your hand at this craAy business o( ours, would be well ad!ised to do the same. --./0-$! %editations on Character Huite a lot o( aspiring writers thin% the enterprise re:uires no more than 4a way with words4 ** that is, a (etching style. (2 lot o( other writers thin% it re:uires no more than a word processor, but that6s a sub,ect (or another screed.) )our Curmudgeon has e3pressed himsel( already on this con!iction. +n conse:uence, he6s recei!ed a (air amount o( 5*mail to the general e((ect that those who can, do, while those who can6t, criticiAe. /ne correspondent noted, :uite acerbically, that what your Curmudgeon hasn't done yet is tal%

about the real sine qua non o( the (ictioneer, whate!er he thin%s it to be. &igh. 2 good player ne!er shows all his cards at once. &till, perhaps the time has come. 'he late Bohn ;runner once e3pressed a two*re:uirement guide to the creation o( good (iction# . 'he raw material o( (iction is people. 2. 'he essence o( story is change. 'here6s a whole education in re(lecting upon how utterly in!isible these rules can be, when one is reading good, satis(ying (iction. ;y implication, when one is dissatis(ied with a story ** assuming it wasn6t simply told in e3ecrable grammar ** they point the way to its most li%ely (laws. Whate!er the story, it must be acted out by people ** 4people4 being generically interpreted as 4delimited beings conscious o( their own identities and capable o( acting on their desires.4 &ome o( those people will be more important to the story than others. 'he usual hierarchy loo%s li%e this# ** %ar&uee Characters: 'he persons whom the story is mostly 4about.4 ** Supporting Cast: Persons in!ol!ed with the decisions and actions o( the 7ar:uee Characters, but whose (ates are o( less importance. ** Spear Shakers: Persons who appear where they do in the story simply because there has to be someone in that slot8 unimportant e3cept as stage dressing. (+( you6re interested in literary history and its ma,or contro!ersies, the best possible gi!eaway that 4&ha%espeare6s4 wor%s were not written by 4&ha%espeare4 is that !ery name. +t has to be the hugest ,o%e e!er embedded in the literary arts.) &ome o( the incidentals o( the hierarchy are o( interest in themsel!es. For e3ample, &upporting Cast members !ery seldom get to be 4!iewpoint characters,4 through whose eyes a third*person narrator sees the un(olding o( e!ents. &pear &ha%ers ,ust about ne!er do, e3cept in stories deliberately written to ma%e (un o( the rules. &upporting Cast members may ha!e their own 4supporting casts4 ** (amilies, employers, (riends, tormentors, and (a!ored car wash attendants ** but these, though occasionally re(erred to in passing, are not allowed to intrude upon the action o( the story. 2 good story6s 7ar:uee Characters will be relati!ely (ew in number. 5!en the most comple3 and e3tended story can6t be %ept coherent i( a large number o( supremely important characters participate in its e!ents. For one thing, their moti!ations ha!e to di!erge, which will ma%e them tug against one another. For another, the author will ha!e a great deal o( di((iculty %eeping all o( them animated and di((erentiated. 'he typical piece o( well*cra(ted (iction has (rom two to (i!e 7ar:uee Characters. +( we recur at this point to ;runner6s rules, it becomes clear that the story6s plot must be

about e!ents in the 7ar:uee Characters6 li!es, and the conse:uent changes to their moti!ational (oundations. Fot all e!ents are signi(icant, o( course8 (ew writers will linger o!er their protagonist6s choice o( soc%s (or the day. &ome changes o( moti!ation are e:ually insigni(icant# a story that (ocused on its protagonist6s change o( allegiance (rom WheatiesG to CheeriosG would hold (ew persons6 interest...well, outside o( Eeneral 7ills, anyway. 'he (ocus must be %ept on the ma,or moti!ators in the human psyche# the characters6 most power(ul, most passionately held desires, (ears, and con!ictions. +n this process, the writer encounters one o( the most rigid ma3ims o( the (iction trade, at its most compelling# Show Don't !ell. ;reathes there a would*be storyteller who doesn6t ha!e that commandment tattooed on his eyelids ** the insi"e sur(ace o( his eyelids> +t6s the most important instruction in all o( (iction, but it6s honored (ar more o(ten in the breach than in the obser!ance, to the great detriment o( many a story. 4&how, don6t tell4 is precisely about how the writer must re!eal the changes in a 7ar:uee Character6s moti!ational structure. He can6t simply say, 42nd so it was that &mith realiAed, a(ter years uncounted in the wilderness, that putting mayonnaise on roast bee( was wrong.4 +t doesn6t matter how many thousands o( words he uses to say it. He has to show the change through the "ecisions an" actions o# the character. +n comparison to this stricture, the much*e3coriated practices o( 4embedded e3position4 and 4in*stream bac%story4 are the mildest o( !enial sins. 'here are other aspects to the thing, o( course. 7oti!ational changes must be plausible, and their re!elation must be properly paced. 'hey must proceed (rom one o( three sources, which Willa Cather called the three basic plots# ** +nteraction with other human beings (4;oy 7eets Eirl4)8 ** &el(*disco!ery through introspection (47an ?earns ?esson4)8 ** &el(*disco!ery through a challenge (rom the e3ternal world (4'he ?ittle 'ailor4). Finally (or this screed, moti!ational changes must not be 4telegraphed.4 'hough they can6t come li%e lightning (rom a clear blue s%y, neither should they be !isible at a great distance. 'here has to be some degree o( uncertainty, e!en mystery, about what sort o( changes the 7ar:uee Characters will undergo. Formula (iction o( any %ind is usually unsatis(ying to the discriminating reader speci(ically because it lac%s that characteristic8 it6s simply too easy to see the outline o( what6s coming, e!en i( the precise details are haAy. 2 side issue that nicely illuminates this sub,ect is the well*%nown phenomenon o( 7ar:uee Character +mmunity (7C+). 7C+ has been denigrated as a cross the writer in(licts on his reader# once the reader %nows who the 7ar:uee Characters are, he also

%nows that they6ll sur!i!e the action, no matter how bloody the stage might become. 'his is inherent in the nature o( a good story well told. "eath, while it6s de(initely a dramatic change, is a terminal condition8 its occurrence lea!es the 4a((ected4 character with nothing to do with his lessons. 2longside that, i( the author has done his ,ob well, the 7ar:uee Characters are those the reader has been most inclined to identi(y with and root (or ** and though bliss(ul endings, with the hero getting all the trophies at no cost, are out o( (ashion (or good and su((icient reasons, 4happy4 endings, in which the hero pays a bearable, worthwhile price (or !ictory, are near to mandatory. 'here will be no telethons (or 4ending the scourge o( 7C+ in our li(etimes.4 2s usual, there6s an in(inite amount that could be said about this sub,ect. ;ut i( you yearn to tell tales that will enthrall, instruct, and upli(t, pay proper attention to your characters. 2rrange them in their ran%s, put the most important ones through changes dramatic enough to hold the reader6s interest, %eep the process plausible and properly paced, and re!eal the resulting moti!ational alterations through the characters6 depicted actions, rather than by narrati!e e3position o( their internal states. &ounds easy, doesn6t it> --./0-'! Con#inement( Tension( and Trial +( you6re going to write (iction ** a haAardous decision, really8 shouldn6t you thin% it o!er (or a (ew more years> ** you ha!e to come to terms with the (undamental dramatic re:uirement o( (iction, that which gi!es it power to hypnotiAe and compel# *rama only e+ists when men must suffer for being good. 'hat6s not to say that things shouldn6t turn out well (or your hero in the long run. +n most cases they should, (or the moral law o( the uni!erse is :uite in harmony with its physical laws. Howe!er, i( he (aces no di((iculties as a conse:uence o( his moral belie(s or disco!eries, or i( the price he must pay to resol!e those di((iculties is unsatis(yingly light, there will be no drama to your story. 4For each (ine cat, a (ine rat,4 wrote <obert 2. Heinlein, no stranger to the creation o( (ine, dramatic (iction. 'he 4rat4 might be an antagonist*!illain o( great power and cunning, or it might be a situation in which the protagonist*hero (inds himsel( caught in an antinomy ** a seemingly absolute clash o( two e:ually compelling needs or !alues ** or it might be a struggle against his own wea%ness. ;ut there must be something, some trial o( power, intellect, or conscience, that compels the hero to enter what &ol &tein called 4the crucible4 ** and to remain there until his aim has been achie!ed. 4'he crucible4 is the cauldron o( opposing (orces with which your hero must contend. He must be unable to bac% away (rom the con(lict, whether (or circumstantial reasons or because his !alues and con!ictions (orbid it. 'he closer it comes to brea%ing him, the

more drama you can wring out o( his story. /ne o( the reasons (or the popularity o( techno*military (iction o( the 'om Clancy $ &tephen Coonts $ "ale ;rown !ariety is that the crucible is ready to hand. 'he sta%es are ob!iously !ery high, and the reasons (or the hero to remain in the game, despite great cost and ris% to himsel(, come ready*made. +n (iction that deals with con(licts o( materially smaller scale, s%etching in the con(lict and the (orces that bind the hero to it can be a (ormidable challenge. 7uch modern (iction is psychological in orientation. 'hat is, its central con(lict is one that e3ists in the mind o( its protagonist, rather than as an e3ternal challenge to his !alues or con!ictions. +n the popular cant, he must 4wrestle with his demons.4 &ome writers are e:ual to the tas% o( dramatiAing such an interior struggle, but un(ortunately, they6re in the minority. +n part, the (ailings o( inade:uate psychological (iction arise (rom its writers6 reluctance to reify the con(lict ** that is, to mo!e it (rom the realm o( abstractions to the realm o( concrete decisions and actions. &ome simply scorn the necessity. /thers are uncom(ortable with the world o( ob,ecti!e things and deeds. &till others (ail to grasp that psychological con(lict must in!ol!e moti%es! whose signi(icance is null unless they mo!e the hero to do something. Whate!er the reason, the discriminating reader will detect the problem easily. He6ll be unli%ely to (orgi!e the waste o( his time, so don#t, 'o return to the main thread o( this screed# to achie!e drama, you must construct a crucible and contri!e to %eep your hero in it, where his most important con!ictions will be sorely tried right up to the end. 'he crucible will in!ol!e opposition, as already noted, but it must also e3ert confinement- your hero must not be able to wal% away (rom the con(lict without irremediably sacri(icing something more precious to him than what he ris%s by remaining in it. What might the price (or escaping the crucible be> ** &omeone he lo!es8 ** &omething he lo!es or !alues highly8 ** His pride8 ** His conception o( himsel( as a good man. 'his decision must accompany your decision about the main con(lict o( your story, (or unless the reader can be persuaded that the hero cannot abandon the contest without pre!ailing, your story will lac% the other sine qua non o( good (iction# plausibility. +( you can %eep him in the crucible, you can ma%e him su((er. 'hat is, you can ma%e him struggle to achie!e his aim, or pay to de(end what he !alues that drew him into the con(lict in the (irst place. +( he can o!ercome the (orces opposed to him, his su((ering will be worthwhile. +( he can6t...well, there are always se:uels and Few Wa!e art cinemas. For an e3ample o( a simple crucible with ob!ious trials and an ob!ious con(ining

element, consider my story 45:ualiAer.4 For an e3ample o( a subtle crucible, whose trial is much more abstract and whose con(ining power is re!ealed only at the !ery end, consider my story 4Foundling.4 Which o( these approaches appeals to you more> )our answer will tell you much about the sort o( (iction you6re inclined to write ** and read ** i( you don6t %now that already. --./0-)! *deas 2 poll o( (iction writers concerning what :uestions they6re most (re:uently as%ed by non* writers would undoubtedly turn up two strong commonalities# ** 4How much money can you ma%e at that>4 ** 4Where do you get your ideas>4 We shall pass :uic%ly o!er the (irst o( these. +t6s rather embarrassing to note that e!en well*published no!elists usually ha!e to ha!e 4day ,obs4 to ma%e ends meet. 'he stupendous commercial successes o( a (ortunate (ew, such as &tephen =ing and 'om Clancy, cast an unmerited glamor o!er the (ictioneer6s trade. )et the proli(ic, highly popular <oger IelaAny wor%ed (or the &ocial &ecurity 2dministration until the day he died. 7any writers wait tables, tend bar, or dri!e ta3icabs# paying trades they share with their brethren in the acting (ield. 2s Bames 7ichener (amously said, a writer can get rich in 2merica, but he can6t ma%e a li!ing. 'he second :uestion is also a source o( (rustration, (or the typical writer himsel( doesn6t really %now. He gets them8 he writes them8 they wor%, or don6t wor%8 and that6s that. His consciously considered problems begin a(ter the idea has occurred to him. 'hey in!ol!e character de(inition, details o( plot and pacing, how long the (inished wor% ought to be, and to whom he ought to o((er it. He simply doesn6t thin% about the 4story ideas4 themsel!es. &o where do they come (rom> Well, some o( them come (rom you! Eentle <eader. )our Curmudgeon has (ashioned a number o( stories (rom real*li(e episodes, either (rom his own li(e or narrated to him by (riends and ac:uaintances# 4Ceremony,4 42 For 5((ort,4 4?earning ;y "oing,4 and 4'he Ei(t <oom4 were all (ictionaliAations o( real*li(e e!ents. /ther ideas arise as 4corollaries4 o( ideas e3plored by other writers. For e3ample, the basic idea o( 4'he Warm ?ands4 (lows (rom two premises embedded in much other (antasy# that magic is powered by something physical, rather than being a (a!or done (or a sorcerer by some puissant non*human creature8 and that that power source can wa3 or wane with time and e3ploitation. When your Curmudgeon combined those notions with one o( his own ** that an e3cessi!e concentration o( magical power in a place where no one was using it could create spontaneous catastrophes that might then be blamed upon

4witches,4 as in &alem ** the story was born. Pursuing the diametrically opposite premise ** that magical e((ects are in!o%ed by a spell, but the sorcerer must get the spell e3actly right and say it e3actly (ast enough to recei!e supernatural assistance ** produced 45:ualiAer.4 'hird, but probably not last, an idea can ,ust happen. 4Foundling,4 wherein a baby !ampire becomes the ward o( a most unli%ely guardian, was one such8 4Ehosts,4 in which an e!ent(ul Hallowe6en introduces in(ant superman ?ouis <edmond to the 4ghosts4 o( his li(elong (aith, was another. 7odern science cannot trace the genesis o( such ideas, though research continues. Fote that the ideas abo!e, intriguing notions with many implications, were the (oundations (or short stories rather than no!els. +t6s one o( the seeming parado3es o( (ictioneering that the shorter a story is! the more powerful an idea is re.uired to make it work! and %ice/%ersa. 2 really strong idea can bowl the reader o!er in (i!e hundred words. "ilute ideas re:uire too much supplementation by character de!elopment, description o( setting, and thematic e!olution to 4get the ,ob done4 in so short a space. &ome no!els re:uire no ideas at all. 'hat6s not meant as a ,ab at the modern no!elist, or at least, not at all o( them. Budith Euest has written three magni(icent, emotionally gripping no!els around the most mundane imaginable ideas# a teenager6s suicide attempt (Ordinary (eople)8 an abused child who runs away (rom his abusi!e (amily (0econd 1ea%en)8 a (amily whose (ather is dying o( cancer and is struggling to ad,ust (Errands). ;ut the !alue o( such a boo% must rest almost entirely on its characteriAation, themes, and style. Fortunately, a no!el pro!ides ample scope (or these. 'he strong idea $ short story correlation is one o( the main reasons why science (iction, a literature o( ideas, has been so (irmly oriented toward the short story ** and why magic* oriented (antasy, which has e!ol!ed so (ew new and intriguing ideas, has been dominated by the multi*!olume no!el. 2lso, consider the dearth o( short stories produced by the best*%nown no!elists8 once one gets used to ha!ing hundreds o( thousands o( words to roam around in, one6s idea*discipline is li%ely to atrophy irretrie!ably. 7arc &teigler, author o( Earthweb and *a%id#s 0ling! made a poignant comment some time ago about writers who (ear they6ll 4run dry4 o( ideas. &uch writers are o(ten seen trying to use an idea eminently suited to a short story as the basis (or a massi!e no!el. Why> ;ecause they 4don6t want to waste it.4 ;ut the waste occurs in the !erbiage wrapped around an idea that ought to be dressed sparely and le(t to stand be(ore the reader in &partan splendor. +( it can be put across in (i!e thousand words, why e3pend (i(ty or a hundred thousand> 'he only consistent e3planation is that the writer (ears that, a(ter he6s 4used up4 his idea, he won6t ha!e another. +ronically, larding e3tra words around a strong idea is one o( the most discouraging things one can do to one6s readers, who will (re:uently as% 4is he being paid by the word>4 'here(ore, when implementing a strong idea, one must %eep it brie( i( one is to %eep one6s audience.

'he remedy (or the (ear o( idea*e3haustion is attention to one6s surroundings and an appreciation (or the naturalness o( ideation. +deas aren6t an e3haustible natural resource8 we create them out o( our impressions o( reality and our sense o( possibility. 2s with any sort o( art or arti(ice, practice helps immensely8 doing well by the current one will ma%e the ne3t one easier to unearth, clean, and polish. 'he more a writer writes, the higher his con(idence grows, and the more he is able to write. --./0-+! Scene Construction +n the creation o( (iction, the writer must mo!e purpose(ully or not at all. 5!ery word he writes must carry its own weight at the minimum. For there are two essential purposes to be ser!ed at all times, and a word not put to either one, i( not both, is a word wasted. DDD What is the point o( storytelling> Why do we do it> +t6s a big :uestion. 'he answers range all o!er the intellectual map. ;ut when seined (or their common aspects, they reduce to two# ** 'o dramatiAe a theme8 ** 'o e!o%e readers6 emotions. )our Curmudgeon has already blathered at length about theme and its importance. )et there are still writers out there who don6t belie!e theme is necessary. &igh. What (ools these mortals be. ;ut a lone cran% (rom ?ong +sland can only accomplish so much. 'hemes are important bits o( truth that will resonate with a large number o( readers. 2 common approach to dramatiAing a theme is to ha!e a protagonist !iolate it and then ha!e reality hand him his head (or his mista%e. 2nother is to show two protagonists in action, one in %eeping with the theme and one in de(iance o( it, so that the reader can compare the results. 'here are others. 7ostly, they e3ploit the story6s plot ** its chain o( causally* lin%ed e!ents and decisions ** (or their e((ects. ;ut a writer chooses his theme not only (or its !eracity, but also (or its power to mo!e the reader when cast into (ictional (orm. /ne can6t write compelling (iction about 2rchimedes6 ?aw or the Pythagorean 'heorem. &o while the truth*!alue o( a theme is necessary to its employment in (iction, it6s not sufficient. 'he theme must also ha!e emotional resonance. &uch resonance comes (rom what sort o( drama one can wring (rom it. DDD

2ll but the shortest stories are constructed in scenes- swatches o( story time that in!ol!e at least one 7ar:uee character, whether in the action as depicted or as the point o( the action. Con!entionally, scenes are separated (rom one another by a typographical de!ice, either a line space or a centered trio o( asteris%s being the most common. 'he reader understands the scene to be coherent in se!eral dimensions# ** +t will be continuous in time8 ** Changes o( place, i( any, will be depicted e3plicitly i( brie(ly8 ** 'here will be either a single !iewpoint character or none at all. 'here are other understandings about the indi!idual scene, but they6re subtler and o( lesser importance. 'he scene is li%e a single lin% in a chain, o( which the story in its entirety is the whole. 2s with a chain, a single (aulty scene can render the story ine((ecti!e. For e3ample, a scene that persuaded the reader to discard the plot (or implausibility, perhaps by introducing details or decisions wholly incoherent with the rest o( the story, would drain the story o( !alue. 2 bad choice o( !iewpoint character, (or e3ample one who got no emotional impact out o( the e!ents o( the scene, could cripple a story ,ust as e((ecti!ely. 2 scene that stops the dynamics o( the story, either by di!erting the reader unnecessarily (rom the action or by gi!ing him a reason to cease caring about the protagonists, will %ill a tale as well. 5!en though writers write in words, sentences, and paragraphs, the scene has a much better claim to being the atomic building bloc% o( (iction. 'he words o( which the scene is composed are more li%e :uar%s# important, to be sure, but o( no moment in isolation (rom one another and the scene they depict. DDD 5ach scene o( a story must# ** 2d!ance the plot toward its conclusion, or# ** &trengthen the reader6s reasons to empathiAe with the protagonist(s) and$or detest the antagonist(s). +t6s possible to do both at once, sometimes, but to (ul(ill either one is su((icient much o( the time. For e3ample, in 4'he Warm ?ands,4 one scene placed near the midpoint o( the story, which depicts Eregor and ?aella in the a(termath o( their (irst lo!ema%ing, was written solely to allow the reader to learn a (ew details o( Eregor6s e3ile, o( ?aella6s swi(tly growing lo!e (or him, and o( the con(lict he (eels at his perception o( her lo!e. 'he story, in the crudest terms, is sitting still8 no one does anything but tal%, and the tal% appears to be solely historical and con,ectural. ;ut i( the reader were not allowed to sense the intensi(ication o( the emotional bonds and the con(licts they engender, he6d (ind much o( the rest o( the story pointless and senseless.

'he (ourth scene o( 42 For 5((ort4 is in the opposed pattern. +n :uic% succession, it describes a series o( e!ents distributed o!er se!eral wee%s, but treads lightly on emotional ground. ;ut the reader must be told o( those e!ents8 they undergird the rest o( the plot and the emotional de!elopment o( the concluding scenes. While the reader is gi!en no additional reasons to identi(y or empathiAe with 7organa, they do learn about the enormous sel(*willed, sel(*engineered changes that gi!e the rest o( her story its emotional e((ect. 'he (inal scene o( 45:ualiAer,4 in which 7ichael learns that it was not 2corn6s seemingly sorcerous de!ice that protected him but rather some (orm o( di!ine inter!ention, addresses both purposes. 'he reader is simultaneously told the true clima3 o( the plot, in(ormed that all was not as he6d been led to belie!e, and is shown the depths o( 7ichael6s (aith as he e3horts 2corn to bring the tale to Father "eclan in all its particulars. DDD )our Curmudgeon6s pre(erred approach to a scene is to ma%e two passes o!er it# Write (irst with attention to plot, and then edit with attention to emotional e!ocation. 'his comes up hard against a common disli%e among writers# many o( them hate to rewrite. 'hey (eel they6re 4getting nowhere,4 that they ought to 4get it right the (irst time4 and mo!e on to whate!er comes ne3t. 'his is an immensely destructi!e attitude. 5rnest Hemingway once told o( ha!ing made, not two, but thirty passes o!er much o( his Fobel PriAe*winning no!el The Old 2an 'nd The 0ea. When a colleague as%ed him what he was doing with so many re!isions, he replied, 4Eetting the words right.4 Eranted, there ha!e been e3ceptions. Cictor Hugo6s no!els were all published (rom the author6s handwritten (irst dra(ts. ;ut he who (ancies himsel( (it to wal% in Hugo6s (ootsteps is li%ely to need a dose o( humility, to say nothing o( a stout pair o( wrist braces. /!erwhelmingly more o(ten than not, good writing is rewriting. )our Curmudgeon outlines his plots and pre*s%etches his 7ar:uee characters. From there, he proceeds scene by scene, typically ma%ing two passes o!er each one be(ore proceeding to the ne3t. 'he (irst pass is 4s%eletal.4 +t concentrates on getting down the speci(ic plot details to be co!ered, and treats only lightly with description or internal monologue. 'he second pass is 4muscular.4 +t lays emotional (lesh on the bones o( the plot s%eleton, by recoloring dialogue, adding descripti!e details %ey to e!o%ing the !iewpoint character6s reactions, and pointing up the !isible or audible indicators o( the other characters6 emotions to the e3tent allowed by the narrati!e structure. 2(ter that second pass, any ma,or incongruities between the scene and the o!erall direction your Curmudgeon wanted the story to ta%e will usually be garishly !isible. 7ost (re:uently, it will ha!e become apparent that the !iewpoint character isn6t the man your Curmudgeon thought he was ** that his real moti!ations were :uite di((erent (rom those originally concei!ed. +t can be a disagreeable surprise, as it suggests that there6s a lot

more rewriting to be done, but it can also illuminate one6s theme better to onesel(, such that the ultimate outcome is a much impro!ed, much more a((ecting story. --./0-,! Character -e.elopment: Two Approaches )our Curmudgeon holds that character de!elopment is the toughest o( all the tas%s o( the (ictioneer. Few succeed at it. /( those who do, a healthy (raction reuse their success(ul 7ar:uee characters o!er and o!er, through endless strings o( no!els, to a!oid ha!ing to do it again. /( course, some who don#t succeed at it reuse their main characters endlessly, too, but that6s beyond the scope o( this discussion. 7any would*be writers complain o( their di((iculties at 4coming up with ideas.4 ;osh. 2nyone not completely numb to the passing scene will ha!e more 4ideas4 than Carter has ?ittle ?i!er Pills. What the complainers lac% is the combination o( idea with personality that yields a plausible story# in other words, a belie!able and appropriately moti!ated main character. How comple3 are the central ideas in these (amous wor%s# The 0carlet &etter by Fathaniel Hawthorne The Old 2an 'nd The 0ea by 5rnest Hemingway 3illy 3udd! "oretopman by Herman 7el!ille Of 2ice 'nd 2en by Bohn &teinbec% Wuthering 1eights by 5mily ;ronte 'hese (i!e no!els are regarded as grand masterpieces, the pinnacles o( great authors6 careers with the written word. 5ach one is (ounded on an idea that can be e3pressed in a (ew words# The 0carlet &etter- the impossibility o( concealing one6s passion. The Old 2an 'nd The 0ea- the ine!itability o( ultimate (ailure. 3illy 3udd! "oretopman- the destructi!eness o( en!y. Of 2ice 'nd 2en- the grip o( (ate. Wuthering 1eights- the power o( thwarted lo!e. 'hese no!els wor% beauti(ully because their creators matched their central ideas to appropriately imagined 7ar:uee characters, whom they turned loose in settings in which their ma,or dri!es were bound to get them into deep trouble. <eaders thrilled to these stories because the authors had succeeded in ma%ing their 7ar:uee characters both belie!able and !i!id. /nce a writer has pic%ed his theme, the main challenge in writing a success(ul tale is almost always the de!elopment o( his 7ar:uee characters.

'he title spea%s o( 4two approaches.4 +n (act, there are many approaches to the de!elopment o( a character. 'he two your Curmudgeon has in mind are poles o( a sort8 that is, they e3empli(y the most e3treme practices possible, which are usually compromised with other tactics. +nterestingly, they6re also mirror images o( one another. 'he (irst approach is to ta%e a 4normal man4 ** o(ten, someone the writer %nows (rom real li(e8 perhaps e!en himsel( ** and start editing. He inserts (eatures and characteristics he e3pects will be dramatically use(ul, and prunes away traits he (inds irrele!ant or too distracting (rom his theme. We might call this the 5!eryman Eambit, (or any innocent person who lodges in the writer6s mental !iew(inder might some day be used as raw material (or it. 5!eryman protagonists can o(ten be (ound in wor%s o( science (iction, (antasy, and horror. 'heir (undamental ordinariness gi!es rise to immediately e3ploitable tensions when they6re dropped into strangeness o( the sort that6s common in those genres. 2lice o( 'lice )n Wonderland and 'lice Through The &ooking/4lass is a :uite ordinary little girl. Eulli!er o( 4ulli%er#s Tra%els is li%ewise a !ery ordinary man. Carroll and &wi(t chose to ma%e them so, modeled upon ordinary indi!iduals o( their direct ac:uaintance, precisely (or the dissonance their mediocrity would ring (rom the settings into which they were dropped. 7odern commercial (iction o((ers many e3amples o( the 5!eryman protagonist. 'om Clancy6s Bac% <yan, probably modeled on Clancy himsel(, is a well %nown case. &imilarly, we ha!e Ereg +les6s 7ississippi lawyer*author Penn Cage (The 5uiet 4ame) and &cott 'urow6s prosecutor <usty &abich ((resumed )nnocent). 'hese are success(ul morphings o( real human personalities into belie!able characters who (ind themsel!es enmeshed, largely against their will, in momentous e!ents where li!es hang in the balance ** in <yan6s case, o!er and o!er. ;ut success is not guaranteed. &ometimes the 4normal man4 drawn (rom real li(e re,ects the re:uired new characteristics as contradictory to his essence, or pro!es non*!iable once his 4irrele!ancies4 ha!e been pared away. 'hat6s the (lip side o( the techni:ue. +t6s easier by (ar than cra(ting a character out o( nothingness, which is why it6s so popular. ;ut all can come to naught i( the 4raw material4 pro!es to be less amenable to molding than the writer re:uires. 'he other techni:ue is to start (rom a burning passion, or a combination o( two or three (more is not always better), that the writer concei!es as central to the particular theme he wants to e3plore. He then shapes a protagonist character around that passion, adding !erisimilitude with touches peripheral to the passion, or perhaps wholly disconnected (rom it. We might call this the 2!atar 2pproach, (or the character is brought into being speci(ically to personi(y the all*important central passion that rules him, around which the rest o( the story is constructed. 'he 2!atar 2pproach has its !irtues. +t6s more wor% than the 5!eryman Eambit ** creating li(e in a test tube is simple by comparison ** but the writer needn6t worry about

the sorts o( clashes that can mar an 5!eryman protagonist8 his character shall be e3actly and only what he wishes. ;ut its haAards are considerable as well. For a character ruled by a single power(ul passion is supremely di((icult to ma%e belie!able8 such men ha!e (ew counterparts among the li!ing. 2mong recent thriller writers, the name o( ?ee Child stands out in high relie(. His no!els center on (ormer military cop Bac% <eacher, a hero o( the old style with an eccentric modern twist. <eacher is resol!ed ne!er to be tied to one en!ironment. His (amily is entirely deceased. He has no home o( any sort8 upon detachment (rom the 2rmy he began to tra!el continuously, by (oot, bus, or thumb. He throws away his clothing when he6s sweated through it and replaces it (rom the cheapest nearby source. He allows himsel( no lasting in!ol!ements. He (ears nothing :uite so much as stasis. )et chance and associations (rom his military career pitch him repeatedly into %ill*or*be*%illed situations where the sta%es are immense. He ne!er hesitates to pic% up a thrown gauntlet, (or his ruling passion is (or ,ustice. His plausibility is testimony to Child6s unusual (eel (or how such a man, (rom such a bac%ground, would react to chance encounters with predators, !ictims, and agencies o( chaos. Bac% <eacher could ha!e been a comic*boo% character# too good to be true and impossible to hurt. &uch a (igure would ha!e touched (ar (ewer readers. <eacher (ails o( his aims on occasion, always (or reasons that don6t compromise his heroic status. He stretches the moral en!elope i( he thin%s the cause is ,ust and success demands it. He su((ers plausibly (rom se!erances and wist(ulness, (or his got*to*be*mo!ing*on resol!e is more willed than natural. He (re:uently (alls in lo!e, seldom admits it, and carries many a torch down the road to his ne3t ad!enture. Child did not neglect to include enough (allibility and !ulnerability in his creation to render him simpatico. 'he aspiring (ictioneer will (ind one o( these two approaches closer to the pattern he re:uires (or the stories he wants to tell. Whiche!er he pic%s, he6ll compromise it in certain ways ** all writers do ** and begin the process o( tin%ering his creations into belie!able, dramatically use(ul li(e. 2nd i( he perse!eres long enough, he6ll (ind himsel( consumed by a :uestion e!ery dramatist must e!entually con(ront# 4How much o( my heroes ** and my !illains ** is ta%en directly (rom what + imagine about mysel(>4 --./0-/! 0assion And 12session 2ha@ )ou read the title and immediately started thin%ing about se3, didn6t you> Well, your Curmudgeon can6t blame you, this time. ;ut really, that6s not the sub,ect o( today6s dri!el. 'here aren6t many things that stir the interests o( large numbers o( persons. 'here are e!en (ewer things that will get any (decent) person wor%ed up to the heights o( emotion. Eood !ersus e!il. Eenuine heroism. "e(iance o( a seemingly ine!itable (ate. 'rue de!otion. <omantic lo!e and its pit(alls. 'he price o( gasoline.

+t there(ore (ollows that these (ew, passion*coupled sub,ects will be the ultimate (oundations o( the most memorable stories. 2nd indeed, when we recall the truly great wor%s o( (iction, that6s what we (ind. ;ut how does a storyteller wrap one o( these primiti!es in an original tale, such that, howe!er timeless and well*worn its emotional core might be, it ne!ertheless appears (resh, uni:ue, and compelling (or its own sa%e> Come now, you don6t e3pect your Curmudgeon to ha!e all the answers, do you> ;ut he6ll ta%e a stab at this one, in his usual !eering way. DDD 'he critical step is choosing a theme. +t always is. 2s your Curmudgeon has written be(ore, a conscious theme ** a distinct !ision o( cause and e((ect presented in a (ictional setting ** is indispensable. ;ut it6s not the writer6s usual (irst step. +n the !ast ma,ority o( cases, his initial inspiration will be a cle!er, original* seeming plot moti(# some archetypal interaction among men that6s both unusual and laden with emotion. He6ll get a clear !ision o( such a thing and start mentally playing with it. His path could go in either o( two directions# he could stri!e to elaborate the moti( into a more complete, more time*e3tended plot, or he could see% to distill the moti( (urther, to re!eal to himsel( more completely the emotional (oundation that gi!es the idea its power to mo!e him. )our Curmudgeon (a!ors the latter approach. When he6s tried the (ormer, the results ha!en6t satis(ied him. 2 good writer will always write (rom his personal passion. When he6s clearest in his own mind about why his story grips him as it does, he6ll be at his most e((ecti!e. +n the best stories, passion and theme are interwo!en so tightly that they can6t be separated (rom one another. 'he theme deri!es its power (rom the passion8 the passion (inds its sense in the logic o( the theme. 2s you6!e read the maunderings about theme in these 4&toryteller6s 2rt4 pieces, you6!e probably wondered, now and then, ,ust why it was so important. 'ruth be told, it6s the passion e!o%ed by the theme that6s really important. Howe!er, the writer can6t simply scream at his readers, 4Feel deeply (or my characters@4 'hat would be a%in to an actor trying to e!o%e audience emotion without a script, by the sheer power o( his e3pressions and poses. 'hat6s called 4emoting,4 and no sel(*respecting theatergoer ** or reader ** will stand (or it. 'heme, as embodied in plot and character, is the conduit by which the writer transmits his passion to his readers. 'here6s a conser!ation law at wor% here, though not one you6d study in (irst*year physics# passion can neither be created nor destroyed! but only transmitted from artist to consumer. 'he passion originates with the writer. He stri!es to in(ect his reader with it. His !ehicle (or doing so is his theme.

DDD Perhaps it6s now becoming a bit clearer why theme matters, and why it must connect to human (undamentals such as lo!e, courage, ,ustice, and so (orth. ;ut there are a staggering number o( writers, including some success(ul ones, who con(use passion with obsession ** their own personal obsessions, about which only li%e*minded (etishists are li%ely to care. &ome writers are obsessed with se3. /thers with guns. /thers with intrigue, or spacecra(t, or car chases, or some particular institution to which they6!e ta%en a disli%e. ("an ;rown, call your o((ice@) +t hardly matters what the ob,ect o( their a((ections is. What does matter is that their obsession compels them to ma%e these things the centerpieces o( their tales, without regard (or the disconnect between their (etish and the emotional dynamics o( the greater part o( man%ind. ;ecause they6re obsessed, they ma%e an ob6ect! itsel( de!oid o( emotional power, the sub6ect o( their stories. /bsession is a (orm o( passion, but it6s a stunted, interpersonally impotent (orm. &mith6s obsession cannot be used to induce emotion in Bones, unless Bones already shares the !ery same obsession. /ne might say that (inding readers who share one6s passion is the essence o( (iction mar%eting, but the essential emptiness o( obsession*based (iction is re!ealed by its ephemerality. &eldom does an obsessi!e return to a (a!orite tale (or a second read8 rather, he (orgets the di!ersions o( today as the sun sets upon them, and sets out in search o( new ones with the morrow6s sunrise. ;y way o( illustration, the low* grade romances mar%eted by se!eral publishing houses that cater to the romantic obsessi!e ha!e a shel( li(e o( only one month! a(ter which they6re returned to the publisher, at the publisher6s re:uest, and replaced with (resh o((erings o( the same %ind. 'he same is true o( certain interminable pseudo*science*(iction 4no!el series4 deri!ed (rom popular mo!ies or !ideo games. 'he (etishiAed ob,ect can e!en be a character. )our Curmudgeon has one particular writer in mind, a man o( ob!ious intelligence and demonstrably high writer6s gi(ts, whose tales ha!e all le(t your Curmudgeon shrugging and saying, 4&o>4 He6s utterly in lo!e with his perennial central character, and can6t bring himsel( to write about anything else. ;ut his (ascination with her is essentially (etishistic8 his stories don6t ha!e the power to a((ect one who isn6t as immediately mesmeriAed by her as he is. With luc%, he6ll e!entually mo!e on8 ability li%e his would be a shame to waste. ;ut it won6t happen be(ore he con(ronts the essential emptiness o( his obsession. "oes all this mean that an inanimate ob,ect (or an unchanging character) can ne%er be used as the (ocus o( a story> Fo, but one must play the game to win# one must use the ob,ect as a symbol o( something deeper, to e!o%e desires and emotions more widely a((ecting than its ob,ecti!e sel(. )our Curmudgeon6s story 42 Few ?oo%4 is a case in point. /n the sur(ace, the story is about a young girl6s ac:uisition o( a pair o( 4(orbidden4 high heels. Howe!er, the shoes merely represent the girl6s tragic yearning to become

something to which her race, her bac%ground, and her community are all but immo!ably opposed. DDD 2n utterly wringing encounter with obsession led to one o( your Curmudgeon6s most memorable wastes o( his in(initesimal (ree time and steadily dwindling energy. 2 (riend whom he6ll call 7ary was approached by a (riend o( hers, who shall be called Bohn, to criti:ue the ,ust*completed manuscript o( his brand*new no!el. 7ary, a literary writer who specialiAes in Christian themes, (ound hersel( unable to read the 7&8 it ,ust 4wasn6t her thing.4 &he passed the opening segment o( it along to your Curmudgeon, suggesting that 4it might be the %ind o( thing you6d en,oy.4 Eentle <eader, the only ade:uate short description o( Bohn6s boo% would be 4gun porn.4 Bohn had started (rom a moderately interesting plot concept ** a &erbian general condemned as a war criminal escapes (rom F2'/ custody, seiAes power by assassination, ac:uires biological weapons (rom a <ussian lab and long*range missiles (rom Forth =orea, and uses them to blac%mail the rest o( 5urope ** and had larded it o!er with doAens, nay, hundreds o( pages o( interminable technical descriptions o( weaponry and its uses. Whene!er your Curmudgeon loo%ed up (rom all the rhapsodiAing about weapons, he (ound characters so li(eless that to call them 4wooden4 would be an inde(ensible slur on the lumber industry, stri%ing cliched poses and deli!ering set speeches to one another as i( each were alone in a room o( his own. +t was about 200,000 words long, and (inishing it too% all the cool determination and steely resol!e your Curmudgeon possessed ** appro3imately enough to ha!e made him a character in Bohn6s no!el. &till, he did his best to criti:ue the opening (i!e chapters, more or less rewriting them (rom the ground up, and to ma%e help(ul suggestions concerning where to ta%e the rest. Bohn was daAAled. (+t didn6t ta%e much to daAAle Bohn.) He pleaded with your Curmudgeon to continue as he6d begun. 2s an inducement he o((ered hal( the proceeds (rom the e!entual sale o( the boo%, an e!ent in which he had a religious (aith, because 4+ %now someone who %nows 'om Clancy.4 Fe!er in his li(e has your Curmudgeon had so much di((iculty repressing laughter. 'he hell o( it was that there was potentially a good story in there, i( the characters could be brought to li(e and the gun porn thinned out. Well, your Curmudgeon has always been a so(t touch (or anyone who comes bearing praise (or his literary gi(ts. &o he sighed, agreed to rewrite the boo%, and proceeded to do so. +t too% nearly eight months, during which your Curmudgeon was se!eral times seriously ill, habitually re(used to answer his phone, and seldom had a good word (or anyone. ;ut at the end, Bohn6s 7& had become a (air*to*middlin6 no!el o( political intrigue and war(are, peopled with actual characters to whom a reader might ,ust possibly (eel some emotional connection. Fo, it didn6t sell8 that genre is glutted, and the story wasn6t so

original as to hint at a mar%etplace brea%through. ;ut two di((erent agents too% it on, and tried (or three years in total to mo!e it, which is more than many an unpublished no!elist can boast. DDD Passion, yes8 obsession, no. 'hat6s the long and the short o( it. 'he writer who connects with his passion, in(uses his themes with it, and populates his plots with characters who li!e their roles as !i!idly as real people would, will succeed. 'he writer who can6t :uite grasp why editors and agents aren6t as enthused as he about watermelon, saddle shoes, or the 6JK Che!y ;el 2ir will (ore!er grope (or an audience that isn6t there, and will sometimes waste considerable ability in the process. ;ut all is not lost e!en (or that latter artisan. 'he industrial press can always use a (ew good men willing to write about...well, about anything you can name. 2 dear (riend has spent much o( her (ree time this past year writing brochures and press releases (or a concrete supplier. 2nother (riend has made a nice chun% o( change pro!iding copy (or a retailer o( pre(abricated homes. 2nd there you ha!e the essential glory o( the good old L. &. o( 2.# howe!er specialiAed one6s wares, i( he loo%s hard enough, he6ll (ind a demand hungry (or what he can supply. --./0-3! The Sin o# 1.er4%anagement 2ll o( human endea!or con(orms to a simple pattern, which your Curmudgeon thin%s o( as 4'he 2lgorithm4# . &elect a techni:ue that you thin% will get you what you thin% you want. 2. Will this techni:ue re:uire you to lose body parts, go to ,ail, or burn in Hell> 2. +( so, return to step . 2.2 +( not, proceed to step M. M. "o a little o( it. N. 2re you at your goal, approaching it, or receding (rom it> N. +( at your goal, stop. N.2 +( approaching, return to step M. N.M +( receding, return to step . 'he creation o( (iction con(orms to it, too, with one all*important pro!iso# The author must recogni7e the limits of his authority. +n other words, he must remember to respect the bounds o( reality, e!en within a completely (antastic setting. 'he dictates o( reality ne!er go completely away, e!en when the author has decided to set natural laws as we %now them completely aside. 'he reason> Bohn ;runner6s 'wo Commandments o( 5((ecti!e Fiction#

. 'he raw material o( (iction is people. 2. 'he essence o( story is change. 4People4 does not mean solely homo sapiens terrestrialis. 'o :uali(y as 4people,4 a character must be# ** Conscious o( his own identity and its continuity o!er time and space8 ** Possessed o( desires he can6t satis(y merely by wishing8 ** ?ess than omnipotent, and there(ore capable o( being opposed and thwarted. /ne cannot write a satis(ying story in which Eod 2lmighty is the protagonist. He6d triumph merely by !irtue o( being who He is. 2n end that (oreordained would lea!e e!en the most accommodating reader shrugging. /n the other hand, &atan could be made into a 7ar:uee Character, i( one has the re:uired chut7pah. &te!en ;rust pulled it o(( in his early no!el To Reign )n 1ell! the triumph that (irst brought him public attention. 'his set o( constraints is part o( why your Curmudgeon is (ascinated by (ictioneering, despite its many irritations and (rustrations. )t#s economic in nature. 'he re:uirement that one6s characters be people, with people6s inherent natures and limitations, dri!es ?udwig !on 7ises6s a3iom o( action deep into the enterprise. +n this sense, e!ery plausible story is a mini*lecture on practical economics. ;ut what does this ha!e to do with 4o!er*management,4 whate!er that means> &imply this# /nce you ha!e de(ined your characters ** i.e., once you6!e gi!en them their powers, their desires, and their constraints ** you must allow them to act in accordance with those things. ;eyond that, you must permit the reader to learn about your characters (rom the characters themsel!es. /ne o( the oldest and most (re:uently trumpeted o( writers6 rules ** 4&how, don6t tell@4 ** once again rears its ugly head. +t implies that !alid character depiction must be o( three and only three %inds# ** What the character says8 ** What the character does8 ** What other characters say about him. You are not permitted to re%eal the character to the reader by direct narrati%e description. For one thing, it would rob the reader o( a great part o( his reading e3perience. For another, it would put you in danger o( a (atal error# )ou might attribute :ualities, con!ictions, or powers to your character that contradict what he must do to act out the story you ha!e planned (or him. )our Curmudgeon has struggled with this. He has a terrible habit o( ma%ing his 7ar:uee characters too power(ul, such that they pre!ail too easily. 'his cannot be (i3ed by narratorial intrusion8 the character must be rede(ined, such that he and that which opposes

him, be it man, mountain, or machine, are nearly e:ual in stature ** with the nominal edge going to the opposition. 7any a no!ice (ictioneer :uails (rom this re:uirement8 he wants his hero to win, and win big. +n a despairing attempt to pro!ide dramatic tension e!en so, he6ll o(ten drape emotional chains around his hero6s nec%, to inhibit the (ull use o( his powers. ;ut a truly power(ul hero would be conscious o( his power8 he wouldn6t be plausibly albatrossed by the sort o( inhibitions that would hobble him seriously in a serious con(lict. &e!eral otherwise e3cellent no!els ha!e displayed this (ailing. Patricia 7c=illip6s Riddle/2aster Of 1ed series comes to mind. +ts ending is too ob!ious8 7c=illip6s attempt to tie her enormously power(ul protagonist6s hands with sel(*doubt and reluctance to act simply doesn6t satis(y. 'his doesn6t mean that characters can6t ha!e rich internal structures that (eature important con(licts. +t does mean that characters must be internally consistent8 their emotional landscapes must be consistent with their ob,ecti!e powers and constraints. Character design o(ten (ails to ta%e this into account. /ne who li!es with a particular :uality (or any appreciable time will integrate that reality into his emotional structure. &uperman will not hold bac% (rom a (ight out o( (ear or a con!iction o( powerlessness8 Bac% <yan will not hold bac% (rom his duty out o( moral uncertainty. +( the author attempts to 4manage4 such a character !ia narratorial intrusion, his story will (ail to con!ince. Characters and plots must be (itted to one another. 2 struggle between badly mismatched (orces isn6t much (un to watch. 'he author who6s in lo!e with a particular character can6t simply ,am him into whate!er sort o( plot he pleases. He must contri!e to present that character with challenges that can only be surmounted, and opponents that can only be de(eated, by the (ull e3ertion o( his powers, a(ter personal growth that e3acts a signi(icant price. 2s <obert 2. Heinlein wrote in The 8at Who Walks Through Walls! 4For each (ine cat, a (ine rat.4 For best results, the rat should be the bigger o( the two. 'ry a 4"oc &a!age4 or 4?ensman4 no!el i( you want to see why this must be so. 'ry to stay awa%e through a whole one. +t won6t be easy. 'his limitation on auctorial authority is slightly di((erent (rom the proscription on e3cessi!e e3position. 'he latter is a technical rather than an emotional (ault8 it can o(ten be corrected without redrawing your characters or rewriting your plot. 'his is about letting your characters act in accordance with the natures and desires you6!e gi!en them, rather than sho!ing them around by auctorial (iat, or (orbidding them to use their abilities when those abilities would be most apposite. "on6t o!er*manage your characters. 2llow them to be who they are. 'hey6ll lo!e you (or it, and so will your readers. 'hat6s a promise. --./0-5! 0acing and Tone

7any an aspiring writer would !iew these essays and the topics they co!er with despair. He6d say to himsel(, 4Eood Eod, i( + ha!e to %eep all this in mind with e!ery sentence, +6m beaten be(ore + start. + can6t imagine how anyone could do it.4 'here6s a hidden grain o( truth in there# no one can do it. 'he point o( these e3plorations isn6t to present chec%lists against which e!ery sentence must be measured. 'hey6re intended to stimulate thought and discussion, and to plant seeds which are most li%ely to sprout, not when you6re writing, but when you6re reading- reading (iction produced by others. 'he best writers are all highly s%illed readers. 'hey read slowly, and with attention. 'hey gauge the :uality o( a story as they e3perience it, and ne!er cease to ponder why. 2(ter one has done enough such reading, he6s ready to write naturally, (or the critical (aculty de!eloped during his reading hours will ha!e insinuated itsel( into his subconscious, where he can draw on it at will and without undue e((ort. DDD Pace, collo:uially, is the speed at which a story6s e!ents occur in the reader#s mental framework. 'his is :uite di((erent (rom the rate at which they occur in story time. +( your thousand*word story co!ers (i(ty years in the li!es o( your characters and relates 4only4 (our or (i!e e!ents therein, it will be !ery rapidly paced. 'his is well illustrated by +saac 2simo!6s story 4+n 2 Eood Cause.4 Con!ersely, i( your two hundred thousand word no!el co!ers a single day in story time, and relates twenty e!ents therein, it will be languorously paced. Consider Bames Boyce6s $lysses (or e3ample. 2 story6s pace should be tied to its other emotional !ectors. What emotions do you want your reader to e3perience as he wal%s with your characters down Plot ?ine <oad> "o you want to pull him onto the edge o( his seat with e3citement> "o you want him to (eel trapped in a pit o( immutable despair> "o you intend to con!ey lo!e, passion, anguish, need, or hatred> 5ach o( these things wor%s best when depicted at a particular pace. 2 long story or no!el is li%ely to present se!eral emotional (aces, each in its turn. Here, too, the guideline abo!e is sound. )our pace must be accelerated or bra%ed to con(orm to the dominant emotion o( each scene. +t6s one o( the less appreciated re:uirements o( the e3tended story. When you6!e decided on your story6s emotional target(s) and its pro,ected length, you6!e also decided on its pace. ;eware@ 2 story6s length is not easy to control. 4'he Warm ?ands4 was intended to be no more than (i!e thousand words, but ,ustice could not be ser!ed in so compressed a trial. )our Curmudgeon had more luc% with 4?and For Peace,4 because o( the rich, uni!ersally %nown bac%story that pro!ides the (oundation (or the encounter narrated therein. 5arly decisions about story length will (re:uently need to gi!e way to the proper depiction o( its e!ents and the proper de!elopment o( its themes ** in other words, to the pace these things demand i( they6re to a((ect the reader as you desire.

Pace is closely related to one6s choice o( tone. Fot all combinations o( pace and tone are compatible. For e3ample, 'om Clancy could not ha!e used <obert ;olt6s tone in ' 2an "or 'll 0easons to write The 1unt "or Red October. 5!en i( we omit the archaisms o( si3teenth*century speech, ;olt6s stately !erbal architecture, so well suited to the series o( con!ersations he depicts, would ne!er wor% in a narrati!e o( high*speed, high*tension war(are. /ne simply cannot ha!e one6s characters declaiming to one another in a lo(ty tone when there are torpedoes in the water. For could ;olt ha!e used Clancy6s lean, clipped narrati!e style to describe the tra!ails o( 'homas 7ore and (amily as his enemies6 schemes close on him in se:uel to the schism o( Henry C+++. 'hose characters6 tensions were protracted (ar too greatly to be caught in telegraphic prose. 7any writers belie!e themsel!es to be stylistically limited. 'hey belie!e they possess a single idiom, or in the pre!alent term, 4!oice,4 and are (ore!er compelled to remain within it. 'his canard has gained traction these past (ew years largely due to the e3ertions o( writers with little storytelling talent, who see% to get by on stylistic whimsy# basically, imagery and wordplay to distract the reader (rom the emptiness o( the stories they tell. )our Curmudgeon considers this a cheat, and will discuss it no (urther. 2 good writer can command whate!er style he needs (or his story application. 'his includes tone, which is an element o( style. Here are two e3amples o( s%ill(ul management o( tone and pacing, at two greatly di((erent rates, (rom the pen o( one o( the most popular writers e!er to write in 5nglish. 'he (irst# He rac%ed the telephone, twisted the goosenec% o( the des% lamp so it threw a spot o( light on the wall, put his (eet up on his des%, and brought his hands together in (ront o( his chest, as i( praying. He e3tended his inde3 (ingers. /n the wall, a shadow*rabbit po%ed up its ears. 2lan slipped his thumbs between his e3tended (ingers, and the shadow*rabbit wiggled its nose. 2lan made the rabbit hop across the ma%eshi(t spotlight. What lumbered bac% was an elephant, wiggling its trun%. 2lan6s hands mo!ed with a de3trous, eerie ease. He barely noticed the animals he was creating8 it was an old habit with him, his way o( loo%ing at the tip o( his nose and saying 4/m.4 He was thin%ing about Polly, Polly and her poor hands. What to do about Polly> +( it had ,ust been a matter o( money, he would ha!e had her chec%ed into a room at the 7ayo Clinic by tomorrow a(ternoon ** signed, sealed, and deli!ered. He would ha!e done it e!en i( it meant wrapping her in a strait,ac%et and shooting her (ull o( sedati!e to get her out there. ;ut it wasn't ,ust a matter o( money. 2nd the second#

"a!id grabbed the bar o( +rish &pring and began to lather himsel( with it. He didn6t bother with his legs, there would be no problem there, but wor%ed (rom the groin on up, rubbing harder and generating more suds as he went. His (ather was still yelling at him, but now there was no time to listen. 'he thing was, he had to be :uic%...and not ,ust because he might lose his ner!e i( he stopped too long to thin% about the coyote sitting out there. +( he let the soap dry, it wouldn6t ser!e to grease him8 it would gum him up and hold him bac% instead. He ga!e his nec% a (ast lube*,ob, then did his (ace and hair. 5yes slitted, soap still clutched in one hand, he padded to the cell door. 2 horiAontal bar crossed the !ertical ones about three (eet o(( the (loor. 'he gap between the !ertical bars was at least (our inches and maybe (i!e. 'he cells in the holding area had been built to hold men ** brawny miners, (or the most part ** not s%inny ele!en*year*old boys, and he didn6t e3pect much trouble slipping through. 2t least, not until he got to his head. %uic& hurry "on't thin& trust 'o". ;oth passages are (rom &tephen =ing# the (irst (rom Needful Things! and the second (rom *esperation. 'he (irst passage is intended (or emotional e!ocation, and is structured and paced that way. Protagonist 2lan, the sheri(( o( Castle <oc%, is shown to be a deeper, more emotional and more contemplati!e man than a typical reader would e3pect (rom a typical small*town cop. 'he second passage is a masterpiece o( tension building# little "a!id is preparing (or a ,ailbrea% directly under the eyes o( a demon*animated carni!ore. 'he beats that power the two segments could hardly di((er more8 the contrast between the tones is e:ually sharp. )et they possess about the same 4density4 o( e!ents. 'here6s a great deal more that could be said about the management o( pacing and tone, but the best possible %nowledge o( such things comes, as was intimated at the opening, (rom reading with attention. +( you (ind yoursel( in the midst o( a passage that stri%es you as particularly well told in these ways, let your Curmudgeon %now@ --./0-! The Telling -etail 7any a no!ice (ictioneer labors o!er description ** when to do it8 how much o( it to do8 what to lea!e in and what to lea!e out ** as he does o!er no other aspect o( the narrati!e cra(t. &trangely, the preponderance o( the an3ieties (elt in this regard are unnecessary. "escription is actually a much easier, and more easily comprehended, matter than most writers thin%. Eranted that (irst*class description can produce a uni:ue e((ect#

"ay was opening in the s%y, and they saw that the mountains were now much (urther o((, receding eastward in a long cur!e that was lost in the distance. ;e(ore them, as they turned west, gentle slopes ran down into dim haAes (ar below. 2ll about them were small woods o( resinous trees, (ir and cedar and cypress, and other %inds un%nown in the &hire, with wide glades among them8 and e!erywhere there was a wealth o( sweet*smelling herbs and shrubs. 'he long ,ourney (rom <i!endell had brought them (ar south o( their own land, but not until now in this more sheltered region had the hobbits (elt the change o( clime. Here &pring was already busy about them# (ronds pierced moss and mould, larches were green* (ingered, small (lowers were opening in the tur(, birds were singing. +thilien, the garden o( Eondor now desolate %ept still a dishe!elled dryad lo!eliness. 1B. <. <. 'ol%ien, The &ord Of The Rings! 4'he 'wo 'owers49 ...one cannot o!er*indulge in such e((ects without losing the reader. Why> ;ecause o( ;runner6s First ?aw o( Fiction# The raw material of fiction is people. 7ore speci(ically, what your characters are saying, doing, and doing to one another. 5lmore ?eonard, (amed (or his humor*laced thrillers, was once as%ed by a (an why he wrote so (ew descripti!e passages, and %ept them so short. ?eonard smiled and replied, 4+ try not to write the parts that people s%ip.4 Ponder that. The typical reader skips descripti%e passages. Why> Fot because they6re badly written, though some surely are8 they6re s%ipped because most description contributes nothing to the (orward mo!ement o( the story@ <emember how a typical reader chooses the boo%s he6ll read# ** He heads (or the section(s) o( the boo%store where he can (ind his (a!orite genre(s). ** He loo%s (irst (or authors whose wor%s ha!e pleased him in the past. +( he doesn6t (ind any unread wor%s by (amiliar, appro!ed writers, he scans spines and co!ers (or cle!er titles and pro!ocati!e art. ** When a title or co!er painting catches his (ancy, he pic%s it up and reads the bac%* co!er or dust*,ac%et blurb. +( it (ails to intrigue him, he puts the boo% bac% on the rac% and resumes his search. ** +( the blurb has, at the least, not dimmed his tentati!e interest, he opens the boo% to the (irst chapter and reads one or two pages. +( these don6t impress him, he passes on. ** +( the (irst page or two engage his interest, he might ri((le the pages o( the boo%, scanning it (or 4density.4 'hat is, he loo%s to see how tightly the words are pac%ed on a typical page. +( it6s too high ** that is, if descripti%e and pure/narrati%e passages o%erwhelm dialogue and character interaction ** he passes on. ** Finally, i( all the abo!e tests ha!e been satis(ied and his (unds will allow, he buys the boo%. 'o be agreeable to the o!erwhelming ma,ority o( readers, (iction must concentrate on dialogue and acti!e e!ents in the li!es o( his characters. 2 writer who (orgets or disdains

this pattern and concentrates on description might get in!ited to a lot o( (aculty teas, but he won6t sell many boo%s. For all o( that, some description is necessary i( you want the reader to see your (ictional world !i!idly. ;ut there are guidelines to ma%e it plain when it6s necessary, how much o( it there should be, and what speci(ically one should describe. 'hese guidelines are nicely synopsiAed in the imperati!e# 8ulti%ate an eye for the telling detail. ?et6s unpac% that command a bit. ! 6hat is an 7eye #or the telling detail78 6here does one #ind it8 Probably the best approach to ac:uiring this 4eye4 ** that is, the sense (or what ought to be described and when ** is to concentrate on the consciousness o( one6s !iewpoint character. 'hat is# the sensorium, sensiti!ities, and priorities o( the !iewpoint character, through whose 4eyes4 the story is currently being told, should dictate what one describes. For e3ample, let6s imagine that your !iewpoint character is a doctor who labors, as so many do, in a hospital. 'he hospital is his typical (rame o( re(erence. While the precise details o( the hospital do matter to him, on a typical wor% day he doesn6t ta%e acti!e notice o( ninety*(i!e percent o( them. He would not (i3 his attention on a respirator that he passes twenty times per shi(t. He would not muse upon the height, shape, or color o( a reception des%. He would not remar% to himsel( that Boe &mith is wearing a stethoscope, unless that were in itsel( an unusual thing that should trigger heightened attention (e.g., i( Boe were a ,anitor, or a serial %iller whom your character had thought con(ined to a ,ail ward). &ince the goal o( good (iction is to in!ol!e your reader in the emotional li!es o( your characters, your descripti!e prose should be guided by a cogniAance o( the sort o( things your characters would care about, and the sort they would glide past, whether (rom their regularity or (rom their irrele!ance. "! 6hat is a 7telling detail87 +n %eeping with the guideline abo!e, a telling detail is a detail that tells the !iewpoint character something that ought to arouse his acti!e interest. Fote the phrase 4ought to.4 +t might, or it might not8 a(ter all, he might be ha!ing a sub*par day. ;ut either way, it should! because the detail itself is important to the course of the story** +t indicates a di((erence in his en!ironment ** either in the physical setting or the people that inhabit it ** that will (actor into the plot. ** +t characteriAes a (igure with whom he6ll be in!ol!ed in the subse:uent action. ** +t impels him toward his deeds in the subse:uent action8 ** +t enables him to do something he6ll need to do, or constrains him (rom doing something he6ll want to do, in the subse:uent action.

'he way to describe a telling detail is through the !iewpoint character6s perception o( it, including those aspects o( its setting that ma%e it signi(icant. Fote how, in the 'ol%ien passage abo!e, the author ma%es note o( the 4change o( clime4 and that 4spring was busy4 around the hobbits (rom whose perspecti!e the details o( +thilien were described. 'hese (eatures o( the physical en!ironment are why Frodo and &am noticed their surroundings8 they constituted a noticeable change ** and a most unusual one, gi!en that their course was ta%ing them toward a land o( limitless (oulness. Here6s another illustrati!e passage# ?ori too% in the situation with a glance, glared at 2aron, and immediately slapped the code call button. 2ndrew went to ;erglund6s bedside and san% to his %nees. +ncredibly, he groped (or the patient6s (lailing hand and (olded it between his own. 'he !olunteer6s eyes closed and his lips mo!ed rapidly. 'he etheric sense 2aron had culti!ated o!er his years o( e3ploration o( the dar% (orces :ui!ered li%e an alerted hunting dog. 2 miasma o( power was (orming in the room, ho!ering o!er 2ndrew6s head. +t was not a (amiliar one. 2aron6s inner eye watched it wa3 in potency. +t grew blindingly bright, then descended and wrapped itsel( around the thrashing, dying man. ;erglund6s eyes closed. His spasms slowed, became progressi!ely gentler. ;y the time the team with the crash cart had arri!ed, the old man was still and his breathing had ceased. 'he glowing cloud o( power was gone. 2ndrew rose (rom his %nees and deposited the limp hand onto its owner6s motionless chest. He turned to the crash cart team, who had (roAen in place upon (irst con(ronting the strange tableau. 4He6s gone.4 'he technicians started (orward, but the !olunteer held up a hand. 'here was an ine((able authority in him that halted them where they stood. 4?et him be.4 ?ori was trying to ,am her (ist into her mouth. 2ndrew slipped past the emergency team, wrapped an arm around ?ori6s shoulders and coa3ed her (rom the room. 1From 4Cirgin6s Prayer49 'he !iewpoint character, 2aron, doesn6t dwell upon the mundane (eatures o( the scene be(ore him. +ndeed, he hardly notices them. He6s (i3ed upon the things that matter most to him# the immanence o( a great cloud o( supernatural power, apparently in!o%ed by 2ndrew8 2ndrew6s own assumption o( authority, be(ore which e!eryone else at the scene automatically gi!es way8 and ?ori6s reaction to it all. 'hese aspects o( the scene are critical to the action that remains8 nothing else about the scene matters at all.

$! 9ow much description is enough8 *s there a way to know8 +n a word, yes. 5nough description is description that (ollows the guidelines abo!e. +t tells the reader what the !iewpoint character is thin%ing and (eeling about his surroundings. +t also tells the reader what the !iewpoint character ought to notice, whether he does so or not8 this is particularly important in stories with an element o( mystery. Finally, it6s married to what6s happening to and around the !iewpoint character at the moment, rather than being a super(luous lump that sits in the way o( the action. 'his gi!es us a third guideline that pro!es most use(ul in practice# The best description is married to what the characters are doing. Consider the (ollowing passage# 'he tall, ungainly woman wal%ed haltingly up the winding, tree*lined path that led to the large, green*shuttered sprawling old white mansion. Her old, arthritic !ein* corded hands gripped her sil!er*topped cane, and its worn brass (errule stabbed (eebly at the unyielding earth with e!ery (altering step she too%. 'o the best o( your Curmudgeon6s %nowledge, that passage is not (rom a published story. ?awrence ;loc% uses it as an e3ample o( o!erwriting in his boo% Telling &ies "or "un 'nd (rofit. ;ut it6s also an e3ample o( pointless description. +t6s unmated to any signi(icant action o( the !iewpoint character ** not clearly re!ealed here, though one might assume (rom this snippet that it6s the old woman being described ** and ad!ances nothing in which the reader might ta%e more than a yawning interest. Here6s another passage, (rom a masterwor% by one o( the (unniest and most creati!e writers e!er to scatter words upon a page# 4Well, then,4 &ir Eules said, leading his guest down the carpeted (loor past the silent manser!ants to a high wainscotted room in which a cheery (ire snapped and crac%led in the great ony3 (ireplace. 7ar!in did not answer. His eye was ta%ing in the details o( the room. 'he car!en armoire was surely tenth century, and the portrait on the west wall, hal(*hidden by its gilt (rame, was a genuine 7oussault. 4Come, sit, + pray thee,4 said &ir Eules, sin%ing grace(ully to a "a!id /gil!y hal(* couch decorated in the 2(ghan brocade so popular that year. 4'han% you,4 7ar!in said, sitting upon an eight*legged Bohn +C with rosewood handles and a bac%ing o( heart*o6*palm.

42 little wine>4 &ir Eules said, handling with casual re!erence the bronAe decanter with gold chasings engra!ed by "agobert o( Hoyys. 4Fot ,ust at the moment, gi!e thee than%s,4 7ar!in replied, brushing a (lec% o( dust (rom his stu((*colored outercoat o( green baptiste with lisle (roggings, made to his measure by Eeo((rey o( Palping ?ane. 4'hen mayhap a touch o( snu((>4 &ir Eules in:uired, pro((ering his small platinum snu((bo3 made by "urr o( &nedum, upon which was portrayed in steel* point a hunting scene (rom the /range Forest o( ?esh. 4Perhaps later,4 7ar!in said, s:uinting down at the double*(urled sil!er thread laces on his dancing pumps. 1From <obert &hec%ley6s 2indswap.9 +( you6re not rolling on the (loor, ,ust barely %eeping your sides (rom splitting, it6s not your Curmudgeon6s (ault. &hec%ley has brilliantly pinned the !ery worst (ailings o( innumerable writers o( historical and Eothic (iction, so (unnily and per(ectly that comment is unnecessary ** as was e!ery one o( the interminable details o( that passage. 2 no!ice writer can learn better what not to do by studying that passage than (rom any doAen boo%s on the writer6s art. ;ad description is almost always o!er*description. +t6s 4the parts that people s%ip.4 )our reader6s principal reward (or consuming your wor% is the emotional ,ourney he ta%es alongside your characters. 'hat6s the priAe. 5!erything else is, well, ,ust details. --./0-"! -e.ices /ne o( the most stri%ing things about the e((usions o( those who pre(er to write OliteratureP rather than tell stories is their penchant (or o!erdressing e!erything# 1'hey9 wal%ed o(( in separate directions through the chaparral to stand spraddle* legged, clutching their %nees and !omiting. 'he browsing horses ,er%ed their heads up. +t was no sound theyQd e!er heard be(ore. +n the gray twilight those retchings seemed to echo li%e the calls o( some rude pro!isional species loosed upon that waste. &omething imper(ect and mal(ormed lodged in the heart o( being. 2 thing smir%ing deep in the eyes o( grace li%e a gorgon in an autumn pool. 1Cormac 7cCarthy, (ll !he Pretty Horses9 While inside the !aulting o( the ribs between his %nees the dar%ly meated heart pumped o( whoQs will and the blood pulsed and the bowels shi(ted in their massi!e blue con!olutions o( whoQs will and the stout thighbones and %nee and cannon and the tendons li%e (la3en hawsers that (le3ed and drew and (le3ed at their articulations o( whoQs will all sheathed and mu((led in the (lesh and the hoo!es that sto!e wells in the morning groundmist and the head turning side to

side and the great sla!ering %eyboard o( his teeth and the hot globes o( his eyes where the world burned. 1)bi".9 +n the mass and !ariety o( our purchases, in the sheer plenitude those crowded bags suggested, the weight and siAe and number, the (amiliar pac%age designs and !i!id lettering, the giant siAes, the (amily bargain pac%s with "ay*Elo sale stic%ers, in the sense o( replenishment we (elt, the sense o( well*being, the security and contentment these products brought to some snug home in our souls Rit seemed we had achie!ed a (ullness o( being that is not %nown to people who need less, e3pect less, who plan their li!es around lonely wal%s in the e!ening. 1"om "e ?illo, White Noise9 &he stood there, amaAed, rooted, seeing the grain o( the wood o( the barn clapboards, paint ,awed away by sleet and dri!en sand, the unconcerned swallows darting and reappearing with insects clutched in their bea%s loo%ing li%e mustaches, the wind*ripped s%y, the blan% windows o( the house, the old glass casting blue re(lections at her, the (ountains o( blood leaping (rom her stumped arms, e!en, in the (irst moment, hearing the wet thuds o( her (orearms against the barn and the bright sound o( the metal stri%ing. 12nnie Proul3, (ccor"ion *rimes9 ("ear Eod, please ne!er allow )our humble ser!ant to write that way. 'han% you (or )our %ind attention. )ours (aith(ully, Francis W. Porretto, Curmudgeon 5meritus to the World Wide Web.) WhatQs happening in the snippets abo!e> )our Curmudgeon assures you, theyQre ta%en straight (rom the cited boo%s, with absolute (idelity. +s it possible to imagine that bringing clarity to the e!ents described was numbered anywhere among the respecti!e authorsQ priorities> &torytellers donQt write that way. /nly writers in lo!e with the sound o( their own !oices write that way. +t bespea%s the e3altation o( the authorQs ego o!er the story he has chosen to tellRa demotion o( the story to a place so low among the authorQs priorities that one must wonder whether heQd ha!e pre(erred that it not be present at all. ;ut then, you as%, gi!en that a storyteller does want his reader to (eel certain emotions within a de(ined conte3tRthatQs the whole point o( storytelling, isnQt it>Rhow is he to e!o%e them, i( not with elaborate !erbal arabes:ues and a pro(usion o( de!ices> 3y telling the story! damn it, HereQs a snippet (rom a contest*winner your Curmudgeon wrote a (ew years bac%# + swung bac% the stable door and slipped inside. Fo one noticed. 'here were only the three# man, woman, and child. 2 single (rail candle burned against the bac% wall o( the stable, casting their silhouettes at me li%e in!erted

shadows. 'he woman had wrapped the baby in a loose cocoon o( white muslin, lea!ing only its head e3posed, and was laying it in the (eed*trough that stood between the rows o( stalls. &he straightened, stepped bac%, and wordlessly collapsed into the manQs arms. 2round the little tableau, the horses were silent. + stepped (orward, started to address the couple, and stopped. He cradled her in his lap, his arms tight about her, his (ace ablaAe with u3orious de!otion. Her eyes, large and luminous, were (i3ed upon her new child. +t too% all my strength to produce a !oice. O"o youS re:uire anything>P Her gaAe remained loc%ed upon her child. He assessed me with a glance and nodded with a certainty + could not help but en!y. O&ome water, perhaps.P + nodded and started (or the inn, but something held me. + bent to the (eed*trough, pulled the muslin bac% (rom the tiny (ace and loo%ed into it, not %nowing why or what + hoped to see. 'he babyQs eyes were open. 'he eyes o( the newborn are ne!er open. )ou %now what storyQs being told there, though it pro!ides only the most minimal conte3t and ga!e you no identi(iers at all. &o how do you know? 2nd gi!en that you %now, was it need(ul that it describe anything more, indulge in more de!ices, or attribute any more e3plicit emotions to the narrator> 'he story itsel( should be enough. +( it is, then when told with clarity, with a ma3imum o( immediacy and a minimum o( decoration, it will pierce to the heart. 2 pro(usion o( modi(iers, de!ices, and ob!ious symbols indicates either that the author doesnQt trust in the story, or that he considers the display o( his !erbal pyrotechni:ues to be more important. 5!ery literary priAe ,ury in the 5nglish*spea%ing world would denounce your Curmudgeon as a philistine and a !illain (or saying that. ;ut consider who sits on those priAe ,uries, how (raternal they are toward one anotherQs members, and then tell me i( you would ha!e e3pected anything else. 'he (undamental error rampant among the OliteratiP is :uite simple# they deny that literary de%ices! from cle%er wordplay all the way to the most comple+ metaphors and symbolism! are supposed to ser%e a purpose. 'heyQ!e made de!ices and the display o( cle!erness with them into an end in themsel!es.

2mong other things, this in!ol!es seeing onesel( as a competitor# with other writers, with the story itsel(, and with the readerQs tenuous purchase on the story as itQs being told. 2 storyteller (aith(ul to his calling does not compete. He ser%es** He ser!es the story heQs telling with clarity and appropriate (ocus at the appropriate points8 ** He ser!es the reader by con!eying the story to him in a meaning(ul, emotionally accessible (orm8 ** He ser!es the storytellerQs art by rein(orcing its norms and perpetuating its !alues. 'o ser!e, one must be humble. /ne must not see onesel( as the superior o( those one ser!es. ;ut surely literary de!ices ha!e their place, donQt they> Why would innumerable legions o( high school 5nglish teachers ha!e drilled their de(initions into our heads and compelled us to enumerate them in the wor%s o( all those dead white Western 5uropean male running*dog lac%eys o( the patriarchal capitalist conspiracy i( they were naught but dross> /( course they do@ 'hey ha!e the same place as any other tool# to perform a 6ob that can9t be performed with any other tool. Consider the (ollowing snippet (rom your Curmudgeon6s no!el Which 2rt +n Hope# From dinner onward, their e!enings were a barely restrained re!el, a celebration o( e3cited anticipation e3pressed in giggles, absurd ,o%es, and loo%s and gestures o( endearment that a complete stranger couldnQt miss. 5ach night the hearthroom rang with song, with clapping, with the inarticulate delight o( !oices raised in a((ectionate ,apes and ripostes. +t went on until, drun% to bursting with (amily, the couple rose to ta%e their lea!e and, against wails o( protest (rom the others, retire to their bedroom. 'here, bathed in the light o( a single candle, they e3plored the dominion o( bliss. 'hey ga!e their bodies to one another without reser!ation. 'heirs was the (ire o( youth and the wholeness o( lo!e, wherein the oldest things are made new. 5ach caress, each tenderness, each whispered word became a new s%ein in the bond that %nitted them together, a new stone (itted to their rising edi(ice o( ,oy. )ou could hardly say that passage is (ree o( de!ices# Oa barely restrained re!elP8 Odrun% to bursting with (amilyP8 O the dominion o( blissP8 O a new stone (itted to their rising edi(ice o( ,oy.P ;ut your Curmudgeon used them consciously, to ser!e a conscious purpose# the Ohigh*altitudeP depiction o( the days a(ter two young adults became engaged and opened to one another se3ually. &ince your Curmudgeon had a broad period to co!er, he eschewed descriptions o( speci(ic e!enings in the company o( their (amily. 2nd o( course, speci(ics about physical lo!ema%ing are almost always deemed crude. +nstead, your Curmudgeon used broad de!ices# nonspeci(ic but e!ocati!e descriptions and metaphors.

?iterary de!ices can be use(ul, ,ust as any tool can be when a task to which it9s suited is at hand. ;ut the accomplishment o( the tas% is the important thing, not the tool. 7echanics arenQt rated according to how many wrenches they own, are they> 'he aspiring storyteller who wants to add a literary touch to his prose would be well ad!ised to practice restraint. ?iterary de!ices arenQt li%e crushed walnuts, to be scattered liberally o!er a ca%eQs (rosting, and the more the better. ?i%e e!ery other %eystro%e, they should be harnessed to the story and the point o( its telling# to gi!e the reader a reason to (eel (or, and with, your 7ar:uee characters. 2 paucity o( de!ices might stri%e some readers as Ostar%P or Obald,P but a pro(usion o( them...well, either you got the point (rom those OliteraryP passages your Curmudgeon cited at the opening o( this essay, or you didnQt. +n either case, as "igger /Q"ell (amously said, 4+Qll be sho!eling along now.4 --./0-$! %oti#s 2s was mentioned in the essay abo!e, literary de!ices ha!e their place. 'he simile, the metaphor, the !i!id image, the allusi!e symbol, the metonymy, the synecdoche, and the litotes are all tools that should be (ound in a (ictioneer6s bo3. ;ut these are his lesser tools, not his greater ones8 they6re li%e ,eweler6s screwdri!ers that, when properly used, can be used to tune up a bit o( prose with detailed ad,ustments. 'here are (ar more power(ul items, the e:ui!alent o( ,ac%hammers and pneumatic wrenches, upon which he should rely# sound plotting8 a conscious, stirring theme8 strong characteriAation, and a smooth, generally transparent style. ;ut between the ,ac%hammers and the ,eweler6s tools lies an intermediate realm o( hand wrenches and calipers# approaches and measures that gi!e a story its second*le!el structure, and whose s%ill(ul deployment is inade:uately addressed in most tomes on the (ictioneer6s art. 'hese intermediate tools are more interesting in certain ways e!en than the high*powered de!ices used to gi!e a story its o!erall cast8 among other things, the writer usually has to (ashion them himsel(. We shall call these hand tools the story6s motifs. DDD 2 moti( is a bloc% o( interrelated speci(ics, used more than once, that strongly colors a story. +n other words, when a writer decides to ele!ate some group o( interrelated details to a place o( importance in his tale, he6s creating and employing a moti(. 'hat6s more than a little abstract, so a (ew e3amples will be necessary. 7oti(s are o( three general %inds# ** 'here is the plot motif- a pattern o( e!ents used se!eral times to emphasiAe the regularity o( causation within the tale.

** 'here is the character motif- a pattern o( moti!ation used to delineate one or more o( the 7ar:uee characters. ** 'here is the setting motif- a pattern in the physical, social, political, or cultural bac%drop (or the story which strongly a((ects the characters and their decisions. +n 8arrie! the (irst o( his no!els to reach a large audience, &tephen =ing made repeated use o( the spilling of blood as a plot moti(. 'he subtle shadings o( se3uality, re!ulsion, and !iolence =ing was able to in!o%e through this pattern indicate that he understood, at least subconsciously, the symbolic centrality o( bloodshed to our perceptions o( our !ulnerability and mortality. For e3ample, the story begins with Carrie6s menarche. +t6s an e!ent she doesn6t understand. +t terri(ies her, because her se3*hostile mother has neglected to educate her about the de!elopment o( her body. Her terror amuses her schoolmates, re!ulses her mother, and mo!es schoolmate &usan &nell to 4adopt4 her as someone in need o( special assistance. 'hus, it undergirds the de!elopment o( what (ollows. 'he re!olting pran% played on Carrie at the prom, and the homicidal spree that (ollows, were all de!eloped (rom the bloodshed moti( at the opening o( the story. ?awrence ;loc%6s mar!elous no!els o( pri!ate detecti!e 7atthew &cudder are stippled with character moti(s o( se!eral %inds. &cudder6s a dry alcoholic, and hasn6t been seriously tempted by li:uor in many years, but he attends 2.2. meetings at (re:uent inter!als. He6s a (ormer cop, who le(t the (orce out o( re!ulsion at some o( its more common (ailings, but he reluctantly maintains relationships with se!eral 7anhattan police authorities, without whose assistance his pri!ate wor% would be more di((icult. He6s a secularist, with no perceptible religious inclinations, but he regularly tithes himsel( o( his earnings and deposits the result in the poor bo3 o( whate!er church is nearest to hand. He has a strong sense o( ,ustice, and is dogged in its pursuit, but his best (riend, 7ic% ;allou, is a gangster and a murderer, whom he6s assisted with !arious criminal underta%ings upon re:uest. 'he &cudder no!els show him regularly con(ronting these seeming con(licts and (inding ways to harmoniAe them with his highest moti!es. 7aster (antasist &te!en ;rust has pro!ed adept at the use o( moti(s o( setting. His no!els o( "ragaera, a world populated by two related but :uite di((erent sentient species, are rich in such patterns. Fon*human "ragaerans, politically the superior group, (all into se!enteen di((erent physical and emotional patterns, or Houses. 5ach House is based on some non*sentient beast whose genes were spliced into basic "ragaeran stoc% by a !anished, :uasi*di!ine race called the Benoine. Within those Houses, the characteristics breed true. Crossbreeds are anathematiAed and li!e as Houseless outcasts, a handicap o( e3treme importance in the highly politiciAed "ragaeran en!ironment. Feuds between two Houses can last (or millennia, are propelled in large measure by those Houses6 beast* deri!ed characteristics, and can range (rom (re:uent duels between indi!iduals all the way to large*scale pri!ate wars. )et most o( the time, these moti(s are as much a part o( the bac%drop as the bric%s in the buildings o( 2drilan%ha, the "ragaeran 5mpire6s capital city8 the reader becomes aware o( them only when climactic e!ents call them (orward. From the abo!e e3amples, one might thin% that moti(s are primarily o( interest to the no!elist, who has room to (iddle with such things. Fot :uite. 5!en in a short story, moti(s

can and do play a role# 2lia chose that moment to screech, O2re you going to be our new daddy>P at a pitch that could ha!e shattered the pyramids and roused the pharaohs (rom beneath them. Heads throughout the restaurant turned to loo%. 7elissa resisted the urge to hide under the table, but ,ust barely. 42lia, sit and be :uiet,P he said. 'he si3*year*old reddened at the steel in the words. &he was about to go bac% to her coloring, but ;eau(ort loo%ed her in the eye and silently compelled her attention. 4+ might be, 2lia. +t will depend on a lot o( things. /ne o( them is how you beha!e while weQre here.P 2s 2liaQs lips twisted into a toddlerQs petulant pout, he smiled and continued. O+( youQre really good, + might decide that you donQt need a new daddy. /r i( youQre really bad, + might decide that you ,ust ha!e to ha!e one.P 7elissaQs mouth dropped open. He (lashed her a win%. 4Fow,P he said, Owould anyone li%e something to eat>P Here, co*protagonist <on ;eau(ort is allowed an important character moti(# his penchant (or asserting himsel( at une3pected times, and (or reassuring his 4!ictims4 immediately therea(ter. 'he pattern repeats twice more in the course o( the story. <on has a (ull, ,usti(ied (und o( con(idence in himsel(, in e%ery way but one$ the e3ception is the central (ilament o( the tale6s resolution. 'he character moti( delineated abo!e was your Curmudgeon6s way o( heightening the contrast and ma%ing e!ident the depth o( ;eau(ort6s agony o!er his handicap. DDD /( course, moti(s must be subordinated to the larger architecture o( the story. 'hat is, plot moti(s must (it coherently into the o!erall plot8 character moti(s must be consistent with the character6s o!erall nature8 setting moti(s must not clash with one another, nor with other perceptible (eatures o( the story landscape. )et, (or a change, this is as easily done as said, (or one o( the easiest ways to create plots, characters, and settings is to assemble them as collections o( moti(s. 2t least, that6s o(ten the way your Curmudgeon does it. +t o(ten seems to your Curmudgeon that most storytellers, e!en the best ones, use moti(s subconsciously ** that is, the patterns they create don6t rise to the sur(ace o( their thoughts as they create them. &tephen =ing once commented to that e((ect. ;ut e!en i( this must be so, a debatable point, it6s well to be able to recogniAe one6s moti(s in the rewrite, (or it6s then that one must address any contradictions or incoherencies they might create. What stri%ing e3amples o( moti(s ha!e occurred in your reading or writing>

--./0-'! 6ordings ;race yoursel(, Eentle <eader. )ou6re about to read heresy. For your Curmudgeon is emphatically not o( orthodo3 opinion ** orthodo3 among persons who write about (iction writing, anyway ** when it comes to one6s (iner*grained stylistic choices. +n this regard, he6s either a radical or a reactionary, depending on one6s baseline. 2nd damned proud o( it, baby. DDD ! %odi#iers! 'he (ashion among today6s 4stylists4 ** yes, those are sneer :uotes ** is to suppress modi(iers and o!erload on images and de!ices. Fow, there6s nothing inherently ob,ectionable about the use o( imagery or image*e!o%ing de!ices# similes and their more elaborate o((spring. Whene!er one compares anything to anything else, he6s trying to in!o%e an image (rom the reader6s e3periences and harness its power to his story. ;ut writing that completely eschews con!entional modi(iers ** ad,ecti!es and ad!erbs ** yet insists on deploying comparisons in e!ery sentence ta%es the reader on a !isit to &imile Hell. &imile Hell is where the analogically obsessed writer is (ated to spend eternity. +t6s a mur%y place, where one can ne!er be sure whether one is loo%ing at the conscious (ocus o( one6s attention, or at something that6s merely li%e it. &imiles are o( !arying :uality, o( course, li%e the goods on a department store6s shel!es. Eood similes e3pand upon the reader6s perception and understanding o( the thing being compared, li%e a magni(ying glass that also clari(ies color and (ine detail. ;ad similes are irrele!ant comparisons that ,er% the reader away (rom the scene being described, as i( one had sat down to a (ine +talian dinner only to be grabbed by the nec%tie and hauled down dar%, dan% steps into a dungeon, where one is compelled to endure a lecture about the e!ils o( <osicrucianism and the importance o( (lossing. 'hen there are the hilarities o( simile, best e3empli(ied by "ouglas 2dams6s classic# 4Huge as o((ice bloc%s, silent as birds, they hung in the s%y in precisely the way that bric%s don6t.4 'hat simile, once read, embeds itsel( in the memory li%e a barbed splinter. &imile Hell is a place o( indistinct borders and indeterminate shapes. Fothing there is e!er allowed to ha!e its own characteristics, but is described merely as being like something else, as i( some male!olent god had decreed that the deniAens o( that cruel place could only see one another, and the things around them, as re(lections (rom one another6s clouded, distorted sur(aces.

Clearly, a writer who permits similes to proli(erate without limit, li%e Bohn Wyndham6s 'ri((ids, will end up (eeling li%e a sla!e chained to a runaway machine o( un%nown purpose. His ability to describe (ounders under the weight o( constant comparisons, and his prose diction becomes as repetitious, as indistinct, and as ine((ecti!e as, you %now, li%e, whate!er. "one laughing yet> Well, then let6s proceed. /ne o( the reasons similes and other image*e!o%ing de!ices get out o( control is the pre!alent (ear o( con!entional modi(iers# ad,ecti!es, ad!erbs, and modi(ier phrases. While these, too, can be o!erused, the !acuum they create by their e3clusion has ob!ious detrimental e((ects. From your Curmudgeon6s own, ridiculously insigni(icant and distorted perspecti!e, what o((ends him most, sending his (e!er*addled brain careening through the borderlands o( irreal malice and into the many*shadowed canyons o( homicidal insanity that lie beyond, is the obsession with modi(iers. 'here are two !arieties o( obsession with modi(iers. 'he (irst is to a!oid them religiously. 'he second is to drown the reader in them. 'he really maddening cases are those writers who, seiAed by an ine((able ambi!alence about the entire, contro!ersy*strewn topic, ping*pong between the two opposed poles. +n perusing these, the reader (inds himsel( at times swimming lugubriously through a chow* mein sea, strewn, as though by some male!olent god (rom the depths o( ?o!ecra(t6s unrecorded nightmares, with e!ery concei!able %ind o( ad,ecti!e, ad!erb, participial, gerundi!e, and ablati!e absolute %nown to the logophilic hordes. &entences o( a comple3ity that would ha!e cho%ed William Faul%ner, in!olute as the general theory o( relati!ity and twice as opa:ue, (estooned with terms o( that ob(uscatory an(ractuosity that characteriAes the in(erior mind struggling to pass itsel( o(( as a temple o( erudition, wrap themsel!es around the reader6s (orebrain in braids o( simulated pro(undity seldom properly e:uipped with the appropriate punctuation mar%s which a(ter all are supports to both reading rhythm and comprehension and really shouldn6t be dispensed with no matter what the e((ect the writer is stri!ing to create. 'hen will come a paragraph brea%. 2(ter the brea%, the writer is gripped by the other pole o( the obsession. His sentences are all simple declarati!es. His writing becomes as terse as a (irst*grader6s primer. Fo commas are re:uired. )our Curmudgeon6s read a lot o( stories li%e that. /%ay, you can go bac% to breathing normally again. +s there a 4rule4> Fot really. What matters, and all that matters, is the e((ect your words ha!e on him who reads them. 'his is e3traordinarily di((icult to ,udge, e!en i( you6!e (ormed a clear pro(ile o( your reader, his e3periences, his pre(erences, and his le!el o( reading comprehension. +t6s one reason ** admittedly, (ar (rom the only one ** that (ictioneers are always loo%ing (or 4test readers,4 who6ll deli!er a not*too*pain(ul opinion

on whether their latest bit o( prose 4wor%s.4 Words and de!ices are the storyteller6s tool. ?i%e all tools, they must ser!e the application or be set aside. &o what you want is (or each word to 4carry weight.4 Fone o( your words should be disposable, and none o( your de!ices irrele!ant. Con!ersely, a word or de!ice re:uired to achie!e your purpose should not be omitted, e!en i( it is one o( those dreaded ad!erbs. +( you can trans(orm that somehow into a reliable rule (or e!aluating your prose, do please send it along. 'han%s in ad!ance. DDD "! The Tom Swi#ty! When your Curmudgeon decided to ma%e (iction writing into one o( his studies, one o( his (irst in!estigations was into the ab,uration o( ad!erbs alluded to abo!e. 'here are only eight parts o( speech8 to eliminate ad!erbs (rom the writer6s toolbo3 would depri!e him o( 2.JT o( the a!ailable tools. +t struc% your Curmudgeon as absurd. &o he plumbed the matter until he (ound the reason editors wince o!er ad!erbs in the wor%s o( aw%ward writers. What he (ound was the 'om &wi(ty. 'he 'om &wi(t boo%s (eature some o( the !ery worst prose e!er written, but in particular they o!eruse tonal attributions ** that is, the use o( an ad!erb to color a line o( dialogue ** to such an e3tent that the reader (inds himsel( desperate (or a simple, undecorated 4he said.4 2 tri!ial e3ample would be something li%e# 4)ou can6t tal% to me li%e that,4 she said angrily. 42ngrily4> Really? Fot lo!ingly or boredly or thought(ully> What an incredible surprise. 'he ad!erb in that e3ample is not only an unnecessary word8 it6s an insult to the reader6s intelligence. Why is it there> ;ecause the writer %new his line o( dialogue was cliched and wea%, that6s why. ;ecause he pre(erred to hac% it with a tonal attribution rather than gi!e his character and his story enough thought to come up with something strong enough to carry itsel(. +n other words, because he6s a laAy bum. ?aAy bum writers don6t attract a lot o( readers. 'he ones they do get are less than penetrating. /( course, the classical 'om &wi(ty, (or e3ample as celebrated at this site, is the intentional use o( an ad!erb to create a humorous clash with the dialogue, as (or e3ample#

47y girl pre(ers lamb6s*wool sweaters,4 'om said sheepishly. 4What our team needs is a man who can hit U0 homers a season,4 'om said ruthlessly. 4+6ll ha!e another martini,4 'om said drily. 'he tonal attribution in the hands o( the inept writer doesn6t entertain as those do. +t merely ma%es the reader more conscious o( the wea%ness o( the attributed dialogue. Clumsy tonal attributions are probably the most common reason (or an editor to re,ect a submitted story without reading it to the end. 3ut this is not sufficient reason to e+coriate all use of ad%erbs. Consider the (ollowing passage# 'he strangeness o( the district disturbed his rhythm. +t caused him to shi(t his attention away (rom his pace and (ooting. +ne!itably, mo!ing too (ast (or the surroundings while gaw%ing at the mysteries around him, he tripped and (ell. He collected himsel( pain(ully, brushed the dust (rom the arms o( his windbrea%er, and loo%ed about (or the cause o( his tumble. 2 pace away, a large blac% cat, the slee%est specimen o( (elinity he6d e!er seen, sat staring at him as i( amused at his clumsiness. +ust've trippe" over her. Haven't "one that in a "og's age. "espite his prat(all, the internal play on words caused him to smile. He nodded courteously to the cat, who stared at him a moment longer, then turned and slin%ed away with a cat6s typical sinuousness into the open door o( a shop he hadn6t yet consciously registered. 1From 4'he Ei(t <oom.49 )our Curmudgeon employed the ad!erbs 4ine!itably,4 4pain(ully,4 4courteously,4 and 4consciously4 in de(iance o( the 4prohibition.4 Were they unnecessary> /ne reader thought so. "id they contribute use(ully to the coloration o( the scene, and the mental state o( the narrator> /ne reader thought so. +t will always be a ,udgment call, and ultimately (or the reader to decide. Consider again# Berome Huygens padded into the %itchen, his burden s:uirming (eebly against his chest. 'he in(antQs eyes were closed. +ts limbs mo!ed sluggishly, as i( the little body barely contained enough (orce to mo!e them. He laid it down on the great

oa%en table, stood a moment loo%ing down at it, pulled out a chair and sat. 1From 4Foundling.49 /nce again, one reader e3coriated the use o( the ad!erbs 4(eebly,4 4sluggishly,4 and 4barely,4 while another praised the passage as one o( the most e!ocati!e openings to a short story she6d e!er read. 'he reader will decide8 the writer must use his ,udgment ** what 5. ;. White called his 4ear.4 'o de!elop that 4ear,4 you must read. +n particular, you must read e3tensi!ely within your chosen genre# doAens or hundreds o( boo%s by the authors who dominate it and who set its measure. 'here6s no other way to internaliAe its customs and standards. 7any writers, surprisingly, (ind this hard to do. +n the process, some disco!er that they6re unsuited to writing in the genre they6!e always en,oyed most. +t happened to your Curmudgeon. DDD $! Acti.e( passi.e( and cognate .oice! /ne o( the most (re:uent bits o( detail ad!ice gi!en to de!eloping writers is to pre(er the acti!e !oice. &trong !erbs in the acti!e !oice, we are told, gi!e a story dri!e and pace. Passi!e !erbs and cognates ** !erbs o( the 4to be4 (amily, and related !erbs such as 4seem4 and 4appear4 ** don6t pro!ide that propulsion, and lend themsel!es to con!oluted sentence structures as well. 'his isn6t wholly (alse, but li%e most unconditional rules, it omits a shea( o( important cases# ** &cenes where one wants to maintain a slower pace, or deliberately 4wash out4 the picture to pro!ide contrast with more dramatic scenes8 ** &cenes where the !iewpoint character is himsel( acting passi!ely8 ** &cenes where the !iewpoint character is being manipulated by more power(ul others. Words are tools, not dictators. )ou should pre(er whiche!er o( the !oices is appropriate to what you6re narrating at the moment. Consider# Carl Harris stuc% his clipboard under his right arm and shouldered open the door o( the little store(ront. 'he assortment o( unrelated ob,ects he6d seen through its grimy (ront windows told him nothing about what %ind o( business it was. He hadn6t targeted this shop speci(ically. +t wasn6t on his rolls, and that was enough to warrant a loo%. When he let himsel( see and smell the place, he regretted his decision to enter. 'he shop was small, dan%, and dimly lit. 'he air hung still and dusty. Fo one else was in sight. 'he bare counter he (aced (rom the doorway stood unattended.

Harris scanned the room (or some indication o( what %ind o( business was transacted here. 'he place was wall*to*wall, (loor*to*ceiling shel!es crammed to their edges with ,un%. 2n old chrome toaster stood ne3t to a battered teddy bear, which leaned precariously o!er an anti:ue sha!ing mirror. ;eside them stood a ,umble o( shabby ,ewelry bo3es, their (abric hinges (rayed to uselessness, and a matryosh&a doll whose painted sur(aces were more chips than paint. 'here were tarnished candleholders o( rococo design, and decorati!e candles in (anci(ul shapes, some that had been lit, some that had not. 2ncient cloc%s and watches abounded. Commemorati!e plates and mugs were e!erywhere, proclaiming the glories o( places no one in his right mind would e!er !isit. /!er all o( it hung an odor o( mildew and decay. 'he dri(twood o( innumerable li!es had washed up on this lower 7anhattan beach. +t was a ,un% shop, not e!en a pawn shop, and there was nothing more unpleasant (or a retail inspector. 1From 4'he /b,ect /( His 2((ection.49 )ou6d be hard pressed to (ind a 4strong4 !erb in the abo!e. 7ore, the dominant !erb is 4was,4 o( the dreaded cognate !oice. ;ut the passage abo!e describes the !iewpoint character6s dour assessment o( an unpleasant*loo%ing little store, which he6s about to enter in the thin hope o( a little gra(t. 2re the chosen !erbs appropriate to that setting and mission> Would 4strong, acti!e4 !erbs ha!e per(ormed it as well, or would they ha!e detracted (rom the musty, static, (utureless atmosphere o( the shop> DDD 'here6s more to say, o( course ** your Curmudgeon has omitted a section on idioms, cliches, and the di((erence between them, in the interests o( bre!ity ** but that6s enough (or one day. Probably the most important personal attribute a (iction writer can ha!e is con(idence. +t allows him to write without agoniAing, and to (ace chores such as rewriting, editorially mandated alteration, and the sneers o( critics with e:uanimity. ;ut no writer6s con(idence is per(ect. /(tentimes the chin%s in his armor come (rom his %nowledge that he6s !iolating some loudly, widely trumpeted rule. &o your Curmudgeon is here to tell you# . +n (iction, there are no absolute rules. 2. <ule is not binding. ;e not a(raid. --./0--

)! The Animal Force

4+6!e reached an age where se3 is constantly on my mind, but seldom on my agenda.4 'hat delight(ul line was gi!en to the character o( President 'om 7c=enna, played by the late <oc% Hudson in Worl" War ))) a made*(or*tele!ision production about a &o!iet in!asion o( 2las%a that e!entuates in the title disaster. ;ut as pi:uant as it was in its original setting, your Curmudgeon imagines it e!en more appropriate (rom the mouth o( many a contemporary no!elist. +t seems to be common among 2merican writers that the older they get ** and by implication, the less se3 (igures into their real li!es ** the more se3ually (ocused their (ictions become. ;ut their borderline obsessions with what they6re not getting doesn6t render their stories more appealing. &ometimes it spoils them completely. Eranted that the taboos against se3ual depiction ha!e all (allen (lat these past thirty years. Eranted (urther that an aw(ul lot o( editors are uninterested in boo%s that contain no se3ual component. Copious writing about se3 does not imply eroticism, wisdom, or s%ill in doing so. &e3 is a (undamental aspect o( human li(e, and eminently suitable as a moti( with which to e3plore the proper sub,ects o( (iction# the !irtues, the !ices, their e3pressions in action, and the emotions that mo!e us among them. ;ut it is only a moti#. 2 story o( which se3 is the whole point is pornography, and pornography is boring. &ome would argue that point, but the re(utation is contained in the title o( this essay. ?ust is an animal (orce, not a rational or emotional one. ;runner6s ?aws o( Fiction# . 'he raw material o( (iction is people. 2. 'he essence o( story is change. ...demand that in a good story, one must be able to obser!e changes in people. ;ut changes in people, as distinguished (rom changes in animals, are about those things that ma%e us human# our rational (aculties and our emotional ties to one another. 'he se3 act itsel( changes neither o( these, e3cept as an ad,unct to other de!elopments o( higher, wider import. &ome e3tremely s%ill(ul writers ha!e turned out one e3cellent no!el a(ter another without e!er describing e!en the build*up to a se3 act. Fantasist &te!en ;rust comes to mind in this regard. +n his entire oeu!re, one o( the most e3citing bodies o( wor% in contemporary (antasy, he6s described only a single (leshly clinch, and e!en there he discreetly drew the curtains be(ore the consummation o( the e!ent. /thers who rate plaudits in this regard are science (iction giant "a!id ;rin, master (antasist Elen Coo%, and the immortal Bac%

Cance. 2 (ine writer who has de(aced se!eral otherwise high achie!ements with gratuitous se3ual depictions is Eregory ;en(ord. +n their boo% Sel#,-"iting For Fiction Writers <enni ;rowne and "a!id =ing gently suggest going counter to the current, se3*drenched trend# 4&ometimes the most erotic thing you can write is a line space.4 )our Curmudgeon concurs. 2mong other things, it gi!es readers6 (labby imaginations some room to stretch and e3ercise. <oughly he thrust his throbbing tool into her :ui!ering :uim. 42aaah@4 she wailed, caught (ast on the ,agged border between lust and outrage as her passion eclipsed her (ury at his presumption. 'heir rhythms con,oined as their bodies had, her alabaster globes hea!ing in per(ect time to the stro%es o( his !el!et*headed lo!e hammer. 'hey moaned and surged as one, willing capti!es o( the tidal (orces they had loosed. 1From 4'he 5ternal 'riangle49 Where6s the imaginati!e room to roam in that. )our Curmudgeon wrote it as the punchline to a (ictional ,o%e, and submitted it to a writers6 wor%shop e3pecting it to draw, i( not gu((aws, at least a chuc%le or two. +t6s some measure o( the lac& o( imagination o( most aspiring writers that only one o( a room(ul got the gag8 the rest only criticiAed my e3cessi!e use o( modi(iers. )et it6s merely an ornate e:ui!alent to much o( the se3ual writing one could (ind with a random swipe at the shel!es o( any boo%store. 2ny section o( any boo%store, at that. Writerly discipline should include su((icient strength and clarity o( purpose to eschew the cheap thrill. ?et it be said, howe!er, that your Curmudgeon does not condemn erotic writing as such. &e3ual depiction can be purpose(ul and grace(ul. Consider the (ollowing scene, (rom the pen o( the a(orementioned &te!en ;rust# 4+6m glad 2liera is good at re!i!i(ication,4 + said. 4+ suppose so.4 4For both our sa%es,4 + added, because + meant it. &he loo%ed at me care(ully. 'here was a moment when time did strange things. +( + had thrown my stones right, + could ha!e %issed here then. &o + did. ?oiosh (lew o(( her arm as our lips met. +t was hardly an intense %iss, but + disco!ered that +6d closed my eyes. /dd. &he continued loo%ing at me, as i( she could read something in my (ace. 'hen she said, !ery deliberately, 47y name is Cawti.4 + nodded, and our mouths met again. Her arms went around my nec%. When we came up (or air, + reached up and slid the nightgown o!er her shoulders and down to her hips. &he pulled her arms (ree and began wor%ing at the clasp o( my cloa%. + decided that this was insane. &he would ne!er ha!e a better chance o( getting one o( my daggers and (inishing me. /erra + thought to mysel(, ) thin& )'ve lost it. 7y cloa% dropped to the (loor, and she helped me ta%e o(( my ,er%in. + paused to remo!e my boots and stoc%ings, then we (ell bac% together, and the sensation

o( her small, strong body against mine, her breasts against my chest and her breathing in my ear, my hand on the small o( her bac%, her hand on my nec% ** +6d ne!er (elt anything li%e it be(ore, and + wanted to stay ,ust li%e that, (ore!er, and not ta%e it any (urther. 7y body, howe!er, had its own set o( rules, and let me %now o( them. + began stro%ing her lower spine. &he pulled my head away and %issed me8 this time we both meant business. + tasted her tongue, and that was nice too. + heard mysel( ma%ing small moaning sounds as my lips tra!eled down to her throat, then to the !alley between her breasts. + %issed each one, care(ully, and went bac% to her lips. &he started (umbling (or the catch to my breeches, but + inter(ered by (inding her buttoc%s with my right hand and crushing her to me again. We drew bac% and loo%ed at each other once more. 'hen we paused long enough to send ?oiosh out o( the room, because lo!e, li%e murder, shouldn6t ha!e witnesses. 1From 0en"i9 +t6s a pity that space considerations should compel your Curmudgeon to se!er this scene (rom what preceded it. 'he narrator, Cladimir 'altos, is a pro(essional assassin. Cawti, the woman to whom he6s about to ma%e lo!e, is another ** and /la" was her target only a "ay be#ore. 'he grace o( the scene is heightened still (urther by the unusual conte3t, but the abo!e e3cerpt is su((icient to display ;rust6s grasp o( the essence o( erotic writing# the e!ocation o( the emotion o( desire, and the unanticipated directions in which it can pull us. /b!iously, se3 and eroticism in (iction is a huge sub,ect that can6t be e3hausted by a piddling thousand words. )our Curmudgeon will return to it in a (uture essay, but (or the present, let this summation su((ice# 5roticism is about desire. Pornography is about plumbing. --./0-+! Con#ounding the Archetypes Character de(inition is hard. +t6s (inic%y, re:uires attention to consistency and plausibility, and demands care in the scripting o( dialogue. 'here are no magic tric%s to ma%e it easier...which is why so many mediocre*to*poor writers are %nown (or their uncon!incing, cardboard*cutout characters. ;ut the di((iculties don6t end there. Character sculpting is also hemmed in by role archetypes- the popular bounds on what sort o( character is permitted to ha!e what sort o( moti!es, and how (ar he6ll go in acting on those moti!es. 'his is a bound both 4(rom abo!e and below#4 a character whose role archetype demands that he be a 4bad guy4 cannot easily be made into a hero, but ma%ing him too bad a bad guy ris%s trading an archetype (or a stereotype, in!o%es the 4been here, read this4 e((ect, and loses reader allegiance.

<ole archetypes are culturally (ormed. For e3ample, in 2merican society today, a high corporate e3ecuti!e is not readily made into a hero8 he6s presumed to be money*centered and largely indi((erent to compassionate concerns or the demands o( 4social ,ustice.4 Howe!er, go bac% a century or so, and you6ll (ind that the businessman6s role archetype was :uite the opposite, as illustrated by the wildly popular (ictions o( Horatio 2lger. /ther lands will ha!e other ta%es on the archetypes attached to particular roles8 one must ha!e some (amiliarity with the milieu to appreciate them. )our Curmudgeon purely lo!es to go against the archetypes. +t6s part o( why he sells about one story a decade. &heQd been too reser!ed (or most o( the men sheQd %nown, too proper, too Catholic. Fot (or him. When sheQd told him o( her determination to remain a !irgin until marriage, he had merely nodded. His assent had been so natural as to say but o# course as i( the matter hadnQt needed to be !oiced. 1From 4Ceremony49 Here and there around the +nternet, she had scattered nuggets o( treasure# binary pac%ages that the roaming &hi!a would e!entually (ind and absorb into its %nowledge base and decision $ action machines. Fo program but &hi!a could decode their contents, (or the structure she had chosen was one o( cascaded enhancements to &hi!a6s e3ecutable code. +t depended on intimate %nowledge o( &hi!a6s inner wor%ings, especially upon &hi!a6s ability to modi(y itsel( as it ran. &omething else the (ools had missed. 1From 4Lpgrade.49 'wo men could hardly appear less ali%e than ?ouis <edmond and Eeorges Chennault. Ci!ienne6s (ather was tall and broad*shouldered, craggy o( (ace and brooding o( aspect, an intuiti!ely proper (it to his somber trade. ?ouis was short and slender almost to (railty, had (eatures so so(t that they almost disappeared beneath his piercing, miss*nothing eyes, and seemed ne!er to be without a smile. )et the similarities went much deeper. ;oth men e3uded a commanding presence. ;oth were per(ectionists, %eepers o( stratospheric standards. ;oth were physically power(ul, grace(ul beyond e3pectation, and possessed endurance e:ual to any trial. ;oth li!ed with the memory o( enormous personal loss, and bore it in silence. 'he thoroughly masculine bond between them was li%e a li!ing thing. 1From 4;argains.49 +ndeed, it6s your Curmudgeon6s contention that a story that absolutely respects all role archetypes and re(rains (rom e!er challenging them is about nine*to*one odds*on to be utterly unoriginal and (atally boring. 2 character who stays within his role archetype (or the duration o( the story cannot change enough to be interesting to the reader. 2t best, he6ll be &upporting Cast, i( not a &pear Carrier. 'his is not to say that role archetypes aren6t use(ul ** as poles. 2 character can be made

interesting by mo!ing him away (rom his role archetype, or toward it. 7ore, role archetypes can be used to ,olt the reader out o( 4thematic complacency#4 the assumption that he %nows who the good and bad guys are and can more or less predict what the ultimate con(lict between them will be. +saac 2simo!6s story 4'he "ead Past,4 (rom his collection Earth )s Room Enough!e3empli(ies the use o( a role archetype to create a stunning surprise o( this %ind. +n challenging a role archetype, one must be care(ul not to (all into a trendy cliche. For e3ample, one o( today6s thic%er currents in horror (iction is to promote !ampires as good guys. (lease, 'his was original at one time, but at this point it6s become monotonous. +t6s easy to see why it6s popular among mediocre horror*(iction writers8 a(ter all, what else can one do with an e%il !ampire but hunt him down and sta%e him> )et simply to contradict the !ampire archetype gets one nowhere at all. &pi%e6s moral and emotional e!olution in the (inal years o( the 3uffy! The :ampire 0layer tele!ision series shows more imagination by (ar. 2lso, one must not as% the reader to go too (ar. For e3ample, i( one ma%es a corporate mogul into a hero (igure, one must re(rain (rom suggesting that his business acti!ities are dri!en solely by altruistic moti!es. +t6s not necessary to depict him acting li%e a power (rea% or a greedy son o( a bitch, but the writer must at least nod toward the pro(it moti!e, corporate political considerations, and the need to ace the competition. 2rthur Hailey6s Wheels (ailed on this score by ma%ing protagonist 2dam 'renton simply too good to be true, though in many other ways the boo% was readable and entertaining. +t6s wise at your outset into a tale to select one character, whether protagonist or antagonist, whose role archetype you6ll challenge. &ometimes in the composition o( the story, another character will demand similar treatment, but it6s usually bad policy to set out with two or more targets in mind8 it6s too li%ely that you6ll miss both o( them. <emember, (inally, that role archetypes, li%e archetypes and stereotypes o( all %inds, e3ist because significant numbers of people conform to them. 'his o(ten has e!il social e((ects8 a (ew e3cessi!ely sharp businessmen who play the angles too closely, or a (ew thugs whose attitude toward others is submit or be gunned down, can tar the reputation o( the much larger category to which they belong. ;ut the problem you (ace is not the disproportionate attention such persons get in the popular press8 it6s the images in the reader6s head, and the e((ort he must e3ert to set them aside to ma%e room (or your character conceptions. 'he more you as% o( him in this regard, the more and better reasons you ha!e to gi!e him (or it, ,ust as with any other aspect o( reader suspension o( disbelie(. What contra*archetypal characters ha!e struc% you most power(ully in your (a!orite (ictions> --./0-,! :i.e Them 6hat They 6ant!

Huite a lot o( aspiring writers ha!e a !ery hard time gi!ing them what they want. &uch writers tend to (i3 on preconcei!ed plans o( the sort that amount to one*way demands (or collaboration, which are by their !ery nature unen(orceable. Ln(ortunately, i( you don6t gi!e them what they want, your story will lac% both dri!e and pathos, no matter how intricate your plot or how compelling your theme. 'hey will mani(est indi((erence to your moti(s, yawn at your scenery, and shrug at your con(licts. Ei!ing them what they want is the indispensable (irst step to ma%ing them your absolute ser!ants, ha!ing them utterly in your thrall, ready to leap to your e!ery command. )ou can get them to turn out their poc%ets be(ore your !ery eyes i( you ,ust gi!e them what they want. What6s that> )ou6!e ne!er heard anything :uite so ob!ious (rom one who presumed to dispense ad!ice to other writers> Of course the writer has to gi!e his readers what they want@ +t6s the (irst principle o( all entertainment o( any sort. Well, (riend, that6s where we part company. )our Curmudgeon wasn6t tal%ing about your readers, but your characters. DDD +n recent years, it6s become (ashionable to partition stories into plot*centric and character* centric. 'he (ormer are propelled principally by a progression o( thrusts and counter* thrusts between their protagonists and their antagonists8 the latter (ocus on the changes ta%ing place in the protagonist6s character. /( course, a plot*centric story will ha!e a protagonist8 howe!er, the ways in which the other elements o( the story a((ect him ** speci(ically, the ways in which the e!ents o( the story cause him to change emotionally ** will absorb less o( the writer6s e((ort than the business o( %eeping the action going. 'om Clancy6s The 0um Of 'll "ears is an e3ample o( a good plot*centric story that, while ade:uately charactered, is deliberately biased toward action and pulse*pounding suspense. 'he ultimately plot*centric story would be one whose protagonist changes in no perceptible way8 at the end o( the tale he6s e3actly the same guy, with e3actly the same !alues and moti!ations, as he was on page one. +( you6!e su((ered through The *a :inci 8ode or 'ngels 'nd *emons! you ha!e a (air idea o( what sort o( story your Curmudgeon means. Con!ersely, a character*centric story must ha!e a plot o( some %ind8 it6s ,ust not going to be as intricate or relentless as that o( a plot*centric story. 2n e3ample o( a (ine character* centric story that also o((ers a weirdly compelling plot is &tephen =ing6s masterpiece The 4reen 2ile. "eath <ow boss Paul 5dgecombe is in the (inal stages o( a crisis o( conscience when supernaturally gi(ted Bohn Co((ey and pro(oundly e!il William Wharton con!erge on his place o( employment to wor% their respecti!e wonders. 'he ultimately character*centric story would ha!e so minimal a plot that a(ter he6d (inished it, the reader would be inclined to (orget it8 it would ma%e no impression on his memory, the dramatic e!olution o( the protagonist ha!ing absorbed all his attention. 7any a 4literary4 writer **

yes, those are sneer :uotes ** aspires to this 4ideal.4 'he ideal your Curmudgeon pre(ers is balance. 'he protagonist should be !i!id, clearly the center o( e!ents, and possessed o( at least one power(ul unsatis(ied desire, but constrained (rom attaining it easily. 'he plot should be strong with e!ents that will lead the protagonist toward his desire and the payment (or it, or toward growth that can only come (rom (orsa%ing it. +n other words, the story should emphasiAe human change. Change in human beings arises (rom three and only three sources# ** +nteraction with other people8 ** +ntrospection $ contemplation8 ** 2 challenge (rom the physical uni!erse. For this reason, all worthy plots must ma%e use o( one or more o( these three elements. ;ut wait# weren6t we spea%ing o( what the characters want? &eems to your Curmudgeon that we were. How does that (actor appear in the plotting $ characteriAing e:uation> 'he answer is bac%story. 5!ery character e3cept a newborn baby ** and how interesting are they, really> ** enters his story with a set o( :ualities and a history. 2mong those :ualities will be the things he most !alues and the things he most desires. 'he writer must embed in his protagonist6s history a set o( reasons (or those !alues and desires. 'hose reasons must be power(ul enough that the protagonist will perse!ere in his desires despite signi(icant opposition (rom others or (rom Fature. +( the writer intends that those !alues are to change, the character must be (aced with li(e lessons that teach him that what he see%s would come at a price he6s not willing to pay. (Perhaps he ne!er realiAed what the price was.) +( the writer intends that the character6s !alues are to remain constant, the bac%story $ plot combination must e3tract a large cost (rom the character (or prosecuting them# a need (or personal growth to remain constant and true. What your protagonist wants, baldly spea%ing, is a reason to grow. Whate!er bac%story you gi!e him, your plot and other characters must enmesh him in di((iculties (rom which he cannot escape without paying an unacceptable price, but which the process o( na!igating past them will render him more than he was. +n this sense, e!ery good, strongly charactered story is in some way a 3ildungsroman- a story o( sel(*disco!ery. Without signi(icant growth in your protagonist character, you won6t ha!e a tale o( substance8 you6ll ha!e a comic boo%. /( course, there are some thorny :uestions remaining. What sort o( growth is appropriate and achie!able> 'hat depends on your theme and your character6s general design. +n 4;argains,4 (ourteen*year*old Ci!ienne see%s the gateway to maturity# she wants to be ta%en (or a serious adult, especially by ?ouis, the ob,ect o( her unspo%en a((ection. Ci!ienne6s design ma%es that a plausible direction into which to steer her, which it

wouldn6t be i( she were a thirty*(i!e*year*old retired porn star. +n 42 For 5((ort,4 7organa wants to (ree hersel( o( some ob!ious social handicaps, so that she can ha!e a lo!e li(e. &he disco!ers along the way that she needs to gi!e as much as to recei!e# a bit o( %nowledge her handicap had concealed (rom her. +n those two tales, the enabling element was a part o( the character6s s%eleton# a characteristic deliberately called to the reader6s attention, that would ser!e to distinguish them (rom 4generic4 persons regardless o( their other histories. ;y contrast, in 4'he Ei(t <oom,4 co*protagonists Eordon and 7arilyn are gi!en !ery ordinary character s%eletons, but a semi*tragic bac%story o( parental desires unmet, whose (rustration chilled their passion (or one another. 'o get what they want, they must rise abo!e their common wea%ness ** their willingness to surrender to e!ents ** and reach toward one another regardless. (Which they do, with a little help.) Characters other than your protagonist must be supplied with challenges and desires that will cause them to change, as well. 2 !illain who stri!es mightily be(ore his de(eat, but at his ultimate humbling merely shouts, 4Curses@ Foiled again@4 will e3cite little interest (rom your reader, no matter how well you6!e done with your protagonist. )our &upporting Cast characters should also bear moti!ations that will ma%e their ongoing interaction with the 7ar:uee characters plausible and dynamic. The best stories ha%e e%eryone want something from someone else! whether those desires are made e3plicit or not. /(tentimes, your Curmudgeon doesn6t %now what his characters want, or ought to want, until he6s written many thousands o( words about them. He suspects that this is o(ten the case with other writers as well. ;ut (inding out what they want, and then charting a shoal* strewn course (or them to na!igate toward it, is what gi!es birth to the most enchanting characters enmeshed in the most compelling plots# the best balanced, most memorable stories. --./0-/! Cli##hangers )our Curmudgeon doesn6t %now speci(ically when or how the term 4cli((hanger4 was coined. Howe!er, the meaning o( the term is clear (rom its !isual imagery# it6s a clima3 to a (ictional scene, chapter, or episode that lea!es the reader in a state o( high tension, uncertain o( what will happen ne3t, and (hope(ully) badly needing to %now. 'he old &aturday serials were (ertile ground (or cli((hangers, which only stands to reason# the idea is to get the audience to return (or the ne3t episode. ;ecause the idea is so simple and seems so compelling, the cli((hanger is easily misused or o!erused by writers with an inade:uate set o( tools. 'o lea!e the protagonist hanging by a thread scene a(ter scene is (ormulaic and ultimately sel(*de(eating. 2(ter all, he comes out o( it ,ust (ine in the ne3t scene, doesn6t he> "on6t you thin% the readers are li%ely to notice and draw the moral> "on6t you thin% they6ll get ,ust a bit pee!ed o!er such a crude, repetiti!e attempt to manage them>

;ut wait@ 7ight there be more than one %ind o( cli((hanger> 'he simple sort in!ol!es a simple crisis# usually, a crisis that in!ol!es physical danger. What about other sorts o( haAards and uncertainties> For e3ample, haAards to the protagonist6s career, or his good name, or his sel(*image, or his image in the eyes o( his belo!ed> Can a good storyteller cra(t a subtler (orm o( cli((hanger (rom those> Well, o( course. +n (act, one o( the measures o( storytelling s%ill is precisely that ability. +( you6re good, you can ta%e anything that6s important to your 7ar:uee characters and ma%e it a source o( high tension (or the reader. ;ut not only must it be !isibly important to the rele!ant character8 you must ma%e it important to the reader, too. 'he Fo3 dramatic series ;< shows the !ersatility o( the cli((hanger in the hands o( a s%illed dramatist. For some twenty episodes o( the (i(th season, the plot was principally concerned with physical dangers, most particularly the possible use o( ner!e gas to commit mass murder. Howe!er, that danger has passed8 as o( the episode o( a wee% ago, the ner!e gas is no more. What remains is (or Bac% ;auer, the protagonist, to disco!er the identities o( the male(actors within the Lnited &tates go!ernment and bring them to ,ustice. For se!eral episodes, the audience has been (ed 4misdirectors#4 a s%ein o( scenes and incidents meant to mislead the !iewer into belie!ing that the !ice*president has been at the pinnacle o( this season6s conspiracy. 'hat proposition has emotional supports that (low (rom the !ice*president6s largely powerless position, and the typical ambition o( the men who6!e occupied that o((ice to rise to the top spot in their turn. ;ut at the !ery end o( last night6s segment, it was re!ealed that the %ingpin is actually President Charles ?ogan, seemingly the person most threatened politically by the ongoing crisis, whom ;auer and his supporting cast belie!ed themsel!es to be aiding and supporting all this time. 'his is a cli((hanger o( moti!ation# why would the president of the nited 0tates! inarguably the most powerful public official in the world! orchestrate a grand conspiracy that could murder thousands of 'mericans and bring ruin upon his own administration? )ou won6t (ind out all at once8 ;<#s scriptwriters remain true to their established (orm. 'he resolution o( the a((air is spun out to the !ery end. 7ore, in (ul(illing his mission and doing ,ustice as he understands it, protagonist ;auer will be compelled to pay a terrible price. ('hough, i( you6!e (ollowed the series since its inception, you might ,usti(iably wonder what prices are le(t (or the man to pay.) 'he way the president6s characteriAation has been handled is o( special interest. 'hroughout the series to this point, he6s been portrayed as more acted upon than acting, a bumbler who lac%s the strength o( character demanded by the o((ice he occupies. 'he ad!isors and agents who surround him ha!e all eclipsed him in moral certainty, readiness to act on their perceptions and con!ictions, and arguably most important o( all, their acceptance o( the possible and actual conse:uences o( their actions. Ei!en e!erything

we6!e been shown, one would easily dismiss ?ogan as an accidental president ** he was elected !ice*president, and reached the /!al /((ice upon the death o( the president during season (our ** doomed to be remembered as a careta%er, rather than imagine him as the mastermind o( a grand plot o( any sort. 'here(ore, audience interest must hang on the twin hoo%s o( why the president would in!ol!e himsel( in a conspiracy ** he6s reached the pea% o( all political power8 what more could he aspire to> ** and how that much male!olence could ha!e remained so care(ully hidden behind his (acade o( ineptitude. 2 writer who see%s to cra(t an absorbing thriller should ponder the !arious supports (or a cli((hanger. For the reader $ !iewer must ha!e a reason to go on (rom each chapter to the ne3t. 2 story that can e3ploit se!eral sources o( tension ** physical, political, (inancial, psychological, (amilial, romantic ** to %eep its protagonists in motion will enmesh its audience irresistibly8 it will end with them wanting more. 2 story that e3cites only one such source had better be %ept compact and wound up :uic%ly, as innumerable boring boo%s, mo!ies, and tele!ision dramas ha!e demonstrated. 'he last thing you want the consumer to say about your e((ort is that 4it could ha!e been much shorter.4 --./0-3! Targets 5!ery aspiring writer is at some point counseled to do the (ollowing things# ** <ead hea!ily in the genre in which he plans to write8 ** <ead particular boo%s on the cra(t o( writing8 ** 2ttend a writers6 wor%shop8 ** Write a romance8 ** Write a murder mystery8 ** Write a thriller8 ** 2ttend a writers6 con(erence8 ** Chal% it all up and do something constructi%e with his time. +tem is always ad!isable. +tem 2 is usually ad!isable, if the boo%s be well selected8 :uite a number o( writers*on*writing aren6t worth the powder to blow them to Hell. +tem M is occasionally worthwhile, though not (or the techni:ues one might learn there8 rather (or e3posure to the pre!ailing degree o( writers6 sel(*absorption and angst. +tems N, J, and U are only rele!ant to those who want to write in those genres. +tem K is o( !alue only i( one already has a (inished, well polished no!el to sell and needs to generate contacts with agents and editors. +tem V...well, perhaps we shouldn6t go there. ;ut note# +tems , 2, and M pertain to the technical aspects o( creating good (iction. 'he remainder (e3cept (or item V) pertain to the process o( mar%eting it. (With regard to items N, J, and U, those genres ha!e the largest annual sales !olumes and the highest turno!er, and are there(ore the easiest to sell. 2s% any agent.) ;e(ore any o( that is rele!ant, one

must choose one6s targets. 4'argets>4 you cry. 4What targets> + already %now what + want to write@4 Lndoubtedly you do. ;ut you6re li%ely to be thin%ing about something :uite distant (rom what your Curmudgeon has in mind. 5!ery worthwhile writer ** i.e., e!ery writer who6s not a pandering hac% ** comes to this !enture out o( a lo!e o( (iction. ;ut what made him lo!e it> 'here are only three possibilities# 1is gut- He6s (allen in lo!e with (ictional e3citment, the pulse*pounding, edge*o(*the*seat (eeling he gets (rom his chosen genre. 'his o(ten results (rom an immersion in ad!enture* oriented genres, such as Clancyes:ue techno*thrillers or international intrigue. 1is head- He6s (elt his consciousness e3pand (rom his reading, such that more o( the world ma%es clearer sense as a result. 'his usually stems (rom ac:uaintance with great no!els o( ideas, such as Hugo6s &es 2iserables! 7el!ille6s 3illy 3udd! or 2yn <and6s 'tlas 0hrugged. 1is heart- He6s been touched by great emotions, brilliantly depicted by writers with a sense (or the eternal !erities. /ne who6s lo!ed ;ronte6s Wuthering 1eights! &teinbec%6s Of 2ice 'nd 2en! or 'ol%ien6s The &ord Of The Rings will be o( this sort. 2 writer almost always wants to gi!e his audience the same gi(t the (iction he6s lo!ed has gi!en him. 'his o(ten causes the aspiring writer to turn away (rom the genre that was his (irst target. ?awrence ;loc%, in one o( his wonder(ul boo%s on the writing trade, narrates how, when he (irst set pen to paper, he intended to write science (iction, the genre that had most thrilled him as a youth. ;ut he disco!ered in short order that he could most e((ecti!ely create the sort o( tension and e3citement he lo!ed by writing crime thrillers# detecti!e procedurals and the li%e. Fo doubt he set science (iction aside with some reluctance ** no one abandons a passion li%e that easily ** but anyone (amiliar with his accomplishments would ha!e to admit that it wor%ed out (or the best. 2lso, one6s choice o( target can constrain his technical choices, at times rather closely. 'he most ob!ious o( these is story length. +dea*oriented (iction, intended to appeal primarily to the intellect or the imagination, can o(ten be :uite short yet highly compelling. &cience (iction, o( all genres the most idea*oriented, abounds with writers who specialiAe in blowing open the reader6s s%ull in J,000 words or less. (+ndeed, many an &F no!el could be compressed to J,000 words with no loss o( its !alue and with a great sa!ings o( the reader6s time and patience.) Howe!er, thriller (iction almost always needs e3tensi!e de!elopment. 'he writer can6t get the reader onto the edge o( his seat in so (ew words8 he has to build up the reasons o!er the course o( many scenes and chapters. ;ut what one6s target most narrowly determines is his choice o( theme.

'he modern thriller writer must stic% closely to good*!ersus*e!il constructions. He6ll o(ten wea!e a !ery imaginati!e plot, but because his target is the gut, he can6t a((ord to allow more than a trace o( thematic or moral ambiguity. 'he cru3 o( his creation is always the struggle by that which is plainly goo" goo" to prevail over plainly evil opposition against enormous o""s. He must %eep his readers6 attention (ocused there i( he wants to %eep their loyalty. +dea (iction, aimed at the head, rides a di((erent !ector. +saac 2simo!, well %nown (or his !ery cerebral (iction, %ept to themes o( imagination, disco!ery, and the importance o( alertness to possibilities. He seldom e3plored a moral theme, and in conse:uence his stories seldom had e3plicit !illains. 7ostly, his protagonists struggled against the (orces o( Fature, or against their own lac% o( comprehension o( them# What you "on't &now can hurt you an" what you "o &now can save you. 5motional (iction, aimed at the heart, has little or nothing to do with romance. +t depends wholly on the writer6s grasp o( a great moral truth, and his ability to dramatiAe it within a plausible conte3t. &ince drama only e3ists when men must su((er (or being good, the depiction o( such a theme will in!ol!e an3iety, (rustration, pain, sacri(ice, counterpoised necessities and (ears, the paying o( great prices, and (hope(ully) a (inal e!aluation that 4it was all worth it.4 'o produce a story o( this sort re:uires both (ortitude and endurance, (or the writer will usually su((er right along with his protagonists. 2t the end, he might well wish he had written a nice romance. Lltimately, e!ery writer writes (or himsel(. )et e!ery writer hopes that he can (ind readers that will lo!e the things he6s lo!ed, (or the same reasons and in e:ual measure. Whether his target is the gut, the head, or the heart, the writer6s core intention is the same# to share that which has stirred him with a similarly minded reader, that they may %now, i( only (or an instant, a commonality that erases all the other di((erences between them. --./0-"5! ;eginnings 4;eginnings are such delicate times.4 ** ?ady Bessica, in Fran% Herbert6s *une Well, yes, at least when writing (iction. ;ut not because the principles o( a good beginning are di((icult to comprehend. 'here ha!e been many (ormulas ad!anced (or how one should light o(( a compelling story. 7ost o( them are !ariations on 4hit the ground running.4 'hat6s not bad ad!ice. +n general, a writer who (ollows it will at the minimum get his readers to turn the (irst page, a consideration o( supreme importance in selling boo%s. ;ut it (ails to go to the heart o( what ma%es (iction truly compelling# that is, what causes the reader to in%est emotionally in the story being told. 2 grasp o( that (undamental truth ma%es it unnecessary to remember any (ormula (or e((ecti!e storytelling, whether at the beginning,

the middle, or the end. DDD 'his is not a sub,ect about which a writer*on*writing should be coy, so your Curmudgeon will get the root principle down right away. 7any a mediocre no!el begins well. 'he beginning ma%es the reader care about the results o( the action to come. +n some cases, the reader can (oresee the de!elopment8 in others, it will ta%e him completely by surprise. ;ut to get your reader to (inish your story, you must compel him to in!est emotionally in one or more o( the 7ar:uee characters# to want to see them (ight past the obstacles be(ore them and pre!ail o!er their enemies. 2 storyteller who succeeds in ma%ing his readers care about the e((orts and well*being o( his protagonist(s) will ne!er lac% (or (ans. +( you6!e wondered at the popularity o( series* character no!els, such as 'om Clancy6s Bac% <yan no!els or ?ee Child6s Bac% <eacher no!els, you ha!e the e3planation right here. 'he enduring protagonist character enters each subse:uent ad!enture with the reader6s lo!e already (irmly attached to him. ('his approach also minimiAes the author6s character*de!elopment wor%, but today +6m speci(ically concerned with the reader6s response.) 'here(ore, a writer who wants to (asten his story immo!ably to the reader6s hands will usually introduce a 7ar:uee character with the (irst sentence, and gi!e the reader a reason to care about him within the (irst page. 2 !ariation on this principle comes easily to mind# +mmediately introduce a hate(ul !illain doing hate(ul things, such that the reader desperately wants to see him get his comeuppance. Howe!er, that6s a harder tric% to pull o((, and can undermine the story6s ability to (ascinate with mystery, so it should be approached with caution. DDD Here6s an e3ample o( how a writer with a suspense tale to tell might seduce a reader into immediate emotional in!estment with a 7ar:uee character# 2t (irst, there was only dar%ness, and a dim sense o( upward motion, li%e swimming through dar% water. 'hen there was light, and noise, and incredible pain. Christine hal(*remembered the crash, but had no idea where she was or what was being done to her. 'he (lood o( pain (rom her (ace bloc%ed her rational powers. 'he perception o( restraint threatened her sanity. 2 single phrase roared through the torture. O&heQs coming awa%e@P &he surged upward against whate!er was holding her. &trong hands pressed her

bac%. &omething metallic attached to her (ace, pulling upon it, tore loose and (ell o(( to rest against her ear. Her scream could ha!e shattered stone. 2 needle pierced her arm. Her terror (lew beyond any recall. &he dropped bac% into the dar%ness, certain she would ne!er see light again. 'hat6s the opening to /n ;ro%en Wings. /b!iously, Christine is in a lot o( pain, and possibly in :uite a lot o( trouble as well. 'he deliberately under*described setting could be an operating room, but it could easily be something much more sinister. 'he reader must continue reading to (ind out what6s going on, and what will come o( it. 'he pace suggests that the plot will accelerate rapidly, which it does, at least (or the (irst ten thousand words or so. /( course, i( the o!erall pacing o( your tale will be more sedate than the sort o( wild ad!enture implied by the abo!e, you should gear your opening toward it. For e3ample# /n the day it began, + was at wor% at /nteora 2!iation. + was on my way to somewhere. + can no longer remember where. /nce there, + would do something re:uired by my middle management ,ob, with indi((erent cooperation or bored resistance (rom some other middle manager. 2(ter that, +6d return to my usual routine, which was mostly ,uggling (igures and composing reports that had only a tenuous relation to anything in the real world. + was headed downstairs, with a (older o( papers tuc%ed under one arm. + reached the landing between (loors, wheeled to continue down the ne3t (light, and (ound mysel( staring helplessly at the most beauti(ul woman Eod has e!er put on this sorry ball o( mud. &he was tall, about (i!e (eet eight, with a bu3om*slender (igure (rom an adolescent (antasy. &he wore a na!y blue s%irt suit that hugged her with a lo!er6s (er!or, and matching high*heeled pumps that trans(ormed her already magni(icent legs into instruments o( erotic torment. Her dar% brown hair brushed gently o!er her shoulders as she climbed. When she raised her (ace and her eyes met mine, the impact should ha!e thrown me bac% against the wall. 'hose eyes were huge, luminous, and so %ind that + couldn6t imagine her e!er spea%ing a word in anger. Fo woman had sha%en me that way since ;ea le(t me. 'hat6s (rom 4'he 7iddle )ears,4 a short sentimental romance. 'he as*yet*unnamed narrator character has clearly been smitten, :uite by surprise, by the encounter on the stairs. +( the reader has a twinge o( sympathy (or the narrator and taste (or that sort o( story, he now has his reason to (inish it. (/( course, readers with 4a twinge o( sympathy (or the narrator and a taste (or that sort o( story4 tend to see% their pre(erred (iction in magaAines with titles li%e 0appy )mplausibilities "or The 4eriatric Romantic rather than on right*wing Websites, but that6s another sub,ect.)

'he writer o( 4world*building4 (iction, where an e3otic setting is :uite as important to the story as the interactions o( the characters, has a special problem# he must induce both character in!estment and intrigued in!ol!ement with his (antastic setting, more or less simultaneously. For e3ample# 'he night*gale had abated with the touch o( the sun. Eregor stirred, slid a hand to his eyes and teased his cloa% away (rom his (ace. "ay was returning to the Ereat Waste. He shielded his eyes (rom blown grit as he uncurled and stretched his cramped limbs. +( 2ral was correct and the wind spo%e true, he would reach the ne3t oasis that day. He (ished a ,er%y strip (rom his pac% and chewed it without pleasure as he set o((, head bent against the wind and the sun at his bac%. 'he sun was ,ust clear o( the horiAon when he planted his sta(( upon the western ridge and peered down at a !erdant plain. 'he green e3panse stretched toward the horiAon. Ho!els and huts dotted the land, (rom the (oothills o( the mountain he bestrode as (ar west as he could see. &mo%e rose (rom chimneys and coo%ing (ires. +n the distance, beneath a belt o( low* hanging clouds, lay a hint o( an obstruction, perhaps another range to girdle the tran:uil !ale that bec%oned (rom below. +t was a bastion against the wastes, a protected space where li(e yet sustained itsel(. 'he etheric aroma o( plenti(ul mana rose (rom the greensward, curled around his brain and teased at his powers, ma%ing him momentarily diAAy. He reeled with a hunger not o( the body, yet as commanding as any physical humor could be. 2t the center o( the plain was a large structure, perhaps si3ty (eet s:uare and (orty (eet high, apparently all o( stone# a noble6s castle, small but de(inite. 7en mo!ed along its ramparts. 2round it, a broad brown area had been trodden smooth. Eregor6s last brush with nobles and sub,ects and ci!iliAation lay thirty leagues behind him, in the charnel*(estooned ruins o( ;eluA where no li!ing thing remained. Where he had le(t the greater part o( his soul. Ful(illing his charge without entering the settlement would mean considerable pri!ation. 2(ter si3 days in the wastes, his (ood was almost gone, and his mana was down to nothing. 5!en so, he searched (or a path around the edge o( the greensward. Perhaps he might go past the town without encountering its deniAens, yet still replenish his stores. 'he need to see another human (ace welled up inside him. +t beat bac% his (ear and re!ulsion.

He he(ted his pac% higher onto his shoulders, too% a (irmer grip on his sta((, and plodded down the shallow cre!ice in the mountains, toward the oasis at his (eet. 'hat6s the opening scene to 4'he Warm ?ands,4 a (antasy no!elette set in an un%nown place and time. +t was e:ually important to in!ol!e the reader with Eregor, the protagonist, and to introduce the critical characteristic o( the world through which he mo!es# its o!erall li(elessness, such that a human habitation is a rare and precious disco!ery. From here on out, the reader is on notice that such communities are (ew, (ar between, and in constant danger o( dissol!ing into the wastes that surround them. 2 beginning passage can (ail (or a number o( reasons. /ne o( the most common is the desire to emphasiAe something other than a 7ar:uee character# some aspect o( setting, time, or technology, or worst o( all, a &upporting Cast character. Here6s an e3ample (rom Chosen /ne# ?et me tell you o( the place + lo!e, and + will (ollow with the story o( him whose grace taught me to lo!e it. /nteora County is a %idney*shaped, semi*rural swatch o( central Few )or% &tate, ,ust about e:uidistant (rom 7anhattan and ;u((alo. +tQs mostly (orest, :uiet and green, hot and damp in the summers, cold and snowy in the winters. +t has no well*%nown businesses. +t has no tourist attractions. 'he big apple orchards are mostly (urther downstate, the &eneca Wine 'rail doesnQt reach :uite this (ar, and the Finger ?a%es !acation trade managed to miss it as well. +tQs noted (or nothing o( importance to anyone outside. 'hatQs the way we li%e it. 'he county has one city o( sorts, also named /nteora, which sits at its center. 2lthough not :uite hal( the siAe o( <ochester and possessing no ma,or assets to spea% o(, the city dominates the county socially, commercially, and politically. 'ruth be %nown, it6s not much o( a city, but it6s what we ha!e. 'he economy6s not good here. +t ne!er has been. 7ost /nteorans ha!e to wor% brutally hard to stay le!el with their bills. 'here are a (ew well*to*do (amilies, and one genuinely rich one, the Forslunds, but no one would mista%e this (or Westchester or the Eold Coast o( ?ong +sland. 'he mista%es in that passage are innumerable. 'he worst o( them# 'he narrator character, though he6s important to what (ollows, is &upporting Cast rather than 7ar:uee status. He re(ers to someone who6s ob!iously more important to the story than he, but pro!ides no in(ormation about him whatsoe!er. 'he ne3t three paragraphs are an eighth/grade geography lesson about a fictional place.

Worse, those paragraphs are phrased in negati!es, not positi!es, such that e!en an eighth* grader passionate about Few )or% geography would ha!e a hard time imagining what the place described is li%e. 2s (lat as the :uoted passage is, the scene that it opens is e!en drier and less compelling. 4'11, What an abortion@ )et your Curmudgeon is unable to alter it. 'he setting is critical to no (ewer than (i!e no!els, this being the opening to the (irst one. 'he unnamed narrator character returns to narrate si3 +ntermeAAo segments which lin% and buttress the nine episodes o( the no!el. +ndeed, he returns as narrator and co*protagonist o( one o( those episodes. 5!en though he6s not the emotional (ocus o( the no!el, his critical position in the li(e o( the true protagonist con!inced your Curmudgeon that he had to let him ha!e his say right at the outset. 'hat6s what happens when the author surrenders his authority to a mere child o( his mind. ()es, yes, the narrator pro!es to be a supernatural creature with a terrible mission and mind*bending powers o( se!eral %inds, but that6s really no e3cuse.) 42s ye begin, so shall ye (inish.4 +t6s as true in (iction as in anything else. DDD 'o recap# (or the writer to (asten an inescapable grip upon the reader6s attention, his opening scene should in!ol!e the reader with a 7ar:uee character. 2s a secondary tas%, the opening scene should suggest the tenor o( the material to come, whether in pace, setting, or emotional tone. 'hat isn6t hard to understand, but it can be hard to do. +t can be (ar easier to slide one6s way into a tale, ,ust telling it linearly as it occurs in one6s mind, without regard (or the reader6s annoying tendency to toss a boo% aside i( it doesn6t grip him right o(( the rac%. +ndeed, a case could be made that laAy openings, insu((iciently in(used with reasons (or the reader to care about what comes ne3t, are what %eep dust*,ac%et and bac%*co!er blurb writers in co((ee and ca%es. While your Curmudgeon is all (or (ull employment, it6s ,ust as important that a storyteller %now how to build reader interest on his own. +ncidentally, i( you6!e wondered about the modern tendency among publishing*house editors to disdain prologues ** bac%story material presented in ad!ance o( the 4real4 opening scene o( a no!el ** you ha!e the e3planation here. Prologues are nearly always emotionally colorless. 'hey con!ey in(ormation, rather than establishing 7ar:uee characters or the trials they must (ace. +n those cases where the in(ormation is indispensable to the reader, but could not be wo!en into the 4real4 story without seriously distorting it, the writer has a tough decision to ma%e. Fo, the principles o( a 4good beginning4 aren6t hard to understand, but they can be aw(ully hard to obey.

--./0-" ! <sing 1thers' Stories 'he world o( 5nglish*language (iction is e3traordinary in its breadth and depth. Hundreds o( thousands o( no!els, and tens o( millions o( short stories, ha!e been published o!er the last century alone. 2 number o( these are widely enough %nown to ha!e become part o( the 4'wenty Huestions4 space# the 220 bits o( in(ormation that constitute our common culture at this instant in time. Ha!e you written any o( those belo!ed wor%s> Fo, your Curmudgeon neither. ;ut writers are aware o( them at all times8 they (orm the plateau (rom which we launch our own e((orts. +t is there(ore natural that we will sometimes attempt to ring resonances (rom them by alluding to them, borrowing a character or a moti( (rom them, or stealing their worldscapes outright. +t6s not illegal...well, not all the time. (+t6s sometimes not immoral, and it6s ne%er (attening.) +ndeed, a well placed re(erence to another writer6s story can be the special touch that ma%es your story truly memorable. ;ut li%e any other opportunity, it has some associated haAards. 'he most ob!ious haAard is plagiarism. +t6s the sole un(orgi!able sin o( (iction writing8 no one has e!er reco!ered (rom it. +t casts a pall o!er e!erything else a writer might do, be(ore and a(ter the (atal act. <eaders will (ore!er a(ter wonder whether his wor%s are truly his own, or were 4borrowed4 (rom others. 'he de(inition o( plagiarism is (airly loose8 one can re(rain (rom copying another6s e3act words yet still cross into (orbidden territory. For e3ample, were &mith to appropriate a 7ar:uee character (rom Bones without permission, and without openly designating his story as 4(an (iction4 ** i.e., directly deri!ed (rom Bones6s oeu!re ** he would be committing plagiarism. 'he same would be true o( the use o( another writer6s original (ictional setting. (Original fictional setting# we all ha!e e:ual rights to 7aine and to 7ars, but &tephen =ing owns Castle <oc%, and 5dgar <ice ;urroughs owns ;arsoom.) 'o remain in the sa(e Aone, these are practices one should always a!oid. )our Curmudgeon once had to endure a bit o( plagiarism o( a less ob!ious sort at a writers6 group meeting# a new attendee read us an interminable bit o( poetry about a :uest (or a magic sword. 'hat poem (eatured# ** 5l!es, ** "war!es, ** /rcs, ** 'rolls, ** Eood wiAards, ** 5!il wiAards, **...and an ongoing struggle between good and e!il (orces (or the (ate o( the world.

&ound (amiliar> When your Curmudgeon ob,ected to it on those grounds, the 4writer4 got hu((ier than hu((y, demanded to %now what was 4really4 wrong with his 4creation,4 and then lapsed into sullen silence. 'ruly, it was one o( those moments when one either understands the issues intuiti!ely, or one will ne!er grasp them at all. 'here are 4subcreations4 and 4homages4 that are :uite all right8 Elass Hammer6s stirring 1ourney o# the Duna"an and <obert ;. Par%er6s (ine Perchance to Dream are o( that sort. ;ut (riends, these (ol%s are e3perts. 53perts %now what sort o( permissions to secure be(ore setting out on such a course. =now what you6re doing be(ore you commit yoursel(. 2 second ris%, seldom appreciated by the no!ice writer, is that o( 4getting lost in the sauce#4 that your story will be eclipsed by the power o( the classic to which you6!e alluded. Fotice how a!erse contemporary commercial writers are to citing the wor%s o( &ha%espeare> +t6s not ,ust because no one understands 'udor 5nglish any more. +n contrast to the haAard o( plagiarism, this problem is somewhat 4genre*loc%ed.4 'hat is, it6s a greater haAard (or those who wor% in the newly respectable (ields o( (antasy, science (iction, and horror than (or those in other categories. ;ecause there are (ew persons with B.<.<. 'ol%ien6s !aulting imagination, an aw(ul lot o( modern (antasy simply screams out his name. ;ecause there are (ew persons with &tephen =ing6s sense (or the truly horri(ic, :uite a bit o( contemporary horror is either (lat as a clapboard or an in(erior retelling o( something =ing has already co!ered. 2nd it6s well past time we closed the boo% on 4traditional,4 space(aring science (iction ad!enture8 Poul 2nderson and ?arry Fi!en ha!e le(t us no room in which to wor%. He who lac%s the re:uired originality o( !ision will (re:uently be seduced into unwisely leaning upon landmar% tales such as The &ord Of The Rings! The 0tand! Tau =ero! or Ringworld! in the hope that some o( their magic will rub o(( on his creation. +t usually wor%s to his detriment. 'he last thing any writer would hope (or is that his readers should (orget his wor%s as they return to some classic he6s cited, but that6s e3actly what happens to those whose ambition e3ceeds their talents. 2 third ris%, subtler than the two abo!e but arguably ,ust as destructi!e, is o( losing your story altogether# not in the sense o( ha!ing it ta%en away (rom you by legal or illegal means, but in the sense that you the author might lose sight o( your theme, or the central thread o( your narrati!e, because o( an unwise in!ocation o( another6s wor%s. 2(ter all, why does one cite or allude to another6s tale> ;ecause it has power. ;ut (ictional power is...power(ul. +t can mo!e, brea%, and warp. +ts (irst e((ect is on the mind o( the writer, who must somehow channel its energy into his pre(erred direction, without allowing it to rechannel him away (rom the intention with which he (irst sat down to write. 'hat can be a !ery hard ,ob. For e3ample, your Curmudgeon6s story 4'he Warm ?ands4 wal%ed a tightrope because o( a (antasy moti( upon which it depends# the (initude, and there(ore the e3haustibility, o(

mana: magical power. ?arry Fi!en6s (antasy series, beginning with his award*winner 4Fot ?ong ;e(ore 'he 5nd4 and continuing through his The 2agic 4oes 'way no!el, uses a similar idea. 'he Fi!en stories, which (ocus on the impending e3haustion o( all the mana in the world, ha!e an apocalyptic power about them, which has made them e3ceedingly popular. ;ut in 4'he Warm ?ands,4 the apocalypse has already occurred! and men are struggling to sur!i!e in the a(termath. )et throughout the story, your Curmudgeon had to resist the urge to go bac% in (ictional time and e3plore how the disaster came about, with plenty o( moc%*history and ,ust enough mathematics to illuminate the ine!itability o( the catastrophe. He6d set out to write about a particular %ind o( clash o( moti!ations8 he had to stay (aith(ul to that end, or his story would ha!e collapsed to something little better than a %noc%*o((. +( this ma%es it sound too ris%y e!er to ma%e use o( a better*%nown writer6s wor%s, well, better that you be too scared than not scared enough. 'he path is strewn with roc%s and thorns, and includes the possibility that your borrowings might undermine not only your wor%*under*de!elopment but also the maturation o( your own talent. ;orrowings, blatant or subtle, are a less li%ely road to attaining the (ullness o( one6s powers than a strict clea!ing to one6s own !isions and style. ;esides, how many times do you thin% the 'hree &tooges had to practice that po%e*in*the*eye pran% be(ore they got it ,ust right> "o you really ha!e the patience (or that> --./0-""! 7=our Future7 'ime was, one could easily (ind coin*operated scales in public places that would, (or a penny or a nic%el, tell you your weight, pro(ile your personality, and 4calculate4 your horoscope. 'hey6re all but e3tinct now, as are many de!ices that were once made a!ailable to the public, but the memory lingers...and pro!ides your Curmudgeon with the seed material (or today6s essay. "e!otees o( (antasy and science (iction are aware o( the critical importance o( attracti!e 4world*building.4 'he author must construct a (ictional realm that can seduce the reader into the all*important suspension o( disbelie(. 'he tas% has many (acets, among which the (ollowing stand out# ** 5nough similarity to the real, (amiliar world to %eep it (rom being unacceptably alien8 ** 5nough di((erence (rom the real, (amiliar world to ma%e it intriguing and e!ocati!e8 ** 2n ade:uate, but not o!erpowering, degree o( detailing8 ** Coherence around the particular assumptions the author has made about its laws, the way they operate on people, and the way people operate on them. +t6s no easy tas%, as you might imagine. Probably the hardest part o( it is separating the 4design decisions4 that must be made up (ront (rom those that should be de(erred until the author6s imagination and his assumptions about his world ha!e had some time to wor% on

one another. ;ut one way or another, the wor% must be done i( a speculati!e setting is to ha!e enough appeal to counter the reader6s innate s%epticism and laAiness. +ndeed, the wor% must be done e!en i( one is writing putati!ely non/speculati!e (iction. 'here are power(ul reasons (or this that many writers ne!er grapple with. 2 story6s (ictional setting must accommodate the story6s characters, plot, and theme. +( the protagonist is a heroic sort, whose tale is one o( struggle nobly underta%en against (ormidable odds, the setting is as responsible (or pro!iding him those things as is his antagonist. For e3ample, i( the plot centers on a conspiracy o( power(ul men, the world around it must be one that would accommodate such a thing, rather than one in which conspiracies would ha!e no chance to (orm. <obert ?udlum6s !he +atarese *ircle pro!ides a case study. 2lternately, i( the plot is a tragic one, wherein the hero (ails but goes down (ighting (or his ideals, the surroundings must not be so hostile that the outcome is (oreordained in the reader6s mind. 2lso, there must be room (or a &upporting Cast that will appreciate the hero6s nobility and sacri(ice, and perhaps (orm the nucleus around which a mo!ement to (ul(ill his !ision will grow. <obert &il!erberg6s ( !ime 2# *hanges though seriously (lawed, pro!ides an e3ample o( this sort o( setting. 'hird, i( the protagonist is an anti*hero, crushed by circumstances and destined to remain so, the surroundings must be made o!erpowering, and the protagonist gi!en scope within the narrati!e (or the sort o( sel(*depiction that will allow the reader to bond to him despite his ine!itable doom. 'here6s no better e3ample o( this sort o( world than Eeorge /rwell6s immortal 3456. &ome e3ceptionally talented writers ha!e (ailed utterly at this tas%. For e3ample, Patrice 7c=illip6s 7i""le,+aster trilogy, while wonder(ully imaginati!e and written with considerable grace, completely scamps the critical re:uirement o( that sort o( (antasy ad!enture# establishing the reasons (or the struggle o!er the control o( the world in which 7orgon, her protagonist, becomes embroiled. 'he setting, a world in which 4land*law,4 the natural laws that sustain all li(e, must be care(ully superintended by human stewards, was apparently central to the con(lict, but how? Perhaps the genesis o( the <iddle*7aster War was buried in her bac%story, but she (ailed to gi!e the reader enough clues to in(er it. 'he point is that the writer must establish the plausibility o( the central con(lict and its outcome. /( course, it6s well %nown that a hero must ne!er triumph easily8 it gi!es rise to yawns. ;ut when a hero is destined to (ail, he must ha!e ade:uate reasons. 'his is especially the case when the 4hero4 is a Winston &mith*type character who doesn6t ha!e a chance in hell, but is resol!ed to assert himsel( anyway. For the reader will assume that the protagonist, howe!er mousily he6s depicted, possesses a hero6s character, and perhaps a reser!e o( strength o( which e!en he is unaware. <eaders are li%e that. 7ore to the point, readers assume that protagonists are li%e that. ?ur%ing behind the curtains o( setting and its proper ad,ustment to characters and plot is the importance of theme.

)ou6!e sat down to your typewriter or word processor to write. Cery well, but to write about what> 2 character> ;ut why> What ma%es him interesting enough to be worth your time, or that o( your readers> Lnless you pro!ide him a setting that allows him to stand out, and presents him with a challenge worthy o( his e3cellences, what point will there be to his e3istence> What do you plan to use him to say> Characters and plots must be (itted to their settings because only by creating the appropriate degree o( ine3orable con(lict among them can the writer e3press a con!iction about human nature, the indi!idual6s relation to his society, or the destiny o( 7an. 'his is true e!en in the so(test and sil%iest o( genres, where the apparent point is merely to e!o%e desire or romantic allure. 'he romance writer needs a sense o( mission ** a sense o( ha!ing something to say about people, how they cope with li(e, and how they cope with one another ** ,ust as much as does the architect o( grand and (antastic worlds. <ather than press the point too brutally, your Curmudgeon will now depart the stage to pro!ide a humorous e3ample o( thematic incoherence and its conse:uences# the 4tandem story4 o( ?aurie and Carl. <ebecca and Eary 5nglish NN2 &7L Creati!e Writing Pro( 7iller +n*class 2ssignment (or Wednesday 'oday we will e3periment with a new (orm called the tandem story. 'he process is simple. 5ach person will pair o(( with the person sitting to his or her immediate right. /ne o( you will then write the (irst paragraph o( a short story. 'he partner will read the (irst paragraph and then add another paragraph to the story. 'he (irst person will then add a third paragraph, and so on bac% and (orth. <emember to reread what has been written each time in order to %eep the story coherent. 'he story is o!er when both agree a conclusion has been reached. *** 2t (irst, ?aurie couldn6t decide which %ind o( tea she wanted. 'he camomile, which used to be her (a!orite (or laAy e!enings at home, now reminded her too much o( Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he li%ed camomile. ;ut she (elt she must now, at all costs, %eep her mind o(( Carl. His possessi!eness was su((ocating, and i( she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. &o camomile was out o( the :uestion. 7eanwhile, 2d!ance &ergeant Carl Harris, leader o( the attac% s:uadron now in orbit o!er &%ylon N, had more important things to thin% about than the neuroses o( an air*headed asthmatic bimbo named ?aurie with whom he had spent one sweaty

night o!er a year ago. 42.&. Harris to Eeostation K,4 he said into his transgalactic communicator. 4Polar orbit established. Fo sign o( resistance so (ar...4 ;ut be(ore he could sign o(( a bluish particle beam (lashed out o( nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship6s cargo bay. 'he ,olt (rom the direct hit sent him (lying out o( his seat and across the coc%pit. He bumped his head and died almost immediately, but not be(ore he (elt one last pang o( regret (or psychically brutaliAing the one woman who had e!er had (eelings (or him. &oon a(terwards, 5arth stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peace(ul (armers o( &%ylon N. 4Congress Passes ?aw Permanently 2bolishing War and &pace 'ra!el.4 ?aurie read in her newspaper one morning. 'he news simultaneously e3cited her and bored her. &he stared out the window, dreaming o( her youth ** when the days had passed unhurriedly and care(ree, with no newspapers to read, no tele!ision to distract her (rom her sense o( innocent wonder at all the beauti(ul things around her. 4Why must one lose one6s innocence to become a woman>4 she pondered wist(ully. ?ittle did she %now, but she had less than 0 seconds to li!e. 'housands o( miles abo!e the city, the 2nu6udrian mothership launched the (irst o( its lithium (usion missiles. 'he dim*witted wimpy peaceni%s who pushed the Lnilateral 2erospace "isarmament 'reaty through Congress had le(t 5arth a de(enseless target (or the hostile alien empires who were determined to destroy the human race. Within two hours a(ter the passage o( the treaty the 2nu6udrian ships were on course (or 5arth, carrying enough (irepower to pul!eriAe the entire planet. With no one to stop them they swi(tly initiated their diabolical plan. 'he lithium (usion missile entered the atmosphere unimpeded. 'he President, in his top*secret mobile submarine head:uarters on the ocean (loor o(( the coast o( Euam, (elt the inconcei!ably massi!e e3plosion which !aporiAed ?aurie and VJ million other 2mericans. 'he President slammed his (ist on the con(erence table. 4We can6t allow this@ +6m going to !eto that treaty@ ?et6s blow 6em out o( the s%y@4 'his is absurd. + re(use to continue this moc%ery o( literature. 7y writing partner is a !iolent, chau!inistic, semi*literate adolescent. )eah> Well, you6re a sel(*centered tedious neurotic whose attempts at writing are the literary e:ui!alent o( Calium. )ou total WDX. &tupid TXYW@. Eet the idea> --./0-"$! Ad.entures in Speculation

'he speculati!e genres ** science (iction, (antasy, and horror ** e3ert a power(ul attraction upon the young writer. (<omance is not a speculati!e (orm, no matter how ardently you disbelie!e in lo!e.) 7any o( them concei!e their desires to write (rom the pleasure they6!e ta%en in reading spec*(iction. When such a writer (irst sets his (ingers to the %eyboard to embar% on his own ,ourney o( the imagination, the odds are about e!en money that be(ore the (irst %eystro%e he6ll be as%ing himsel(, 4How on 5arth do + do this>4 &pec*(iction appears to promise (reedom. 'he promise is not entirely illusory, but the bene(it comes at a cost# a rather substantial amount o( wor%. 'he character and :uantity o( the wor% the writer must underta%e depends upon his orientation within his target genre. For e3ample, science (iction is partitioned more or less (irmly into 4hard4 and 4so(t4 sub*genres. 4Hard4 science (iction leans hea!ily on the wonders o( imagined ad!ances in technology and what they might enable 7an to do, whereas 4so(t4 science (iction (ocuses on the emotional and sociological impacts o( a set o( imagined changes to society. 'he approaches re:uired by these sub*genres are entirely dissimilar, as are the audiences that delight in them. Few writers who succeed in one are competent in the other. 'o compose a worthy story in a spec*(iction genre re:uires# ** 2 speculati!e point o( departure ** that is, a conception o( a world whose natural laws or technological achie!ements !ary in some way (rom our own8 ** 2 plot concept (or a con(lict or challenge that depends closely upon that departure8 ** 2 character concept (or a protagonist and, in about hal( o( the cases, a matched antagonist who will act out that con(lict8 ** 5nough thought about the details o( the notional world to be able to ma%e it seem real and substantial to the reader despite its !ariation (rom our own8 ** &%ill at writing in a well*disciplined style, (or the one thing spec*(iction cannot withstand is poorly controlled writing. 2 young writer whose 4eyes are bigger than his stomach4 will o(ten approach his (irst spec*(iction wor% with rather too much speculation and not nearly enough character conception or hard thought. 'hat6s central to the temptation toward spec*(iction writing# the (reedom to play with all these delight(ul ideas and possibilities that mundane reality currently re(uses to support. ;ut stories are not 4about4 science, technology, magic, gods and demons, or 4things that go bump inna night.4 'hey6re about people, their desires, (ears, and con!ictions, the ways in which their en!ironment shapes them, and the ways in which they change and are changed by their en!ironment and one another. 2lways remember ;runner6s ?aws o( Fiction# . 'he raw material o( (iction is people. 2. 'he essence o( story is change. For this reason, your Curmudgeon6s ad!ice to the young writer (irst addressing a spec*

(iction genre is to start small. 'here are three components to this ad!ice# ** 7a%e your speculati!e moti( as modest as you can. ** =eep the story6s cast o( 7ar:uee characters !ery small# no more than two or three. ** Con(ine yoursel( to a short story o( a (ew thousand words at most. 'his isn6t moti!ated by the con!iction that spec*(iction is unusually hard to plan and write, though its challenges do contrast with those o( 4reality (iction.4 +t springs (rom the sense that the writer new to his chosen spec*(iction (orm has to de!elop se!eral aptitudes at the same time. He should stri!e to %eep any o( them (rom so dominating his thoughts that it causes him to shortchange the others. +n practice, that militates toward a short story with a single speculati!e moti( and a small cast. )our Curmudgeon6s (irst !enture into speculati!e (iction was his short story 4"iscount.4 +t6s a 4'wilight Ione4 style urban (antasy. +t won an original*(iction contest and has garnered many accolades. Fote all the (ollowing# ** +t6s short# about NJ00 words8 ** +t has a single 7ar:uee character8 ** +ts speculati!e moti( is :uite compact# a 4di!ine inter!ention4 that tests a wastrel6s ability to withstand the temptations that arise (rom ha!ing his wish granted. 'he construction o( that story was a re!elation to your Curmudgeon, who had always delighted in 4big production4 science (iction and (antasy# The &ord Of The Rings! The "oundation Trilogy! and Ringworld. +t taught him that to touch the reader6s sense o( wonder does not re:uire clashes to the death between demigods at whose lightest (ootsteps continents hea!e and heroes :ui!er, nor incomprehensible technologies that can whis% a man across the uni!erse and bac% be(ore brea%(ast. 'here was a considerable sense o( accomplishment to accompany the sense o( enlightenment. &o i( the one o( spec*(iction genres appeals to you, but you6re not :uite sure where to begin or your animating idea seems to demand a ten*year, two*million*word commitment, consider instead the ad!antages o( starting small. 2mong other things, it will be easier to (ind test readers ** and they6re more li%ely to actually read what you gi!e them@ --./0-"'! 6orkshops and Similar Torments 'he compelling theme, the uni:ue plot line, and the !i!idly original character all demand to be shown off. /nce you6!e imagined them, you6ll be impatient to bestow them on others. 'his impulse is in e:ual parts an e3pression o( the generosity o( the creati!e mind, a desire (or the appro!al o( others, and the nagging (ear that i# this stu## is that goo"

someone must have thought o# it be#ore. &o, i( you6re a more*or*less typical writer, you6ll hunt (or readers e!en be(ore your wor% is (inished. )ou6re e3pecting a proclamation o( ,udgment, aren6t you> ;ut in this regard your Curmudgeon is :uite as typical as you, and so would be ,udging himsel(. 'hat6s something he tries to a!oid. ;esides, there are plenty o( others eager to do it (or him. 2mong writers*on*writing, the consensus, strong but not o!erwhelming, is that it6s usually a bad idea to show incomplete or unpolished wor%. ?et6s assume this to be true8 the reasons ad!anced# ** +t brea%s the (low o( the creati!e process8 ** +t6s an imposition on others who aren6t pri!y to the creati!e process8 ** 2 willing reader is a scarce resource8 i( you 4use him up4 on snippets, he might not ** probably won#t ** be a!ailable (or other, more serious duties. ...are all strong ones. ;ut there6s that terrible need to %now whether you6re on the right trac%. +s the theme a resonant one> +s the plot elegant or contri!ed, original or deri!ati!e> 2re the characters plausible, consistent, and appealing> ;e !ery care(ul. ;e a little a(raid. +n the early stages o( their de!elopment, your story and your characters are li%e newborns. What pride and pleasure you might get (rom showing them around must be weighed against the possibility that they might catch something, or that someone will mishandle and drop them. 'his is a particular danger in that (orm o( sel(*(lagellation %nown as the writers6 wor%shop. DDD 'he typical writers6 wor%shop or criti:ue circle is composed o( people who can tell a story a((ectingly but lac% con(idence in their technical s%ills, alongside people who couldn6t wring a tear out o( you with the tale o( the Cruci(i3ion, but won6t hesitate to tell you how you ought to do e!erything, down to the smallest detail. Come8 let6s peer o!er the shoulders o( a (ew archetypal attendees together. &mith, a man o( good will, holds up a story (or comment. +t has its rough spots. 'here are a (ew unnecessary modi(iers. /ne character6s !oice isn6t :uite established. +n one or two places the point o( !iew isn6t per(ectly clear. )et &mith plainly has the storyteller6s gi(t. His story spea%s (rom his heart to the hearts o( the audience, and despite the shortcomings o( his prose, they are mo!ed. Bones, not a man o( good will, is touched by the story, perhaps despite a determined attempt to remain unmo!ed. 5n!y surges in Bones. Feeling diminished by &mith6s

achie!ement, he resol!es to sully it. He marshals his elo:uence and attac%s &mith6s story in ways that are not germane to its thrust, attempting to depreciate its power and belittle its themes. &mith is horri(ied. 2n emotionally e!ocati!e story is a personal statement8 to be attac%ed on it isn6t (ar (rom being attac%ed personally. 5!en more poignant, since the whole point o( writing the piece was to touch the reader6s emotions, Bones6s o((*center comments cause &mith to doubt whether he has any business writing at all. ?oo% how (ar this ob!iously intelligent reader dri(ted (rom the point o( the story@ +( Bones was so caught up in the side issues on which his comments (ocused, the story couldn6t ha!e been properly told. "a!is has been sitting :uietly in the corner. He was mo!ed by &mith6s story, but is impressed by Bones6s intellect and willing to concede that, in some o( the criticisms he made, Bones was at least technically correct. "a!is is unli%ely to rise to &mith6s de(ense. He6ll (ear to e3pose himsel( as 4maudlin,4 the common, contemptuous dismissal o( emotionally responsi!e readers. He won6t want to challenge Bones on the points where he6s technically right. 2nd o( course, he won6t want Bones6s guns trained on him, when his time in the hot seat (inally arri!es. Bones tends to win the day. &mith might ne!er show up at another wor%shop. "a!is might well be de(lected (rom emulating &mith, or studying what it was that ga!e &mith6s piece its power. 'his, o( course, is what Bones wanted. +t might be his whole reason (or attending writers6 wor%shops. For numerous reasons, there6s a strong competiti!e tendency among writers. 2 lot o( people who6!e written about writers and writing ha!e commented on it. +t po%es its head up in writers6 wor%shops and groups all the time. 2nd it is not entirely negati!e# the competiti!e impulse is a spur to impro!e one6s s%ills. Howe!er, there6s a dar% side to this that tends not to be addressed, because o( its ugly implications# en!y and the acts it engenders. Fot the 4en!y4 that amounts to 4Eee, + wish + were as good as he is48 the original, ra!ening, 200*proo( hatred o( the good (or being the good that says, i( only to itsel(, 4+ hate that person (or being better than + am, and + wish him harm, e!en though it would do me no bene(it whatsoe!er.4 2mong writers, en!y can attain a destructi!e power that boggles the mind. Why en!y> ;ecause no other moti!e can animate the %ind o( deliberately hostile, deliberately rude, destructi%e criticism that plagues writers6 groups e!erywhere. 2nd because, to the man who (eels no en!y but becomes its target, it is beyond comprehension in rational terms. )our Curmudgeon has attended a number o( wor%shops, and has read a lot o( incompetent prose. He6s ne!er heard anyone be deliberately rough or o((ensi!e in criticiAing it. 'hat6s right# ne!er. )ou6d thin% such opportunities (or ego e3altation would

be too good to pass up, wouldn6t you> +t doesn6t seem to happen. 'he outright assaults your Curmudgeon has witnessed, unmista%able attempts to belittle a writer and ma%e him doubt his own worth, ha!e always targeted the ones who had storytelling talent, needed only a little more polish be(ore they crossed the threshold to publishability, and ga!e indications that their con(idence in their abilities wasn6t per(ect. 7ost aspiring writers who ha!e talent also ha!e con(idence problems. 'he ones whose con(idence is unassailable, who slather condescension and contempt upon the wor%s o( others, are usually the ones who couldn6t write a decent shopping list. &trange, but true. DDD How do you protect yoursel( against this %ind o( emotional !andalism> +deally, by ne!er e3posing yoursel( to it in the (irst place. ;ut when it arri!es, there are three principles to remember# ! No one 2others to attack that which is worthless! When con(ronted with writing that doesn6t engage us, that has no spar% o( passion nor grace nor (lair to tease at the mind, we (ind a way to mo!e past it. We don6t linger o!er it, enumerating misplaced commas and ponti(icating on ambiguous point*o(*!iew. Lninteresting stories and hopeless prose are usually shu((led out o( sight as :uic%ly as is consistent with politeness and (ellow*(eeling. 'here(ore, i( someone chooses to attac% your story, the attac% itsel( is a badge o( merit, though it might not seem so at the time. "! *t is what we know to 2e unworthy within us( that we #ear and despise most! 'ypically, the incompetent storyteller is incompetent because he6s ne!er learned to tap his own wellsprings o( emotion (or story themes and character energy. 'he moti!e power o( your storytelling is what you care about deeply8 there is no other. +t6s not easy. +t re:uires that you (ace yoursel( as you really are, with all your warts and wea%nesses. Worse, you must accept that, i( you6re going to edi(y and entertain others with words, you ha!e to show what you (ind in yoursel( to your reader. Worst, some readers will not accept your gi(t, which means# they will not accept you. 'here6s nothing that hurts more than that. 'he incompetent attempts to assemble stories without ma%ing those connections and ta%ing those ris%s. 5!en when the mechanics o( the thing are per(ect, the lac% is ob!ious and unbearable. When he o((ers his wor% to a wor%shop (or re!iew, no one is engaged. ;ut because the (ailure is at so pro(ound and personal a le!el, no one attempts to grapple with it aloud. 'he group shu((les its metaphorical (eet and passes to another o((ering as :uic%ly as it can. 'he embarrassed lac% o( comment and haste to be away tacitly con(irm

the unsal!ageability o( the piece. +s it any wonder that the incompetent hates the writer who has done what he cannot> $! E.en the most assaulti.e criticisms contain nuggets o# truth! When you6!e been on the recei!ing end o( an outrageously hostile re!iew, your most power(ul urge will be to run and hide, and i( possible to (orget the entire e!ent. <un and hide i( you must, but don6t (orget. 5!en a critic moti!ated entirely by en!y will pro!ide you with suggestions you can use. ;ecause he will (ocus on mechanics, your attac%er will help you to locate low*le!el (aults in your wor% that your absorption in your story6s themes and its characters6 predicaments caused you to o!erloo%. 'his is a !aluable ser!ice. 7any a story that pulsed with li(e has been re,ected by a ,unior editor who6d been told to count up to a certain threshold o( easily spotted mechanical (laws, and then toss the manuscript aside. Lse the technical comments, and, to whate!er e3tent is possible, the stylistic obser!ations o( your most hostile critics. For the purpose o( impro!ing your prose and ma%ing it mar%etable, they6re li%ely to be the most !aluable things you hear. Who impro!es (rom being praised> DDD Howe!er, it is better ** unambiguously and categorically better ** not to e3pose a wor% in progress, or a piece thereo(. 'here are (ew persons to whom you should show anything in ad!ance o( its publication. )ou might %now persons you can trust to comment sincerely. 'hat6s a ,udgment call, o( course. (+n your Curmudgeon6s opinion, it6s best i( they owe you money.) +( you see% 4dead tree4 publication, ine!itably you6ll show your wor% to publishers6 editors. (Here, too, it6s best i( they owe you money. 'he more, the better.) ;ut this seems :uite restricti!e. +t limits you to a tiny, intimate audience, or to wor% you belie!e to be 4ready (or its close*up.4 What can you show around widely that6s (ran%ly unready, that demands to be chopped up and sewn bac% together (or the betterment o( your art> ** &tories you ne%er e3pect to publish8 ** 4'est dri!es.4 5!ery writer accumulates stories he deems unmar%etable. &ometimes, the theme cross* cuts the pre!ailing con!ictions or trends8 sometimes, the sub,ect matter is too pro!incial, or too contro!ersial8 sometimes, the style is considered out o( (ashion. ;ut these are not wasted e((orts8 they6re rich material (or cross*(ertiliAation with other writers, who6ll ha!e (doubt it not) their own piles o( unmar%etables to e3change with you. ;ecause you6!e abandoned the hope o( selling them, you can much more easily withstand criticism aimed at them. +t6s not e3actly detachment ** no writer e!er detaches (rom his own wor% ** but it

pro!ides the same sort o( cushion. 2 4test dri!e4 is another sort o( !ehicle. +t6s usually a character s%etch, or a !ignette that doesn6t pac% a lot o( dramatic power. 'he idea, o( course, is to 4test4 the character in a (ictional setting, to see i( you can ma%e him li!e and breathe be(ore committing him to a larger idea. 7ost writers produce these in some :uantity, too8 it6s almost obligatory when concocting a 7ar:uee*le!el character and straining to ma%e him !i!id. For reasons which alternate between ob!ious and obscure, we tend to write these more naturally, and with more assurance, than our to*be*mar%eted stu((. 2nd sometimes they surprise us by leaping out o( their playpens, or by germinating entirely new stories o( great power and potential8 that was the genesis o( both 45:ualiAer4 and 4'he Warm ?ands.4 'hese are sa(e harbors (or the writer who absolutely must ha!e some e3ternal reassurance be(ore he plunges on. DDD 2 (ew years ago, your Curmudgeon was seiAed by a character conception that absolutely hypnotiAed him# a young woman o( great beauty and power who6d been captured by a sadistic motorcycle gang and made into a se3ual sla!e. 'he (ull conception included a number o( other elements8 (or one, she has no memory o( her past prior to her ensla!ement, and %nows nothing about hersel( e3cept her (irst name# Christine. ;ut a(ter years o( abuse, she gets a chance to (ree hersel( when the bi%e on which she6s being carried drops well behind the rest o( the pac%. &he deliberately (lips the bi%e, slewing it into a concrete bridge abutment. 'he bi%er is %illed, and Christine wins to (reedom at the price o( a (ace(ul o( horrible scars. 'his !ision o( bra!ery and marred beauty was to become co*protagonist o( a no!el. ;ut be(ore she was permitted to underta%e so challenging a role, your Curmudgeon determined to 4test dri!e4 her in a number o( simpler, less dramatic settings# two character s%etches and a short story. He showed those around (reely8 the (eedbac%, while o(ten harsh, helped him to sharpen his sense o( direction while sparing him (and his readers) premature e3posure o( 4the main e!ent.4 'he e3perience impro!ed Christine6s character, and her e!entual starring role, considerably. 2s always, remember that no tactic is e:ually applicable to all needs, and no approach wor%s e:ually well (or all writers. 'his one has wor%ed well enough (or your Curmudgeon to lea!e him com(ortable about recommending it. --./0-")! *n Conclusion )our Curmudgeon6s intent in these 4&toryteller6s 2rt4 pieces wasn6t to set himsel( up as some sort o( Erand High Pu*;ah o( the (ictioneer6s art. +t6s merely a tour o( one storyteller6s wor%shop, where he (orges his peculiar brand o( (iction. +t6s intended, as is all

your Curmudgeon6s dri!el, to stimulate thought and con!ersation. )ou6re more than welcome to disagree. Politely, o( course. +( you ha!e another approach and are willing to tal% about it, do so@ We might all learn something. DDD )our Curmudgeon belie!es passionately in the importance o( storytelling as a discipline. He6d lo!e (or e!eryone to be capable o( it. 'he contemporary milieu and the writers who dominate it ha!e disappointed him more o(ten than not. 'he world is (illed with stories. +( we e3cept the hard sciences, the usual way in which important in(ormation is con!eyed among us is by a story. 7ost people don6t ha!e the patience (or scienti(ic treatises or rigorous proo(s. "o you want to tell stories> "o you want your stories to be memorable> Ci!id> Perhaps e!en li(e*altering> "o you thin% you ha!e worthy stories to tell> Plots that embed real %nowledge about the ways o( men and the trials that e!o%e our true natures> "o you ha!e characters in mind> Characters that haunt your dreams, demanding that their li!es be de!eloped and presented to the world beyond your pri!ate imaginings> "o you thin% you ha!e the discipline to unite all the abo!e, without o!erdressing your plots or distoring your characters to ma%e them ser!e a theme (or which they6re ill* e:uipped> &tart now. --./0-Francis W. Porretto is an engineer, (ictioneer, and commentator. He operates the Eternity Road Website (http#$$eternityroad.in(o), a hotbed o( pro*(reedom, pro*2merican, pro* Christian sentiment, where he and his 5steemed Co*Conspirators hold (orth on e!ery topic under the &un. )ou can email him at (wpZeternityroad.in(o. 'han% you (or ta%ing an interest in his wor%.