Chuck Wendig's Blog, page 87

And, Scene: Some Thoughts On Writing A Scene

What, exactly, is a scene? I ask.

And you say, “It’s that thing you made at Arby’s last week when you got really drunk and attacked that nice man by rubbing Horsey Sauce into his eyes.”

And I respond with, I was not drunk, I was high on wasp spray, and that “nice man” was actually an “evil centaur” which is why I rubbed Horsey Sauce into his eyes, you idiot, because Horsey Sauce is how you fucking defeat a fucking centaur. And also, no, that’s not what we’re talking about when we talk about scenes. Rather, a scene in this context is a unit of narrative measurement that unifies a moment in the story by binding it together with common characters, common setting, and common purpose.

A scene is your most vital building block of fiction — it’s not just a brick, but rather, a whole wall, and of course, walls are what hold up houses. I mean, that and necromancy ha ha just kidding I’m not a necromancer, I’ve just been huffing more wasp spray.

Understanding scenes and their construction is so very vital — and yet I feel like writing a book is often this act of clumsily speed-running through a story with great, woeful inelegance, all pinwheeling arms and clomping feet. As such, I know I often pass by the invisible demarcations between scenes and don’t really give as much pause to that as I should. A scene requires thought. A scene requires some construction. Maybe not in the first draft, and maybe over time it’s something we intuit rather than architecture we actively build.

Just the same, I think there’s value in highlighting what goes into making a [insert overly positive adjective here like “bad-ass” or “radical” or even “totally tubular”] scene.

SO HERE HAVE SOME TIPS.

*loads some tips into the WRITING ADVICE cannon*

*fires it into your face, boom*

0. As always, writing advice is bullshit, but bullshit can be fertilizer. Maybe this page of scene-writing advice helps something grow in your narrative garden, or maybe it’s just something to shovel out of the way. Use or discard at your leisure.

1. A scene is a microcosm for the greater whole. Meaning, a scene is a little story in and of itself. It should have shape. It should have a beginning and an ending. It should have conflict, characters, and drama. The scene should begin, and then escalate. It ideally presents a challenge unique to the scene, but reflective of the larger story. It should have characters in the scene who want shit — and the scene is a power dynamic expressing characters working together or against one another to solve their own particular problems.

2. More to the point, a scene represents a bend in the maze. Characters have problems, and they have solutions, and between the problem and the solution lies the maze — the maze is thing you put there, as storyteller, and the best version of that maze is one that is grown organically out of the character. In other words, the bends of the maze are what happens when the characters do shit and say shit — taking action and grabbing agency! — and effectively make problems for themselves. That’s not to say these problems are self-destructive, only that in solving a problem, one experiences difficulties, right? No good deed in fiction goes unpunished. It’s like trying to clean off your desk — the idea is good, and maybe you succeed, but you still accidentally spill coffee onto your Roomba and then the Roomba goes mad and murders the cat and then the Cat Council wants revenge and next thing you know, you’re being hunted by the Cat Council’s most talented assassins (sorry, meowsassins) all just because you wanted to clean your desk. MORE TO THE POINT, the bends of this maze — these flashpoints of conflict, action, dialogue, decision, agency — are best examined in scenes.

3. Never let a scene go on too long. A scene is rope. Too much and readers will hang themselves with it. It should be taut, like a strangling cord — not loose, like loops of elephant bowel.

4. As with the story, start the scene as late as you can. Every scene doesn’t need to happen omg in the middle of some real shit, but you also don’t need to start every scene at, like, the character’s birth. Think of it like a challenge: how late can you start the scene while it still makes sense and feels vital? Enter the scene at a point that’s interesting. Begin at a point that affords us a question: why are we here, what is the character doing, who is that dead guy, is that cheese, I love cheese, mmm, cheese.

5. Speaking of vital, consider how the status quo breaks. Storytelling is an act of contextualizing a breach of the status quo. Story begins when something has changed — *thunder rumbles* — and the narrative that unspools from that seeks to explore and exploit that shift in the status quo. Something is broken. Things are not as they were. And so the story begins. But scene shifts represent smaller pivot points, too — at the fore of each scene, consider either how the status quo has changed and led to the scene, or how the scene will change the status quo by its end. A good story constantly pushes-and-pulls with this fundamental narrative motion: it breaks normal, establishes a new normal, and then breaks that new normal once again. Sometimes in big, brash ways. Other times in more subtle ways.

6. Don’t fuck with centaurs. I know it has nothing to do with scenes, but I just wanted you all to know that. I mean, I guess if you want advice, go ahead and write a scene involving centaurs? Or the fucking and/or not-fucking-with of centaurs? Shit, I dunno. *sprays more wasp spray into mouth* *eats cheese to cover up wasp spray taste*

7. Present You can do Future You a big honking favor. Future You is stupid, but Present You can make Future You smart if Present You does his, er, your fucking job. What I mean is this: at the end of the day’s writing, noodle on the next scene you’re going to write. Then jot down like, three quick sentences for tomorrow’s work. Leave your desk. Turn off your monitor. Pull up your pants. Then go walk, shower, mow the lawn, whatever you need to do to get the blood moving. Think about the scene, then think about it some more, then push like you’re pooping and think even harder about it. Before bed, think about the scene one more time — set your brain like a slow-cooker, then plunge into the dark waters of sleep. What needs to happen in that scene? What if this happens? Or that? What if centaurs?! Wake up. Go write. Look at your notes from the day before. Summon your DREAM SOUP and see what lies in that turbid broth. Past You left you a present. Seize the information and the energy and go write.

8. Visit earlier scenes. Before writing a new scene, go back and re-read the scene that happens chronologically before it. Not necessarily the one that happens in the draft, but the one that connects most directly with character and setting. This will help you launch into the new scene. Y’know what will also help you? Wasp spray. *rattles can* *rattles it harder* Mmm.

9. Don’t overdo the scene. Just as earlier I say to get in as late as you can, you also want to get out as early as you can. That doesn’t mean you need to make a scene short and stumpy, and some scenes do need to breathe — breathe yes, barf no, so you need to control how much you’re regurgitating into that narrative space. Give the audience just as much as they need to continue. Storytelling is often an act of ushering the audience through a dark forest — you need to give them some light in the dark to help them find their way, but too much light leaves them blinded, and it exposes the mystery. It’s like a haunted house attraction with the lights on. Not enough light, and the reader becomes lost and frustrated. A scene succeeds by finding that balance of how much they need versus how much you can leave out. Further, if a scene is going to be transitional — getting characters from Point A to Point B, or getting them to understand Plot Point X, consider ways to fold those scenes into something more active, more dynamic. Try not to let a scene be purely transitional. Double-duty is welcome. No unitaskers. Let the scene multi-task — it can transition us, but also explore character, advance plot, and tongue its theme seductively in the reader’s ear. DID IT JUST GET HOT IN HERE

10. Scenes do not exist in isolation. They are part of a chain — maybe the start, maybe the end, or maybe one of the many motherfucking links in the middle. Either way: they braid together. They are not isolated. They are pockets of cause-and-effect. One scene is a cause. Another demonstrates the effect. One scene reveals truth, and the next three scenes deal with the consequences stemming from that truth. Scenes introducing questions are quantum-entangled with scenes demanding or providing answers. Scenes of lies told will lead to scenes of the outcomes of that lie — and those outcomes will create new directions of the story, which are written as, drum roll please, more scenes. (See earlier comments re: “the maze.”) Scenes must impact the story — which means scenes create other scenes. They are generative. If you write a scene and no other scenes suggest themselves as a result, you have not done enough. You have not asked enough questions or introduced enough conflict. Characters make plot. Which is to say, characters make scenes, quite literally: they create the context for why a scene is happening, and are driven by the character actions. Sometimes it involves an evil centaur at Arby’s, sometimes it doesn’t, I dunno. Point is: characters make scenes, and then, scenes beget scenes. Scenes facehug the plot and plant other scene-eggs that will burst out of the chest of the story. That’s just good narrative science, is what that is.

Now, go read this bit by John August.

And don’t forget to check out my book, The Kick-Ass Writer, whose initial cover once had a wonky font on it and made it look like it was instead called The Kick-Ass Waiter, which one assumes is a very different book.

P.S. don’t actually huff wasp spray, jeez

Macro Monday Sleeps At The Dew Drop Inn

LOOK MA I MADE SOME NEW WATERDROP MACROS.

(Rest seen at the bottom of the post.)

Anyway hey hi how are you guys?

I’m good over here. Just chugging my way through THE BIG GIANT BOOK THAT WOULDN’T BE SMALL. It’s increasingly a very different book for me — past-tense (I know, gasp), not-really-thriller-pacing, bigger, sprawlier, more epic in its scope. Also not part of a series, so, a big ol’ standalone. I’m trying to be patient with it and myself.

What else?

Upcoming event stuff:

July 14th, a reminder that Fran Wilde and I join the effervescent Kevin Hearne at the Parkway Central Library in Philadelphia — event starts at 7:30PM, getcher details right here.

Also, I will be the Guest of Honor at Ravencon 2018, taking place in Williamsburg, VA! April 20 – 22nd, hope to see you there, otherwise I’ll just hunt you down where you sleep.

AND THAT’S IT WOO HERE HAVE SOME MORE WATERDROPPIES

*flails*

*gesticulates*

*opens mouth, photos fly out*

Drink Me: The Velvet Wendigo

I would like to apologize for that mildly pornographic lemon.

I don’t know how he got in here. I didn’t invite him.

ANYWAY here is a very quick drink recipe you should make, and then put in your face. And then you should make it again, and put it in your face again. Because though it’s not summer here, it got suddenly fucking hot. It had been cold. Unseasonably cold. And damp. And then spring was like, “Fuck it, I’m out early,” and it left the door open, and HELL-HOT SUMMER DEMONS SWEPT ON ON WINGS OF STEAM and they just took over the place. Which meant it was time for a nice, refreshing drink.

Thing is, bourbon is — for me! — not really a nice refreshing drink. I love it! I do. But I don’t associate it with hot summer days or anything.

Bourbon tends to be a winter/fall beverage in our house. In summer I tend to lean toward beer, gin, tequila, the iced tears of my foes.

And yet, I wanted bourbon.

So I made this, and you should make it, too.

Into your mixer goes:

Two ounces bourbon

One ounce of ginger syrup*

The juice of one lemon.

The juice of one (small) orange, like, a blood orange.

That’s literally it.

You could add in an ounce of triple sec or other orange liqueur.

You could add in an ounce of ginger liqueur to replace the ginger syrup.

You could add in a couple dashes of bitters, for sass.

You could just drink the fucking bourbon** and nobody would blame you.

Either way, toss that around and pop it over some ice.

Then drink ten of them and write a comment below.

(As a sidenote, Gareth Skarka on FB asked me what I called this drink, and I had no name, so I called it The Velvet Wendigo, so let’s just make that official, shall we?)

* if you don’t know how to make ginger simple syrup GOD I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING FOR YOU NNNGHHH okay fine take a knob (heh, knob) of peeled ginger and chop it up and pop it in a pot. Also into the pot: 1 cup of sugar (I mix half white, half brown), 1 cup of water, and for some silliness, a splash of vanilla. Boil, then reduce to simmer for 20-30 minutes, until reduced. Stir occasionally.

** this is where you’re like WHAT BOURBON CHUCK JEEZ GODDAMN and I will tell you my secret is that for mixing and casual sipping you can’t do wrong with W.L. Weller — rumor is it’s basically a cheap variant of Pappy Van Winkle, and honestly, for $20, it’s really pretty lovely; if you’re wanting something fancier, I have and enjoy a lot of bourbons, including but not limited to, Hudson Baby, Basil Hayden’s, Colonel Taylor, Bulleit, and so on. Scads of smaller batch bourbons are available but I am not as well-drank there as I am with gin***

*** fine I’ll recommend some fucking gin too, you savages: Bluecoat is hands-down my go-to gin, but also love the Botanist (makes a helluva G&T with elderflower tonic from Fevertree) — though, the greatest G&T I have ever been served was in NYC and it used a gin made by a Brooklyn company called Greenhook Ginsmiths. Sadly due to weirdness in PA liquor laws, I can’t really get it here. Then again, some of you don’t like gin, so, there you go.****

**** though if you don’t like gin I might recommend you try a real gin and not like, the RUBBING ALCOHOL PINE TREE variety you get in most bottles. Most gin is shit, or half-shit. Try something lighter, more botanical, and put it with a non-shitty tonic like FeverTree or Q.

Return Of The Gaysaber

HEY THERE.

Read a great Book Riot article by Alex Acks (author of the book, Hunger Makes The Wolf) about LGBT inclusion in Star Wars (or the failure to include LGBT in the cinematic universe of Star Wars), and it drummed up some responses from Yours Truly, which I’ve Storified below for you delight or your discarding. You don’t need to read my piffle, but do try to read the post at BookRiot. Kay? Kay. *ignites rainbow lightsaber, vwommzz*

[View the story “On-Screen LGBT Inclusion In Star Wars, Please And Thank You” on Storify]

Solomon Grundy Born On A Macro Monday

SO, content has been a little thin at this here terribleminds-dot-com, and that’s for a handful of reasons. But first, hey look, new photos! One above and several below, mostly macro — but one is also a photo of BABBY GOATS, because if I can win your hearts with anything, I can win them with a photo of some BABBY GOATS, goddamnit.

Anyway, to continue.

Handful of reasons bloggerel has been a bit light —

First, I’ve had some mild problems with my site — it’s been sluggish and yo-yo’ing up and down. The host is looking into it, and though it’s gotten more stable, I’m not sure the digital turbulence is entirely over. (That said, I did fix the problem where email subscribers were no longer getting posts emailed from this blog but rather from “wordpress.com.” Thanks to all who offered fixes — the fix was ultimately easy, if irritating: I had to update not only WP, but Jetpack, and then initialize Jetpack, and also update all my other plugins for Reasons Unknown.)

Second, I’m currently writing A Really Big Book, like, the kind of book that is both big in plot and idea and SHEER BLOODYMINDEDNESS, so it’s been spending an excess of my Intellectual Energy Points (IEP). Every day the book takes a lot out of me. (In the best way possible, though. I’m really excited about it.)

Third, honestly, it’s a little hard to conjure blog content in this AGE OF DUMBFUCKERY — and I think people aren’t reading as much blog content, either, because they’re devoting a great many of their LFCRP (LongForm Content Reading Points) on articles and posts about this current AGE OF DUMBFUCKERY. So, it gets harder to pierce that veil both creatively and effectively with some little post about, “hey hi here’s how to successfully create narrative tension with artful comma placements OH GOD WHAT DID OUR PRESIDENT DO NOW AND OH SHIT ANTARCTICA IS ON ACTUAL FIRE I JUST SAW A POLAR BEAR COMMIT SUICIDE.”

Still, though, I need to get back into it a little bit, and assuming stability on the site’s part, that’s what I’mma do. Starting this week I’m going to post some shorter form writing stuff, maybe a recipe or three, and always a chance for some manner of frothing rantiness. Look for more STUNNING WENDIG-FLAVORED CONTENT in the coming days.

Sidenote: I hate the word “content.” It ranks up there with “IP” as the most milquetoast way of describing the junction point between art, entertainment, and information.

Then again, I also hate the word “blog,” which is the sound my dog makes before she throws up.

Anyway. Buy my books.

Have some pictures. Either here, or on my Flickr page.

(Warning: last photo on the page contains a spider. A really cool spider! A spider I’d never seen before! A glorious cyclosa orb-weaver trash-spider! But it’s a spider, so if that freaks your shit out, don’t scroll down.)

Flash Fiction Challenge: Ten Random Titles

Always a fun one —

Ten random titles.

I give you a list.

(Gotten from a random title generator online.)

You pick (or randomly choose) a favorite.

Write a story.

Fun and easy.

I mean, y’know. “Easy.”

List at the bottom of the post.

Length of story: ~1000 words

Due by: Friday, June 16th, noon EST

The List Of Titles

The Secret Gift
Wave of Destruction
Laughing Lights
The Thief of Moons
The Thorn of Prophecy
Each Game
The Nobody
The Unwilling Word
A Year of Bodies
Cleaning Up The Ashes

Riding The Rides At Comey Island

I went on a bit of a Twitter tear about the upcoming Comey hearing, and in addition, the overall state of this country — with a call to action about trumping Trumpcare in the meantime. I’ve gone ahead and Storified those thoughts for you. Please to enjoy. Or not. I’m not your Dad. Yet.

[View the story “Riding The Rides At Comey Island” on Storify]

Greetings From The Eunuch Moon Colony #457!

ASK ME ABOUT MY VAGENDA OF MANOCIDE

Dearest Mother:

I am writing you this letter in contravention of the Lady’s Law. I know if this letter is intercepted, that they will come for me with their gynomantic lassos. But write it, I must, and in that, I hope that this letter finds you well in the Care Home, which has been paid for by the Matriarchy.

I write you now to give my accounting of what went down that way, and how all of this happened. It’s amazing to think that such a fundamental shift in all things could come out of something so simple and so fun as a fictional superhero character. But that’s when it all happened. That was the pivot: the Wonder Woman film.

On the first day, I’d heard some rumblings about how the film was doing very well in the box office, perhaps even setting records as a film directed by a woman — strange to think how that was once unusual! — and I’d also heard that there were a handful of “women-only” screenings happening, and that some men were noticeably upset about being excluded. What I didn’t know was what happened during those screenings. They were the start of it. The beginnings of the rebellion. A fast-growing fire.

Stories from one of my guards here tells of being in one of those theaters when a handful of cisgender men tried to gain entry to the film. They were denied, of course, but came in through the side exit. They kicked the door in, demanding to be seated, demanding to be heard. One of them tried explaining his point-of-view: “Well, actually, I believe in humanism –“

But he never got to finish that sentence.

The women had no weapons except those that were already part of their accoutrements. They strangled the men with purse straps. They carved into them with keys, drowned them in various moisturizes and lady unguents. And then they held them down, took sharpened ATM cards, and severed their genitals. They played with them, then, the way a cat plays with a mouse, or the way Spring Breakers might bounce an inflatable beach ball back and forth overhead. “A party,” the guard called it. “A party where we bathed in men’s blood and used their dicks like cheap party favors.” And you know what they do with cheap party favors, Mother. They use them up. Then they throw them away. Right in the trash.

The women formed a pact, then, not to talk about what had happened that day — though it doesn’t matter now, their silence was paramount at that time. It was the beginning of something. And when I went to see the movie, as we all did, I had no idea what was waiting. You know at the end, how they have those bins where you leave your 3D glasses? They had a bin out there, dear Mother. A bin for my… my manhood. Soon as I walked out of the theater they threw a bag over my head and tried to cut my parts off — but I ran, and I ran, and eventually I gathered under a bridge with my other fellow Men’s Rights Activists, and there we plotted our own counter-rebellion, but we were too slow, and it was too late. The gynocopters found us. Troops swept in over us, their hooked knives clean and sharp and gleaming. They Tasered us and pounced, like pumas. I’ll never forget the sound of my… my manhood hitting the bottom of the bin. It was the sound of an onion hitting the bottom of a trash can. A thud and tumble.

That was it. That was how it began. Bloody and brutal. Turns out, there was a Special Edition Wonder Woman film. One we men did not get to see. One that indoctrinated the women and the girls, one by one, in the ways of Matriarchy. That was the start of the Lady’s Laws. They spliced in iPhone footage from those initial women-only screenings: the male organs bouncing around, the blood, the chanting, the Vagenda of Manocide laid bare for all to see. It was brainwashing, pure and simple. I’m with her, they said again and again. A mantra. Pointing to the woman on the screen. Wonder Woman. An Amazon. A goddess made of clay killing all the men.

It wasn’t long before the women had taken over. It was only two years later I found myself on a shuttle bound for the moon. To one of the expansionist eunuch colonies. I expected that you’d need us for breeding — not you personally, of course, but the Greater General Lady-You — but turns out, with genetic manipulation, we aren’t needed for much at all.

Admittedly, I hear nice things about Earth now. Since those who identify as women took over, I am to understand there’s been little war. Violent crime is trending toward zero. I hear too that the shift of climate change has slowly reversed — and, ha ha, I imagine there’s no longer a wage gap. Because we cisgender men don’t work anymore, except here in the camps. I imagine things aren’t perfect, though! I’m sure you still have your problems. And you probably still fight!

You women. With your… fighting.

But at least your care has been paid for, no thanks to me. I wish I could contribute, but they took my money and closed my accounts years ago. I receive a small stipend here for breaking moon rocks (which I’m to understand that you use for mooncrete), but I need that money to pay for my various needs and necessities, including the protection money I pay to Big Dick Hitler, the cyborg white supremacist men’s rights activist who teaches us all about our internal masculine power and how one day we will again be ascendant and how one day we can again help run the world. Though one time, I swear he said ruin the world, and no one else acknowledged it, and I sure wasn’t going to say anything, because I did not want him to turn his serrated claw-hand on me. I paid my money and I will keep my tongue. Even if I’ve lost so much else.

I hope you believe me. And I hope, Dear Mother, that you did not partake in the horror show that befell cis men that day. My conscience is clear, and I pray to the Man God that yours is, too.

Also, I need fifty Ladybucks, because Big Dick Hitler has upped his prices.

Please and thank you.

Love,

Your Son (Nameless Eunuch #798,231)

* * *

P.S. None of that shit happened, of course. Forgive me if the post seems in any way insensitive, as it’s a work of quick, dumb fiction that is meant to serve as a response to some gormless chode who sent me a message on Facebook, chastising me for liking the Wonder Woman because, I quote, “It advocates a version of male genocide.” Which is so dumb it would be funny if it weren’t so abjectly fucking dumb. He was serious, far as I could tell. I guess people think “male genocide” — like “white genocide” — is a thing? (Spoiler: it isn’t a thing.) Anyway, whatever. You want my Wonder Woman review? It was rad as fuck. Game over, the end. I am not here to debate whether or not the movie was feminist or not, because that ain’t my space, nor my place, but I am here to say I loved it, and you should see it. I saw a ton of little girls and young women in the audience — in the middle of the day on Sunday, no less, at at time when theaters are not traditionally packed around here. They were cheering and totally into it. Take your kids, I took my son. Take yourself. Take everybody. Join the Vagenda of Manocide.

Art above by Cliff Chiang, from Wonder Women #23 (New 52)

Flash Fiction Challenge: Invasive Species

This week, the paperback of Invasive landed.

Presently, I am in a shed that has once again, in a timely fashion, become a staging ground for gigantic carpenter ants. I have two above my head right now. I had three above my head five minutes ago, but one literally dropped down onto my hand as I was typing an email.

So, I figure that makes a good flash fiction challenge.

The book is called Invasive.

The idea is, in part, about invasive species.

So, write about that. In whatever capacity you so choose. Take inspiration from it. Needn’t be sci-fi. What’s an invasive species look like in fantasy or horror? How could it figure into a crime or mystery story?

Length: ~1500 words

Due by: June 9th, Friday, noon EST

Post at your online space.

Drop a link in the comments below.

INVASIVE: Out Now In Paperback!

HEY, LOOK.

The ants go marching, now to paperback. Invasive is now out in mass market format, and it’s a book about ants, anxiety, the future, dangerous billionaires, one angry spider, and it also contains a free trip to Hawaii.*

* but the ants also get to go to Hawaii, sorry

If you’d rather a more official description:

On an isolated island in the middle of the Pacific, a team of scientists is employed by a charismatic billionaire hoping to change the world through cutting-edge research.

In a small cabin on a remote lake in the middle of the Adirondacks, FBI futurist Hannah Stander confronts a barely recognizable human body—one skinned alive by thousands of genetically engineered ants.

Hannah’s investigation ultimately leads her to Kohole Atoll. Though the team there vehemently denies any connection to the body, the more Hannah studies the group, the more she suspects their work has sinister applications. And the more it looks like no one is getting off the island alive.

Who said nice things about it? Lots of folks!

In a starred review, Kirkus said:

“Think Thomas Harris’ Will Graham and Clarice Starling rolled into one and pitched on the knife’s edge of a scenario that makes Jurassic Park look like a carnival ride.”

Publishers Weekly said:

“Fans of Michael Crichton will feel right at home.”

The Washington Post said:

“Wendig does an impeccable job blending fact and fiction as he describes invasive species and insects being used as biological weapons. This is a propulsive tale that also examines our interaction with — and ma­nipu­la­tion of — the natural world.”

The ants said:

“chitter swarm click clicky chitter swarm hey a dead bird let’s eat it”

You should to get it, because if nobody buys my books I die writhing in the abyss!

Indiebound | Amazon | B&N

The book is also available in e-book format (Kobo, iTunes, Google Play, plus the links above), and audio (narrated by the impeccable Xe Sands). I’ll also have more Invasive news as the days go on — I’ll share when I have a green light to share.

Also, if you like it, please tell others, and leave a nice review somewhere.

Please enjoy.