C. Aubrey Hall's Blog, page 16

Count Down …

Having a book come out is always exciting and a day to celebrate, but it’s been a while since a real, tangible, printed-on-paper version of my work landed on my doorstep in a box. I peeled off the tape and pulled out the packing, and behold, there it was. My author’s copy of THE FANTASY FICTION FORMULA–a long time in the making–all shined up and ready to launch.

February 1 is its street date. I’m told by a friend that Amazon at least will be shipping on February 3. Big breath. That’s when we’ll see if the anticipation has been justified, if all you wonderful supportive purchasers will get your money’s worth.

Meanwhile, I’m emotionally pacing the floor like a mommy watching her five-year-old ballerina run onto the stage for that first dance recital.

Fingers crossed.

We’ll see.

Publication Announcement

If any of you have read my fantasy trilogy, THE SWORD, THE RING, and THE CHALICE, then you might be interested to know that in December 2015 I published a new novelette called THE KING’S LADY on Amazon Kindle. It deals with the first week of Dain’s reign as King of Nether, where he’s struggling to find his feet and meet the challenges facing his realm. Dain has a lot to learn in these early days, and he’s just getting started.

I must say that I thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to fill some of these “gaps” in the Nether storyline. As time permits, I plan to add more stories, including a continuation from where I stopped with THE KING IMPERILED. It was never my intention to stop there or leave readers hanging with unanswered questions. Now that I am no longer dependent on Ace Books to bring out this series, I look forward to doing more with it when my contractual obligations allow.

As for the Mandrian series with Queen Pheresa, her story was intended originally to run parallel to Dain’s, but the time lines grew apart. I have several twists and turns still in store for her.

Meanwhile, give THE KING’S LADY  a look, and see what you think.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B019YQU5W8/ref=s9_simh_gw_g351_i1_r?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=desktop-1&pf_rd_r=0CYZPCCZ3C931A94XQ07&pf_rd_t=36701&pf_rd_p=2079475242&pf_rd_i=desktop

 

Finding Your Story

Writing fiction involves a variety of elements:  knowledge of the craft, story sense, intuition, preparation, flexibility, focus, and trust. Some writers can only manage to juggle a few of them. For example, a writer may cling to writing technique so rigidly that he or she is unwilling to receive constructive criticism, reluctant to revise a single word, and resistant to deviating from the initial story outline. Other writers may rely so completely on inspiration or the muse that they can’t stay focused from start to finish, and the very suggestion of planning or outlining makes them break out in a panicky rash.

Those are the extremes on opposite ends of the spectrum, of course, but they illustrate accurately the issues that some writers suffer in trying to get stories on the page.

Let’s look at these elements more closely:

Knowledge of the craft involves knowing how to write sentences well, how to convey meaning clearly and coherently, how to spell and punctuate, how to open a story, how to build conflict, how to design characters, how to deal with viewpoint, description, rising action, pacing, and how to write an emotionally cathartic climax that resolves the story in a way satisfying to readers. Craft comes easily and instinctively to some. For others, it can be an arduous, challenging ordeal of practice and study. Either way, you must know your craft if you are to become an effective writer. Not only in terms of your readers, but also in view of how the process of putting a story together needs to be something you’re so well trained in that you no longer have to consciously think your way through scene construction, for example, but can instead put your full attention on the content of that scene and what your players need to say and do in it.

In short, knowledge of the craft frees your mind to concentrate on the actual story.

Story Sense stems from your talent and how exposed you’ve been to stories. Have you read copiously for a long time? Doing so builds and enhances your story sense. Are you a film buff, one that watches movies not to examine stage direction or camera angles but the story and emotions? Then you’re adding to your story sense.

Avid readers possess excellent story sense, and that’s why they become irate if a plot suddenly veers off course or a character reacts in a way inconsistent with her design. Think of the little boy in THE PRINCESS BRIDE, protesting when he thought his grandfather was messing up the story. That’s story sense at work.

As a writer, listen to it and let it guide you. There are times when writers hit what seems to be a dead end or they face putting together a huge and complicated story event that intimidates them. But even if they lack sufficient craft to know how to handle what lies ahead, if they will heed their inner instincts they usually come out fine.

It can be challenging to obey story sense. So often we’ll think of something for our protagonist to say or do and then we talk ourselves out of it. Later, an editor or writing coach will ask, “Why didn’t Irmentrude open the door?” and you shout, I thought of that! I was going to do that! And then … I sort of talked myself out of it.

Why?

You lacked confidence in your own story instincts.

Intuition is closely allied with story sense. Maybe it’s another term for the same quality. But it’s an emotional feeling about where you should take your story next, or about what you should write about, or about which character should be your protagonist. Intuition is your gut telling you to have your hero leap off that building, even if you aren’t sure how to ensure his survival. Intuition pushes you to take creative risks, to dare let your characters say and do things that you wouldn’t in real life. Intuition is your gateway into creating larger-than-life story people and situations.

Preparation involves thought, research, planning, plotting, testing, and outlining. Good prep saves writers time. Yes, it delays actually typing words when you’re dying to get started. But it rescues you from dead ends, mental roadblocks, plot holes, and other dangers that can force your plot off course. What’s so horrible about writing a plot outline anyway? It makes you face the soft spots in your idea. If you face them, then you can fix them. Better by far to do that than write fifteen pages that later have to be thrown away.

Some writers, especially when they’re inexperienced or still learning their craft, shy away from outlining because they don’t have many ideas and they’re afraid to over-examine what they have. In fact, they may know instinctively that their idea is weak and won’t hold up to examination.

But if your story idea is so fragile that it will crumble in an outline, it’s not worth writing. Good ideas can’t be destroyed. You can examine them, thump them, test them, play the what-if game with them, invert them, change the characters around then back again, and they will hold together. What a relief that is!

You prepare by making sure you have a central protagonist, a central antagonist in direct opposition, and a clear goal. With that triad, you can then logically and systematically create a series of events that will occur as these two opposing characters maneuver against each other to achieve what they want.

If you skip this preparation or ignore the triad, then you will be doing a lot of writing and tossing, again and again. Perhaps that’s your method and you persist until you finally find some sort of plot you can follow. But often, writers who are unprepared hit too many roadblocks and obstacles and end up confused, frustrated, and willing to abandon what might have become a very good story.

Flexibility means being willing to allow a story leeway. It means that despite the planning and outlining and careful thought, there is still elasticity in the story’s framework for a few unplanned details and incidents that will enhance and improve the plot. It also involves being willing to listen to an editor or agent when they make good suggestions for the story’s improvement. It means keeping yourself humble enough to continue learning no matter where you are in your writing career.

Focus is achieved through preparation, through knowing you have a solid plot that will go from start to finish without dumping you somewhere in the middle, and then sticking with it. Not rigidly, but following your outline without taking wild tangents or impulsively changing your protagonist’s motivation for no better reason than a dream you had the night before.

Focus is about sticking with a draft until the story is completed. It’s about pushing aside distractions and doubts and worries and fatigue, and continuing until you type “The End.”

Trust was perhaps the most valuable lesson I learned in my training–other than the actual craft itself. Because once you know how to construct a story and how to put the triad in place and how to line up goals, conflict, motivations, and reactions, you have to trust the process. Even with an outline, I find myself in the fog partway through a novel. I’m human. I’m a writer with a big imagination. I can conjure up fears and self-doubt as well as anyone. I can grow weary of my characters. I can be so tired I can’t hear my story sense sometimes. And yet, I have to trust that what I’ve set in motion will keep going. I know that if I line up certain pieces of any story properly, it will move successfully to the finish. And I have learned to trust that, whether I can see light at the end of the tunnel or not.

Contriving to be Stupid

One of the pitfalls writers can stumble into is when they know exactly where they want their story to go. Their ending and theme are clear in their minds, and they are so determined to reach that plot point that if they aren’t careful they may end up contriving part of the storyline to reach it.

Let me provide you with a couple of examples: [SPOILER ALERT!]

The 1940 film THE MORTAL STORM depicts a non-Jewish German family in the 1930s that begins as a comfortable, well-established, close-knit group but is torn apart as Hitler rises to power and the sons and their best friend are caught up in fascism. The film presents a chilling example of how dangerous peer pressure can be for adults, and was made as a warning at a time when the U.S.A. was not yet involved in WWII.

[SPOILER ALERT!] Despite this compelling plot and its inherent conflict, the film stumbles at the climax. The heroine and her friend attempt to escape over the Alps and are nearly to the Austrian border where safety lies. (In the story’s time frame, Austria has not yet been annexed by Germany.) However, just as they have one last slope to ski down to safety, a German patrol shows up. All the couple has to do is wait until the patrol is gone. They are breathless and exhausted. They are hidden in the rocks with a good vantage point. Why not sit down and take a breather? Oh no! As soon as they see the patrol and exclaim in dismay that it’s shown up, they immediately launch their skis and head down a long, open, snow-covered slope where they can’t help but be spotted.

Now the whole point of this character action is to test the girl’s ex-fiance who is in command of the patrol. Will he order his men to open fire on his girlfriend? He does, and she’s killed. The screenwriter or director or producer wanted to depict how far her young man will go in order to follow Hitler. There’s a close up of the agony in his face as he gives the command. And the ending is very sad.

Except it’s not. How can viewers share emotionally in this “tragedy” when the girl has been so stupid? Her fate has been contrived to achieve a certain end, and it just doesn’t fly.

Here’s another example:

Some years ago, I was writing a historical romance set during the French Revolution for Harlequin Books. To tip the book from its mid-point into the third act, I needed the heroine to be abducted by the villain. So focused was I on this objective that I contrived her capture by having her leave her hiding place and go wandering out through an orchard in search of something to eat. The idea was that she would pick a peach, be seen, and although she would run for it, the villain would catch her.

Fortunately I had an editor that refused to pass such nonsense. She yanked my chain hard, calling my heroine “stupid.” And she was right. I had to go back to the drawing board and rewrite that story event completely, coming up with a much more plausible way for the heroine to land in trouble without being a complete idiot.

Here’s the lesson: of course every event in fiction is a contrivance. Writers are moving their characters here and there through a plot for a desired effect. The challenge lies in concealing that contrivance from readers, so that readers suspend disbelief and vicariously experience the story as it unfolds.

The trick in achieving that concealment hinges on proper character motivation for every action, no matter how risky. Failure to provide a plausible reason leads to characters that may be too stupid to live.  And stupid characters become unsympathetic characters.

Perhaps in THE MORTAL STORM the screenwriter wrote a valid reason for the couple to risk death in skiing where a German patrol could not help but see them. But it ended up on the cutting room floor. Oops.

My novel ended up with a rewrite and some Band-Aids, but it got the job done. Even so, I still wince when I think of that scene.

Know where you’re going, but avoid character stupidity in getting there.

 

 

Chapters

For some reason, chapters tend to baffle newbie novelists. I am frequently asked questions such as

What are they?

How long should they be?

How should they start and end?

Are they the equivalent of a short story? Is a novel a series of short stories strung together in chapters?

Should they have titles?

Let’s take these one at a time.

Chapters divide a novel into sections that psychologically give readers a stopping point. They help to break up a very long story and make it visually less intimidating. They serve to assist writers with transitions, viewpoint changes, and the setting of hooks. They are usually centered around a plot event.

Therefore, if an average-length novel contains roughly 20 plot events–give or take–then there will be approximately 20 or so chapters.

Chapter lengths vary. Time was when chapters were lengthy, featuring perhaps two or three scenes, with sequels in between. But then James Patterson started the trend of very short chapters. His rationale was based on shortening attention spans and multi-tasking, where readers are increasingly distracted by our hectic, modern world. So you might pick up an older, midlist book where chapters run as long as ten or fifteen pages. Or you might decide to read the latest young adult bestseller, where chapters average two to five pages.

The shortest chapter I can recall reading is in Ray Bradbury’s SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES. It’s one sentence long.

It’s placed somewhere in the midpoint of the book for special effect, and it works beautifully as a transition and pacing change.

Chapters should end with hooks. Chapters should begin with hooks, or viewpoint changes, or time/location changes. Avoid starting each chapter the same way. Avoid ending chapters with your protagonist falling asleep. Set a hook at the end to keep readers turning pages.

Chapters are not short stories and should not be written in the same way. As I’ve already mentioned, they are either focused on a story event, which may involve one scene or two scenes. They may be focused on the aftermath of a major story event, where the protagonist has to pause and process what just happened.

Chapter titles usually appear in fiction for young readers. They serve as a guide or a foreshadowing of what’s about to happen. In effect, they are a tiny hook to keep young readers going. Fiction for adult readers seldom requires them.

 

 

Pearl Habor Day

Those of you with some knowledge of history (or calendars with notations) recognize today as the anniversary of a “date which will live in infamy.” (Franklin D. Roosevelt)

But aside from the historical event of 1941, when our navy harbored in Hawaii was bombed without the warning of a declaration of war, does this date have any other significance for you?

Perhaps not.

It certainly does for me.

When I was a senior at the University of Oklahoma, majoring in professional writing, I took a novel writing course taught by a scary, intimidating curmudgeon called Jack Bickham. His course required us to write an entire novel manuscript in one semester, with absolutely no coaching or feedback along the way. You listened to his lectures and you wrote like a fiend in every spare moment you could find, and you sweated bullets because you had no idea whether your idea was feasible or your plot was viable or your scenes were comprehensible or your characters likable. You got one grade in the course–the final grade.

And the due date was always Pearl Harbor Day.

You lived or died on that single submission, and he would announce the deadline with an evil chortle. Somehow, because he tied it into the “date of infamy,” it loomed even larger and more horrible than ever. At least it did in my imagination.

Are you thinking he was cruel? Not really. Although he scared his undergraduates to death, it was good for them. He made the process of writing that student novel as realistic and real-world as he could. Because that’s the way most novelists actually work. On spec and in the dark. Gambling on an idea without any guarantee that an editor will ever buy it. Writing alone in the small hours of the night without feedback or encouragement.

Later, once a writer becomes established and sells a few books and gains a reputation, then it’s possible to land contracts on the basis of a well-written outline and sample chapters.

But until then, you have to pay your dues. By taking a risk. By stretching yourself past your comfort zone. By working hard, long hours. By not being satisfied until you make a scene work. By having the guts to face those plot holes and spongy parts of your manuscript and fixing them before you ever dare submit to an editor or upload to Kindle.

Bickham made us work hard because writers always work hard. He made us afraid so that we could learn to face fear and realize it couldn’t defeat us if we stood up to it and delivered.

It meant a lot to me back then to show up to class on Pearl Harbor Day with my manuscript. And since then, when this infamous day in early December rolls around, I remember the people who lost their lives in 1941 … and I remember how I gained a small measure of pride and self-respect for having met Bickham’s notorious deadline.

Floating Viewpoint

The last area I want to discuss in my series regarding breaking reader suspension of disbelief is the mistake of poor viewpoint management.

Generally, viewpoint is indicated through three techniques:  through the internalized description of a character’s thoughts; through the internalized description of a character’s emotions; and through the internalized depiction of a character’s physical senses–including sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell.

Therefore, when you write subjectively–that is, from a character’s viewpoint–you are sharing these three types of subjective perspectives.

Thought:  John wondered why no one was working at the lab today.

Emotion:  Shaking, John stared at the oncoming T. Rex. His brain was screaming for him to run, but his feet remained frozen. He tried to scream, but his breath was trapped in his lungs. His throat felt constricted, and sweat popped out all over his body.

Physical senses:  John smelled something rotten in the flowerbed, like a rodent had died there.

Viewpoint brings a character alive. It provides readers with a story person to inhabit, to become, either for the duration of the story or for a portion of it.

Viewpoint puts readers into a story in ways the film or television screen cannot. Vicariously, through imagination, readers can experience the story as it unfolds from inside a character.

Consequently, because readers are given this psychologically intimate experience, the management of viewpoint takes on significant importance. Select a correct viewpoint character and handle his or her viewpoint well, and the reader goes on a marvelous journey of the imagination. Select the wrong viewpoint character or fumble how viewpoint is utilized, and the reader will be jolted back into reality.

How, then, do you select the best character in your cast to be the viewpoint?

Answer the following questions:

Who has the most to lose?

Who has the most at stake, or at risk?

Who is at the center of the action?

Who has the most to learn?

The character that qualifies is the person that should carry your story’s perspective.

However, should you choose to write from the viewpoint of a character with only a small stake in the story’s outcome or who happens to be absent during the most exciting or dangerous story events, you have not chosen wisely and will encounter increasing difficulty in persuading readers to believe in–much less follow–your plot.

Once you’ve selected an active viewpoint character that is in trouble, with much to learn, and participating in the very heart of the story action, you sustain this viewpoint through the individual’s emotions, thoughts, and physical senses. Again and again, over and over, through a page, a scene, a chapter, or a complete story.

It’s not sufficient to establish viewpoint once and then never provide that character’s perspective again. You, writer, are responsible for keeping viewpoint clear.

Also, beware the temptation to share thoughts and internal reactions from other characters present in a scene. Stick with your chosen one … at least until a scene concludes.

Am I saying that you shouldn’t change viewpoint in a story? Not at all. Multiple viewpoints can be effective, dramatic, and thrilling for readers. However, you shouldn’t allow viewpoint to wander from head to head in an exchange of dialogue without any control or direction.

While writers should always know what all their characters are thinking, feeling, and experiencing, readers don’t need to know.

Give readers one perspective at a time. They will not be confused, and their vicarious reading experience will be stronger.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy Thanksgiving

May you be with loved ones this Thanksgiving holiday. May you eat well, laugh heartily, and count your blessings. Whether you are safe and happy, or suffering a tough skid in your life’s journey, look for what is positive this day and give thanks for it. Let it shine for you, however small. Even a candle’s flame–though tiny–can hold back the shadows.

The Notorious Info-Dump

Among the many pitfalls for the unwary writer is an urgent “need” to share far too much information and explanation with our readers. After we’ve created settings and characters that require considerable detail and knowledge within our heads, it seems only natural that we should then want to blurt out all this lavish wealth of information and share it with everyone.

However, readers should know only about ten percent of what a writer invents for his or her story. And if that’s the case … and if we aren’t going to cram this stuff into our stories, why should we bother to create it at all?

Well, one reason is that writers should work very, very hard so that their readers never struggle, become confused, or lose suspension of disbelief.

Another reason is that our characters will be more plausible and dimensional if we create elaborate and sometimes lengthy dossiers for them. This effort acquaints us with their psychology, their motivations, their fears, their ambitions, their hidden weaknesses. If we know that a character was bitten by a rabid dog when a child and had to undergo painful rabies treatments, then we can write this adult individual’s extreme, panicky reaction to any canine with far more verve and authority than if we just randomly decide she should be frightened of dogs.

However, do we need to put the story on pause while this character’s entire backstory and horrifying childhood experience is dumped in? No, we do not. Readers are clever in picking up clues and hints dropped through character dialogue, reactions, and behavior. Allow your adult character to encounter a growling German Shepherd and show only her response to it–without additional explanation. Because you know all the background behind her fears, you will write her reaction much differently than if you never plan that event in her past.

Then, trust the character to carry the story for you. She should deliver a doozy of a reaction.

Passing Along Inspiration

Hello,

Instead of yet another post in my meandering series on what shatters a reader’s suspension of disbelief, today I am sharing a link to a “Brain Pickings” newsletter article. it was passed along to me by a former writing student, Steven Thorn, and it conveys its nine points far more eloquently than I could.

May you be inspired today, if only through acknowledging your worth and creativity. Remember always that you have value, and believe in what you can do.

Cheers,

Deb

https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/10/23/nine-years-of-brain-pickings/