C. Aubrey Hall's Blog, page 31

Sparkle: Animated Characters Part II

As I wrote at the close of my previous post, a character that lives and sparkles is one that’s exaggerated, intriguing, torn within, and hiding something.

Exaggeration means to take a quality and expand it, to make it larger. The first decision you probably should make is to select your character’s primary trait.

Let’s say it’s a rescuer–someone who jumps in and helps others in trouble. A rescuer is always hyper-sensitive to those around him. This individual will notice when someone needs help and will step up to provide it.

Earlier today, I encountered a mild version of this trait in action. When I exited the post office with a small parcel and an armful of mail, the man coming in paused, backed up, and held the door for me as a simple, ordinary courtesy.

At the opposite extreme, the rescuer trait out of control might be an individual in a co-dependent relationship, where one member of the couple berates the other until unsuccessful action is taken, thus necessitating another rescue.

No fleshed-out character possesses only one trait, of course, but generally writers select a dominant or primary one that will stand out from the rest of the character’s design.

Examples of rescuers would include Superman, Zorro, and Batman. (Who knows? Maybe I met Superman at the post office and didn’t realize it.)

Perhaps your character’s primary trait is shyness. Run with it. This shyness is so profound, so crippling, that the character can’t speak to strangers, can’t look someone in the eye, can’t–in fact–function normally in society and perhaps can’t hold a job unless through working at home as a telecommuter.

A character that’s torn within is a story person who cares deeply and intensely about something. It may be a cause. It may be another person. It may be a responsibility. Whatever it is, this character is committed fully to it. There’s no apathy, no cynicism at work here. The connection goes deep.

And the plot then pressures that commitment. The situation, or another character in the story, threatens whatever it is your character cares about.

If your character is devoted to a cause–like Branson in the hit show DOWNTON ABBEY–then that cause is threatened by his love for the earl’s daughter. Branson is a revolutionary and socialist. He doesn’t believe in the aristocracy and upper classes. Yet, despite his political convictions, he’s fallen in love with a girl at the very pinnacle of affluent society. He doesn’t want to accept her world. He doesn’t want to try to fit into her world. Yet he loves her enough to feel that he shouldn’t pull her down to his level either. What is he to do?

Ethical dilemmas create wonderful problems for characters because they force characters to deal with a maelstrom of conflicting loyalties.

A character with something to hide possesses that fascinating quality known as dimension. I’m not saying that your character must lead a double life with a second family concealed from the first. But a character with an inner flaw or a self-perceived weakness is someone who’s wearing a mask. This character will often act in certain ways to sustain the concealment or to overcompensate for the interior problem.

Many famous and highly successful athletes began life as physical weaklings advised by doctors to take up some sport such as running or skating to strengthen their muscles.

Maybe your character is a tough, assertive woman who’s fought for financial independence and established a successful career. She’s taught herself to hide her inner softness and femininity so she won’t appear weak to her competitors.

The British character actor C. Aubrey Smith enjoyed a successful film career playing gruff, crusty old grandfathers who barked at everyone but had an inner tenderness for the child that could stand up to him.

Mr. Darcy–Jane Austen’s handsome hero–wears his aloof, indifferent, superior demeanor like a new coat, but his hauteur hides his inner shyness. He appears very proud and above his company, especially when he first arrives in Elizabeth Bennett’s small community, but he’s gradually revealed as a man who’s shy, compassionate, generous, and loyal to those he loves.

If you can create characters that are exaggerated, torn within, and concealing a secret, they can’t help but be intriguing.

Best of all, they’ll be alive.

They’ll dance–even sparkle–on the page.

Sparkle: Animated Characters Part I

When writers are unsure of their idea or their craft, they tend to play safe in devising characters. Playing safe often splits into one of two directions: either the timid writer duplicates real life, using the demeanor, behavior, and appearance of an actual person, OR the timid writer derives characters from those already appearing in film, television, or books.

The first option creates a character that’s a dull snore of a bore.

The second option perpetuates a stereotype at worst or is simply derivative at best.

Timidity in character design won’t sparkle.

What we want when we create stories are characters that seem to come alive on the page. They’re vivid and intriguing. They possess verve. They seize the plot in dynamic ways and move it forward. They’re bold. They’re intrepid. They’re anything but passive. They are not flat.

Therefore, whenever you’re feeling tentative, counteract your conservative instincts and go bigger and bolder instead. Exaggerate your character far beyond your comfort zone. Ignore the niggling little fearful whisper in the back of your brain: “But if you do what Chester says, readers will laugh at you.”

And I say, “Readers may laugh but they won’t forget what you’ve written.”

Consider this example:

John lives in an affluent suburban housing addition planned by a local developer with the pleasant amenities of brick houses, three-car garages, sidewalks, one tree in every front yard, cedar stockade fences, and a playground with swimming pool limited to residents only. John is middle-aged, portly, and stiff in one knee. He’s an engineer and makes a comfortable living. His wife is a nurse. John drives a silver-gray SUV. His wife drives a tan sedan and spends her leisure time gardening in immaculate flowerbeds. They have a daughter, now finished with college and employed although still living at home. They have no pets. They do not entertain. John’s hobby is his saltwater fish-tank, and if there’s a power outage he runs a noisy little gas-powered generator to keep the aquarium going.

There’s not a thing wrong with John and his family. They are middle-class America. They are people we live next to, people we know, people we work beside or go to church with or meet at the grocery store. John is a pleasant, productive individual and a good neighbor.

As a character, however, in a fiction story, John is stinko. He’s got nothing interesting going on that will drive a plot. His only trouble is a co-worker who annoys him and his irritation with the power company that allows spikes and outages to jeopardize his expensive pet fish.

This is real life. It is not–repeat not–the stuff of fiction.

So when you squinch down, or roll yourself into a ball to protect your underbelly–hedgehog style–and you draw only from real life, you’re creating nothing. You’re duplicating an individual that’s flat and one-dimensional in story terms. Even worse, this so-called character won’t fit what your story needs because in your mind, the reality you’re recreating will fight whatever your story actually requires.

Let’s try again:

Johannes is single. He lives in a flashy apartment in a big-city high-rise. He drives a steel-colored BMW and he wears custom-tailored suits that are cut well enough to hide the bulge of his Sig-Sauer handgun. He’s frequently away on business because he’s a super-spy and his work takes him all over the world. He employs a cleaning service to maintain his apartment. His aquarium is built into the wall, and it contains only piranha.

Well, Johannes is colorful, much more so than John. Phony sparkle has been glued all over him, and he’s sending off reflections … to a point.

Trouble is, Johannes might as well be called James Bond. Other than the fish-tank, he is a duplicate, a blurred copy made from every stereotypical secret agent invented in 20th century fiction. Such a character is serviceable, if the plot moves fast enough and readers are trapped on a plane without any other reading material. Generally, however, there’s very little about Johannes to intrigue us. He’s as flat–despite the surface flashiness–as John.

So what do we do? How do we design a character that avoids these errors of caution?

A character that lives and sparkles is one that’s exaggerated, intriguing, torn within, and hiding something.

I’ll continue with this in Part II.

SPARKLE: Punch Up Those Sentences

Remember the comedy film, THROW MAMA FROM THE TRAIN? Billy Crystal played a man with writer’s block. Over and over, he struggled with the opening line of his manuscript: The night was … He couldn’t think of the perfect adjective to complete his sentence, and he remained compulsively stuck there.

Funny? You bet!

Good writing? Absolutely not.

We’ve all been taught somewhere along the way to avoid as many passive sentences as possible in our copy. Passive means using the weak “to be” verb and its variations. Yet we all reach for it anyway because it’s easy.

(Whoops! I just used it.)

I admit to using “was” too often when I write, just as I eat too much chocolate and indulge in Lay’s potato chips (real, not the wussy baked) from time to time.

But just like eating junk food, the overindulgence of passive sentences leads to flab. Even worse, the weak “was” construction cries out for the usage of adjectives and adverbs. They weaken sentences, too. Just ask Mark Twain, who claimed that whenever he found an adjective, he killed it.

The night was soft. The air was fragrant. The dog was big and red. It was sniffing at the base of the pretty flowers. Jack thought maybe the dog was after something that shouldn’t be buried there. He decided he would walk gently and quietly over to it. He didn’t want to frighten the dog or call attention to the spot.

Whew!

This paragraph is like an overripe apple which looks okay until you bite it and discover the rot beneath that pretty, red-blushed skin.

Let’s smash the “to be” verbs from Jack’s paragraph.

The night … soft. The air … fragrant. The dog … big and red. It … sniffing at the base of the pretty flowers. Jack thought maybe the dog … after something that … buried there. He decided he … walk gently and quietly over to it. He … not want to frighten the dog or call attention to the spot.

Now the paragraph looks dumb despite its promising situation. (Ever since Alfred Hitchcock released the film REAR WINDOW, the prospect of something buried in a flowerbed makes us blissfully uneasy.)

What we need is some oomph. This poor paragraph is too plain. Why not amp up the qualifiers?

The night air felt balmy, sultry. The air smelled lush and moist with the heady fragrance of jasmine vine mingled with gardenias. A vast, hairy dog–burnished like mahogany wood veneer–kept sniffing at the base of exotic, tropical flowers. Jack surmised the dog was investigating something buried there. He paused, debating whether to investigate, too. Then he sauntered toward the animal, not wanting to frighten it away.

Imagine a student handing me this paragraph. Imagine me slapping my forehead. Better yet, let’s imagine me giving this muck-maker a head slap instead.

Overdoing the qualifiers doesn’t create sparkling prose.

“But of course it does!” Bewildered Bart cries. “I’ve made it vivid. I’ve given it life! And I only used ‘was’ once.”

Ever hear of the phrase “purple prose?” It means overdone, and if you want examples of it, read a few passages penned by the Victorian novelist Bulwer-Lytton, a hot-selling writer of the 19th century.

Nope. Let’s back away from Bewildered Bart’s draft and try again. This time, we’ll remove the adverbs and adjectives, no matter how vivid and lively Bewildered Bart has made them.

The night … The air … The dog … It … sniffing at the base of … flowers. Jack thought maybe the dog … after something that … buried there. He decided he … walk … over to it. He … not want to frighten the dog or call attention to the spot.

This is looking as hopeless as patching a punky wood windowsill with a bottle of carpenter’s glue. Not much remains.

Solution? We gotta rewrite the sentences.

Soft air brushed Jack’s cheek as he peered through the shadows. He saw a dog–maybe an Irish setter–sniffing along the flowerbed at the Wilkins house. The animal’s intensity spiked Jack’s curiosity. He turned in that direction, his movement unhurried to avoid frightening the dog or calling attention to himself.

See the difference? Cutting the qualifiers forces us to select active verbs. Nouns become more specific. Specificity creates plausibility. This paragraph doesn’t serve up prize-winning prose, but at least we can focus better on the actual story event. If a reader decides her curiosity equals Jack’s, she’ll turn the page. If she tosses the story aside, it’s because of the premise and not flabby writing.

“But you left out the gardenias!” Bewildered Bart might say. “You cut the jasmine vine, and I wanted that imagery there. Imagine the moonlight shining on those white blooms, like tiny stars in the night.”

If we write about body parts buried in the flowerbed, we don’t need romantic imagery. Match your sentence tone to the subject matter. Edgar Allen Poe sure did, and he’s still in print. Just sayin’.

To reiterate, vary sentences in type and length, use strong voice, rely on specific nouns and precise verbs, avoid qualifiers, and match your topic’s tone. Imagery then becomes vivid, not because we’ve plied an excess of details the way a toddler paints herself with mommy’s lipstick, but because our sentences are clear and easy to read.

George Orwell said that good writing should be “like a pane of glass.” The sentences should fade from a reader’s consciousness, so that only the story is seen.

That, folks, is sparkle.

Do You Sparkle?

No, I’m not asking if you’re a member of the TWILIGHT flock of vampires. I don’t want to know if you wear bling when you head out to the post office, either.

Do you sparkle when you write? Is your copy lively, quick, fun to read, and entertaining?

Or are you so engrossed with the angst inside your protagonist as she contemplates her navel lint that you’ve forgotten you’re supposed to be keeping readers engrossed?

You’re a performer, you see. You may think you can hide behind your words, masked and safe, but in fact you’re the literary equivalent of a street-corner juggler–hopping on one foot, twirling, and catching orange golf balls in your teeth while playing the concertina, hoping that passersby will drop a few coins in your hat.

Consider this scenario. It’s the 1930s. The Great Depression has thrown countless Americans out of work. People are losing their homes. They’re starving on diets of stale biscuits and lard. Teenage boys are leaving home so their families won’t have the burden of feeding them. In Hollywood–where studios are determined to make fun, uplifting movies to distract audiences from their troubles for the price of one thin dime–a casting call has gone out for a child that can sing and dance to play a major role in a new film.

The mothers row up along the street, each dressed in her best hat and coat, gloved hands clutching the chubby fingers of cherubic contenders.

Behind the audition stage, a woman named Mrs. Temple is crouched before her little girl, deftly adjusting a riot of golden curls. “Remember, Shirley,” she says, “go out there and sparkle.”

And Shirley did. She sang. She danced. She flashed those dimples and shook her curls. She was as cute as a bug, and she sparkled her way into box-office gold.

A few years ago, I was watching the Academy Awards. By halfway through the show, I’d seen actors of merit and giddy starlets and scruffy young men with all the star potential of dandelion weeds. Then Olivia de Havilland came out to give an award. She was elderly. She needed assistance to make her way to the microphone. It was evident that she couldn’t see by the way she reached out her hand to grope for the edge of the podium. But by jingo, she wasn’t going to wear her glasses–not that night–not with the cameras on her. Despite her age and infirmity, she wore a beautiful gown. Her hair was styled attractively. Her face–expertly made up–had remained lovely. When the camera moved in for a medium close-up, she began to speak. She couldn’t read the teleprompter, but–star that she was–she’d memorized her part and delivered it flawlessly.

What struck me most, however, was that while she spoke she turned on the sparkle. Her face grew animated, and her eyes shone. She was mesmerizing for those few seconds, and she showed the world how a real movie star can–at whatever age–still conjure up the indefinable quality that holds audiences spellbound.

So how do you put the sparkle into your writing? You’re not attracting readers through the timbre of your voice or the brilliancy of your eyes. You’ve got words–just sentences and vocabulary to animate the story, establish the setting, and introduce your characters. If your words don’t sparkle, those fickle readers will defect to a story that does.

We put bling in our material through the following:

-crisp, active sentences

-exaggerated characters introduced in memorable action

-a zippy plot with strong hooks, conflict, and plot twists

-characters that readers can cheer for

-characters that readers can boo

-a willingness to take risks

-dramatic flair

-a rousing finish that delivers what every character deserves

In my next few posts, I’ll deal with these elements one at a time.

The Frustration of Distraction

Don’t you dream about a writing life that’s calm, contemplative, and free of annoying distractions?

Well, writers are some of the uber-dreamers, right?

The need for quietness–not just absence of sound or commotion around us, but an inner space apart from stress, worry, dozens of appointments/commitments, and deadline pressure–is vital to the optimum working of our creative muse.

We need space. We need peace. We need a haven from the clawing talons of Interruption and her harpy-sisters, Distraction and Worry.

In our modern, hectic, multi-tasking world, however, where in the world do we find Thoreau’s pond? I’m sure you’ve heard all the usual suggestions: turn off the phone in your writing office; turn off the email chime; shut and bolt your door; train your family not to even speak to you unless a) the house is on fire or b) someone is bleeding.

I used to pitch some royal hissy-fits in order to finally convince my family to leave me alone. Result? Instead of knocking on my office door, someone would furtively ease it open and an eyeball would peer in at me. If I gave any indication that I was noticing this, the individual would then waltz in and cheerfully ask his question. If I steadfastly ignored the peering eyeball and kept typing–fuming inwardly all the while–the door would steathily close. I was interrupted all the same, but my family member felt virtuous about “not bothering me.” Gak!

In time, I changed my tactics. Once I had a day job and no longer wrote full time, I needed to guard my writing session more than ever, but interruptions increased. Tired of pitching fits, I instead became the stealth-writer. During parental visits, for example, I would either negotiate for a length of writing time, aware of someone impatiently hovering near my door or deliberately making noise elsewhere in the house as the end of my writing session approached OR I would wait until everyone in the house was asleep and then I would sneak to my computer and write in secret. Such tactics had an illicit feel to them, and could be fun … until sleep deprivation caught up with me and I grew cranky.

Currently, I try to arrange my life in the Asian way of little compartments, all kept as separate as possible. There are teaching days, writing days, chore days, and days chasing antiques. It’s a little too regimented for my artistic temperament, but when you have a book deadline or you need a sale–artistic temperament had better take a hike.

Recently I’m finding myself in a new squeeze of overlapping commitments. The compartment walls are melting, thanks to a side business that I started for fun. I felt I needed an outlet, and I’m always looking for a creative hobby or some kind of play time to keep my inner child happy and refreshed. Problem is, the business is trying to grow and the new friends and associates I’ve acquired are demanding more of me. They are untrained when it comes to my true nature. They admire the writing life while not understanding what it actually entails. These are not people I want to pitch hissy fits in front of. Professionalism requires that I treat them with courtesy and not roar my rage like some wall-eyed beast.

Which means, to survive and keep my writing time secure, I have to set firmer boundaries and enforce them. My inner child is yelling outrage at this notion. I don’t want to be the enforcer. I don’t want to be the disciplinarian. Too bad. If I want to write, I have to make clearance for it.

Today, as you’ve no doubt guessed from the subject matter of this post, life hit me with one of those curveballs that are so blasted frustrating for writers. I had my writing schedule blocked out for the morning. I had a number of non-writing tasks to complete, including working with a handful of students. I was on target–or so I thought. Then whamo! something else landed on me. It was unexpected, unanticipated, and totally in the way.

What to do? (Besides swearing?) I took a deep breath, and channeled my artistic frustration into focus. The kind of focus that is narrow and intense and ruthless. I took care of the interruption, and although it feels like a waste of half my writing day, the task is DONE. Better to face it, smash it, and clear it aside than to whine and let it drizzle over, say, a week of procrastinating misery.

Now, I can swing my thoughts back to the book proposal at hand.

Rituals and Excavations

Throughout my writing career, it’s been my custom to clear my desk after sending a manuscript to my publisher. Mundane? Yes. But the ritual helps me step away from the old story world I’ve created and now must leave. I can then start a new book with all decks cleared for action.

Somewhere along the way, I’ve lost this practice. Too harried by the demands of work and deadline. Too tired to bother. The old standards have slipped.

I’ve known writers whose offices look like the aftermath of a bomb explosion. Their sticky notes are so old that the adhesive is gone, and the cellophane tape they’ve used instead is yellowing and brittle.

Other friends in this business could compete with a banker for the tidiest-desk award. Jack Bickham might allow a single sheet of paper to lie on his desk top. His manuscript went into an in-box, precisely aligned on one corner. Presumably he kept all his notes in computer files or in his head.

Another friend of the banker style neatly tucked her pages out of sight in a desk drawer at the end of each writing session. She didn’t even leave an ink pen in view. Her file cabinet was a model of efficient organization, and a small bookcase held a handful of reference books and copies of her published novels. There was nothing else, not even dust.

Across the years, I’ve possessed beautiful offices that were decorated and plush. I’ve also had ghastly holes. I enjoy dreaming my way through coffee-table books about fabulous offices assembled by interior designers. I’m still kicking myself because I didn’t buy a house with an entire upstairs devoted to office space, complete with windows and a fireplace. (The cramped kitchen and a whirlpool tub plumbed in the back hallway might have influenced that decision, however.)

Whatever my surroundings, I am–in organizer parlance–a “piler, not a filer.”

Try as I might, my desk quickly becomes heaped with references, scribbled notes on scraps of paper and stickies, sample chapters and drafts, copy-editor style sheets, complicated emails of editorial instructions that I’ve printed out, and other miscellany such as amazon.com receipts and book contracts.

I prefer to have everything concerning a project right out in the open in front of me, beside me, and behind me. I fear that if I put away that index card containing my villain’s motivation, I’ll never see it again.

There’s no logic here. If the item goes into the pile, I’ll never see it again anyway. At least, not until the book’s finished and I no longer need it.

Mostly I blame a lack of discipline for the problem. The books I’ve read on feng shui say that messy clutter bars the entrance of new ideas. Perhaps so. I do know that my system causes inefficiency and frustration.

So, it’s time to clean the office and get it into proper order. When I moved into my current house, I didn’t have an opportunity to sort and clear the old office. All sorts of rubbish were packed along with important file folders, resulting in chaos. I’ve only unpacked the most vital things because I’ve been occupied in writing a trilogy, and the book must come first.

With THE FAELIN CHRONICLES finally off my slate, I have no excuse. While I wait for my agent to think over a book proposal I’ve submitted, I’m determined to transform my office into an orderly and pleasant workplace.

Easy to say. Harder to do. If only I had the luxury of a secretary–efficient and devoid of any personal attachment to scribbled notes of sample of dialogue.

As I sift and sort, I start to read. Once I start to read, I remember what I wanted to do with that idea. I can’t bear to toss the note on the back of an envelope. It might, after all, be the genesis of my life’s masterpiece.

The scribble goes into a new pile, just a little one. I promise myself that I’ll label a folder for it. Only what is to be done with a jumbled assortment of inspirations? File them under what category? Inspiration? Assortment? Jumble?

Those of you who’ve been proficient with computers since you were toddlers must be squirming right now, yearning to remind me of the convenient neatness of Cloud files–behold the paperless world! It sounds very nice, only I’m a visual person. I’m tactile. I do not float in the abstract. If a file cabinet causes me trouble (because once a paper goes inside it, it tends to vanish forever), how am I to remember the name of that computer file I’m searching for? And do I want yet another dratted password in my life? No, I do not.

However, good things do come from the task of excavation. For example, over the weekend I located my French book contracts. Woo-hoo! But quick! Get them in the contract file before they disappear again.

I feel like an archeologist sifting through layers of soil. Here are research notes from that last Google search on 19th century plantations. Lower is the style sheet that I needed six months ago. Beneath that is a draft of a magazine article that I wrote–when?–and have yet to polish and market. And … aha! Now I’ve located my favorite pen. Even better, here’s a book weight I’d forgotten about. Why do I have eight used ink jet cartridges taking up valuable space? They should go to the office supply store for recyling, and I’ve said that the last eight times I’ve changed the ink in my printer.

Recently, I’ve started wondering if I’m becoming a hoarder. Thank you, reality TV, for putting this worry in my mind. People used to be reassured that if they feared they were going insane, it meant they were perfectly sound of mind. Can I cling to the corollary that if I fear I’m a borderline hoarder, I’m not one?

(I’m not quite convinced.)

I’m pleased to report that my wood desk has been cleared. I ruthlessly dislodged the vintage manual typewriter, stacks of books, and assorted paper and notebooks. Now I can see the deep scratch in its glass top, a boo-boo courtesy of my most recent move. I’ve had this desk forever. I paid for it out of my third book advance, and it has served me well.

I’m making progress in cleaning off the computer desk. Half of the stupendously messy pile is gone, which means I can use the full surface of my mouse pad again. I’ve found two novels that I’d lost. Now if I can shift the stack of twenty-two books from my desk chair (the stuff atop the wooden desk had to go somewhere), I’ll have a work space that’s useful instead of cluttered.

Perhaps I’ll even find the willpower to maintain order by using an in-box. I know I have one … somewhere.

Getting Started

Can you remember the first time you thought about being a writer? Where were you the moment you thought, I could write a story? What were you doing when the dream, the possibility, and the desire struck you?

About once a decade, I come across a student whose parent is a writer and has been a sufficient influence to motivate the student to take up the writing craft.

But where do the rest of us come from?

I find the majority of fledgling writers to be like those clueless civilians in science-fiction films from the 1950s. Going about their ordinary lives with no inkling that a flying saucer is about to swoop through the skies and hover above them.

Zing! There’s the super-cosmic gamma-slamma ray bathing the next victim in eerie light. The energy beam soaks into the individual’s brain, filling it with imagination and wild thoughts that have never teemed there before.

When the attack is over, the person will never be the same. Now he or she is filled with a fiery new ambition–to write, to put words to the page, to bring story to the world, to live and breathe the tragedies and triumphs of imaginary characters.

Family and friends shake their heads, saying things like, “Zelda never wanted to write before. I wonder how long it’ll be before this fit wears off?”

Probably never. Zelda gets a laptop and taps out her first, wobbly few paragraphs.

To borrow from Victorian novelist Bulwer-Lytton and Billy Crystal’s film, THROW MAMA FROM THE TRAIN …

The night was … dark, moist, raining, bleak, drizzly, foggy, sultry, aromatic … AHA! The night was aromatic with the fragrance of … jasmine, petunias, coffee, burned toast, hot roof tar … AHA!

The night was … NO. That’s too much passive construction. Try again.

The night smelled of hot roof tar and laundry hung to dry on clotheslines strung between the buildings. Ella sat in her open window, yearning to catch the nonexistent breeze. Behind her, Cuthbert snored in his broken-down recliner. A half-drunk beer tilted in his slack fingers. She was counting the minutes, counting his snores, counting her heartbeat, and all the while she was wondering if this was the night she had enough courage to leave him and the kids. Just take his wallet and the car keys, and go.

Surprised at what has suddenly burst from her imagination, Zelda sits back and reads over this opening paragraph. Is it a story? Not yet. Not quite, but her instincts tell her something’s there. She’s got a character now, the miserable Ella who longs for escape. She’s got a place–dingy and unappealing, the kind of setting no one wants to be trapped in. That makes Ella sympathetic, except why would this woman leave her children? Or are they her children? What if they’re Cuthbert’s and he was married to Ella’s sister who died and Ella came to help for a few days but has become trapped here as Cuthbert’s drudge, guilted into staying on and on.

Um … maybe, but would it be a stronger story if Ella were the mother and seriously contemplating abandoning her own children? How can a mother do that? What would drive her to such a desperate measure? What kind of woman is Ella anyway?

So now, Zelda has a toehold in the precipice of this story. And if Zelda doesn’t reach for the “easy button” by copying the cheap tricks that sometimes pass for plotting in the worst television shows but continues to ask questions about her protagonist’s motivation and goals, then it’s possible a story will come of her efforts.

The more Zelda writes and drafts and strikes out and hits dead ends and tries again, the more she’ll learn. The more she’ll grow.

When you’re starting out to write your first story, or maybe your second or third or twentieth, you can’t expect perfection. Writers don’t whip out an ideal draft in ten minutes and then run around for the rest of the day, giving interviews and being glamorous.

Writers write. They keep gnawing at the bone that is their story project until they’re satisfied. They can comb through books on writing and blogs on writing. They can (and should) take classes on writing craft. They can ask questions of other, more-experienced writers. But in the end, they learn most about people, characters, motivations, and story events by putting themselves in their desk chair and beating at their story’s problems until they figure things out.

From My Bookshelf: DARE TO BE A GREAT WRITER

A few years ago, while attending a writer’s conference, I met a guest author named Leonard Bishop. He was an old man with the bulky physique and heavy shoulders that spoke of past physical strength. There was something direct, even blunt about him. A no-nonsense type of guy with an edge. He said what he thought. He didn’t suffer fools gladly. The bright and phoney young editors who were also guest speakers failed to impress him. And underneath his rather gruff, intimidating exterior beat a warm and generous heart for new writers trying to make it in this tough business.

I’d never heard of him. I’d never read any of his novels. He’d never heard of me. He’d never read my work. We were introduced. We sized each other up quickly, the way working novelists do. We were instant friends and colleagues.

I bought his book on writing. He signed it on the title page as follows: “Deborah–Thank you for buying this book. If you have any suggestion on how to improve it, keep it to yourself.”

Even today, that little flash of witticism still makes me smile.

DARE TO BE A GREAT WRITER is a handbook of 329 tips. It’s written piecemeal. No pontificating chapters of advice here. No table of contents. No index. No attempts to impress. Instead, his suggestions and insights are as honest, direct, and insightful as the man in person.

What comes through strongest is his passion for writing. Bishop grew up a street kid, rough and semi-literate. He didn’t decide to be a writer until he was 27, and what he chose to write about was raw, straight from the heart and guts.

He chose his title deliberately and carefully. (And he would hate all the adverbs in that sentence!) He doesn’t want to help you be a good writer. He wants you to be a great writer.

He wants you to write from the core of who and what you truly are. Not what you want people to think about you. Not from behind a mask or a safety net. He wants you to write what he calls powerful fiction.

That takes courage.

But as they say in the South: “Go big or go home.”

Are you holding yourself back? Dare to check into Bishop’s work and see what you might become.

Gettin’ Naked

A few days ago, I read a blog post from author Robin LaFevers (GRAVE MERCY) where she advised writers to expose themselves to readers.

http://writerunboxed.com/2013/01/11/embrace-the-naked/

Another term for this concept of self-exposure is the author’s voice.

Several years ago, when I was a mere grasshopper with less than ten novels published, I was very surprised to hear my writing mentor tell me that he couldn’t find my voice. There was nothing of me in my books.

It was like being told I was a replicant in the film BLADE RUNNER. Less than the real thing.

It’s been said that you don’t have to search for your authorial voice or create one. It’s supposed to be as distinctive to you as your fingerprints.

But what if you’ve hidden it? Hidden it so deeply and successfully that it can’t be found by a reader? Then your books may be adept and fast-paced, but they won’t be loved.

Why?

You can’t touch a reader’s heart if you don’t expose yours.

Unmake the Remakes!

During the hectic rush and bustle of the recent holidays, my writer’s mind locked in on a puzzler: why can I watch the 1947 version of the Christmas film, MIRACLE ON 34TH STREET, endlessly but cannot bear, endure, or tolerate the 1994 remake?

For a week or more, the AMC channel played endless repeats of the two films. I’ve loved the original all my life, but this Christmas I probably saw it at least six times. No matter what I was doing, if it was playing, I usually plopped on the comfy chair and watched.

WHY?

Obviously it feeds my emotions and creative heart somehow, but how?

And why does the modern version irritate me so?

I admit I’m a huge fan of the old studio-system method of making movies. Sure, there were problems. Any system will have them. But the writing was usually top-notch!

Pushing aside the obvious elements of casting and actors’ abilities or lack thereof, I considered a few preliminary areas of story analysis: history, source, similarities, differences.

History: The 1947 version was distributed in English and Dutch. It was nominated for four Academy Awards, including Best Picture. (Other Best Picture nominees that year included GENTLEMEN’S AGREEMENT, which won; THE BISHOP’S WIFE; and David Lean’s GREAT EXPECTATIONS. Terrific films all!)

MIRACLE ON 34TH STREET brought home Oscars for Best Supporting Actor (awarded to the marvelous Edmund Gwenn; he beat out the also-marvelous Charles Bickford in THE FARMER’S DAUGHTER); Best Writing, Original Story (Valentine Davies); and Best Writing, Screenplay (George Seaton). The film also won two Golden Globes.

The 1994 version garnered one Saturn Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor (Richard Attenborough), but did not win.

Source: When I found a hardbound copy of MIRACLE ON 34TH STREET for sale in an antiques shop, I ignored my rule against acquiring used books and snapped it up. Okay, Mr. Davies, I thought, let’s see what YOU wrote and how closely do the two films follow your version?

To my surprise, I discovered that this novella was published by Harcourt Brace the same year as the movie’s release and was actually written as a movie tie-in. It simply follows the script, with few deviations, mostly in narrative summary instead of actually dramatizing full scenes. The dialogue is almost identical to the screenplay’s.

The book, then, offers me no answers. Phooey!

Similarities: On the surface, the two films are … not much alike. Both deal with a similar premise: an old man thinks he’s Santa Claus; a little girl doesn’t believe; a couple who love the little girl learn to love each other; Santa is put on trial; Christmas is saved.

Differences: The 1947 version is 96 minutes. The 1994 version is 114 minutes.

Despite its shorter length, the older version manages to keep a crisp pace that doesn’t sacrifice characterization either in the major roles or the brief walk-ons. From the child Susan who may appear to be completely devoid of imagination but harbors a secret dream of a house with a backyard to play in … to the harried mother whose feet hurt as she searches for a fire engine toy … to the neurotic and malevolent Mr. Sawyer … to the judge whose grandchildren won’t speak to him because he’s put Santa on trial … to the post office employees–characters are vivid, touching, or funny.

Think about the doctor who vouches for Kris’s sanity when the Macy’s store is about to fire him. The doctor appears briefly in a couple of scenes, the one I’ve just mentioned and later when he’s almost speechless over receiving the X-Ray machine he needs so desperately. We see this man who cares deeply about his patients. He’s well-spoken and obviously competent, yet he’s chosen to work in the geriatrics field–an area that the more ambitious doctors often ignore. I would want this man to be my physician. Why? Because the writers took a short span of time to make me like him.

The modern version tosses the key character Alfred away. Gone is the gentle teenager befriended by Kris at work. Alfred’s little part is pivotal to illustrating Mr. Sawyer’s petty malevolence. Saving Alfred is Kris’s motivation for confronting Sawyer and striking him, thus giving Sawyer the opening he needs to have Kris tricked and committed to the asylum.

Instead, the modern version cooks up an evil store owner right out of comic-book casting. A couple of mindless henchmen (one’s female, so are they henchpeople?) trail Kris around and eventually grab him. It’s a ludicrous plotline that’s silly, cheap, and absolutely devoid of what gives fiction its heart and soul.

People matter. At the root of successful storytelling is the awareness that people must be important. People drive the story, whether through their attempts to accomplish something or through their anguish or belief in what Mr. Gayley calls the “intangibles.”

The 1947 version has a central theme about the joy and hope of the Christmas spirit. It deals with people who have been hurt in the past and are afraid to have faith in miracles or … each other. It’s a story about how kindness and joy can carry people through whatever problems they encounter.

My favorite part of this story is the scene with the little Dutch orphan. This film was made two short years past the horrors and devastation of WWII. The child has lost her parents in that war. Holland was occupied by the German forces, and the people nearly starved before the Nazis were driven out. This girl has been adopted by American parents, and while she’s clearly adored and well-cared for now, her loss of family, home, language, and country are to be seen in her little face. All she’s got is her belief in Santa mitigated by the fear that he won’t be able to communicate with her. And when Santa speaks Dutch to her–a notoriously difficult language–she lights up in a way that always touches my heart.

I realize the 1994 version was trying to “update” the film for modern audiences, but in choosing a hearing-impaired child instead, the writers forgot to include the underlying emotion and backstory that’s so evident in the Dutch girl.

In short, the remake hits what its writers perceived as the audience buttons, but they failed to create story from the heart. And story from the heart is what creates an emotional button that audiences respond to.

When Kris Kringle and the Dutch child sing together, I believe.