Alan Watt's Blog, page 7

The Great American Novel

Every American writer secretly dreams of writing the “Great American Novel.”

What is the Great American Novel? It’s a book that captures the zeitgeist, that taps into something intrinsic to our national psyche. The Great American Novel is also something that we can only identify in retrospect.

What I mean is this: it isn’t possible to write the Great American Novel.

It’s only possible to tell your story. The desire to write the Great American Novel is a setup for procrastination. When you put your truth on the page, your story has a chance to live.

This is what every working writer knows, and what every wannabe will never get.

Tell your story. Nothing more. The Great American Novel is nothing more than a myth designed to keep your ego from writing the story you were born to write.

Our Characters are Malleable

“Nothing changes more constantly than the past; for the past that influences our lives does not consist of what happened, but of what men believe happened.”

– P.L. Berger

In the rewrite we’re like detectives, trying to get to the essential truth of this fictive world we’ve created. Through this process, it’s important to understand that our characters are often far more malleable than we may think. The problem only arises when we make our idea of our characters more important than the nature of what we’re attempting to express. This is where the writer can get lost. Our original impulse is our guiding light. It contains the dilemma, the tension that fuels our story to its conclusion. It’s from this place that we rewrite scenes, clarify information, and get down to the dirty work of writing the best novel we can.

All of our revisions are in service to the story as a whole and this must take precedence over material that clouds this goal. When one goes to a good doctor complaining of knee pain, the doctor will examine the hips. He’s looking for the source of the problem, as opposed to the apparent problem. We can often become distracted by the apparent problem, and fail to see the source.

For example: Let’s say that we’re writing a story about some yuppie that gets lost on a hike. He’s cold and thirsty, night is falling, and he fears that he won’t make it to morning. As the author, we may know that he’s going to survive, but we want our reader to be unsure. So, let’s say that we come to a point in the story where we’ve run out of ideas, and our protagonist is just sitting around, waiting for daybreak. We’re stuck. We don’t know how to introduce a complication that will heighten the tension. This is where we must be open to altering or widening our idea of our character and the story. Perhaps in our first draft, we imagined him as a hiking virgin, bereft of wilderness skills. We must remember that as the author we can always introduce elements in the rewrite that help to make our story more dynamic. Perhaps we imagine that he builds an animal trap, but wonder where he learned this skill. Is it possible that he’s not a tax lawyer, but rather, an architect with a special skill for building things? Does altering his occupation change the story in any important way? If not, we’ve now created a character that is more three-dimensional, and not just a construction to support our idea of a yuppie. And if we set up his technical skills early rather than springing it on our reader, there is a synchronicity of character and plot.

Perhaps, in our first draft, we had him hiking alone, but in the rewrite, we have him meet someone when he’s lost. What if this person is a wanted fugitive, and instead of rescuing him, makes his life more difficult? Neither one of these examples would necessarily alter the story’s structure, but they could lead to a more specific character, and could heighten the conflict.

When the impulse is to play it safe and make sure that the story works, we may miss opportunities to make the story more dynamic. We must trust that our story can contain all of the seemingly contradictory behaviors of our characters. Recently, I was working with a writer who was rewriting a story about a teenage girl who was resentful at her parents for not being allowed to join them on a trip. She said, “My protagonist can’t be too angry at her father because she really loves him.” But this is just an idea of her protagonist. Is it possible that a fourteen-year-old girl who really loves her father might allow herself to experience the full breadth of her fury as the result of the security that she feels with him?

We don’t want to limit the dynamic possibilities of our story by being too attached to our ideas of our characters. The rewrite is an invitation to shed our ideas in order to clarify that ineffable impulse that got us started.

Begin Your Novel

There are as many ways to begin your novel as there are ways to procrastinate. Beginning your novel is easier than you think. All you have to do is sit down, get out a sheet of paper, and give yourself permission to write poorly.

Beginning your novel is not an intellectual exercise. Contrary to what you might think, there is nothing to figure out. In fact, beginning your novel is about discovery; you can’t know the story ahead of time.

To outline is to begin your novel.

To write a character sketch is to begin your novel.

To imagine two characters in relationship to each other is to begin your novel.

You are much closer than you think to the beginning of your novel.

One Thing Readers Hate

One thing readers hate are coincidences. Sure, coincidences occur in our lives every day, but in a story, they are generally a problem. Readers lose interest when coincidence leans in the protagonist’s favor because coincidence or convenience does not convey meaning. It is only through conflict that character is revealed. In fact, readers often perceive coincidence as an author’s way of cheating.

For example, if Bob is hitchhiking on a deserted road trying to get to Chicago for a wedding, and he is picked up by Chuck, the best man, who just happens to be passing by – that is a coincidence. But if Bob is thumbing it to Chicago and just happens to be picked up by the husband of the woman he’s having an affair with – that is synchronicity. Synchronicity conveys meaning, while coincidence does not.

Coincidence lacks conflict. It’s expedient, and it’s often an indication of where the writer is stuck. Rather than exploring what he or she is attempting to express, the writer simply creates a loophole and proceeds. But just because the author kept writing does not mean that the reader hasn’t closed the book.

Synchronicity speaks to the underlying meaning of what the writer is attempting to express. There’s a reason for the event, which raises the stakes.

If you find yourself relying on coincidence to move your story forward, see if you can find a way to disguise it by creating conflict that is germane to your theme. It doesn’t mean that you need to ditch your idea of Chuck giving Bob a ride, but you might want to inquire into why this ride will be more trouble than either character had bargained for. You can keep your story points – as long as you lose the coincidences.

Take Risks

Writing your first novel is sort of like, well — there’s a first time for everything. It’s scary and exciting, and you’re not quite sure if you’re doing it right. Here’s something to remember in getting your first novel onto the page.

You cannot do it wrong.

As a first-time novelist take advantage of this freedom. No one expects anything from you. You’re writing your first novel! Take risks. Try things that have never been done before. And if you fall on your face, it’s OK. You will only be a first-time novelist once. So let it rip. Write with all of the passion and madness in your heart.

And when you are done, begin your second novel. Because your job is not to be a brilliant first-time novelist. Your job is to build a body of work.

This is what every working writer knows, and what every wannabe will never get.

Tell your story. Nothing more.

Third Acts are a Bitch: Reframing the Protagonist’s Goal

“Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime; therefore we must be saved by hope. Nothing true or beautiful makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore we must be saved by faith; Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore, we are saved by love.” – Reinhold Niebuhr

Whether you’re writing a screenplay or a novel, every well-told story contains this crucial element: somewhere toward the end of the second act, the protagonist experiences a surrender, a death of his old identity.

The purpose of story is to reveal a transformation. We must die in order to be reborn. Most stories begin with the protagonist wanting something. The stakes are life and death; if he doesn’t achieve his goal, his life will be unimaginable. At the end of Act Two, he recognizes the impossibility of achieving his goal and he experiences a death of the meaning he’s attached to it.

Whether his goal is to leave Bedford Falls like George Bailey, or amassing enough fortune to gird himself from the vagaries of life like Citizen Kane, or to hold onto his youthful irresponsibility like Seth Rogen in Knocked Up, the end of Act Two is the moment when the protagonist becomes awake to the dilemma he’s confronting, thus realizing the impossibility of achieving his goal.

This does not mean that he no longer wishes to achieve his goal, but rather, he recognizes that his attempts at achieving it have, in fact, prevented its success. It is as a result of his surrender that he reframes his relationship to the meaning he attached to it. Perhaps he realizes that what he had taken personally was not personal. Perhaps he discovers that his idea about himself was misguided.

As James Joyce states in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, our job is “to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.” He is saying that we are pioneers. This takes courage, as we are forever pressing up against our doubt. We are being asked to create something that is bigger than we are, which, on a practical level is impossible. The problem arises the moment our brain registers the potential for failure. It sounds the distress signal, wanting to protect our ego from a fatal blow.

This is what happens when our limiting ideas clash with our sense of our hero transformed. We get into our heads and try to figure out a satisfying ending to the story. I’m not sure it’s possible to figure it out. I believe that our role is as co-creators, and what we must do is become curious as to how our protagonist arrives at this new understanding. When we do this, images and ideas emerge that gradually reveal this shift in perception. We can’t do this if we’re holding so tightly to our idea of our ending that we don’t allow for a wider perspective.

Our protagonist’s self-will no longer works in Act Three, and neither does our own. Since the desire to create is connected to the desire to evolve, we are in some way the embodiment of our hero. When he recognizes the impossibility of getting what he wants, we experience that jeopardy on some level as well.

Story structure is an immutable paradigm for a spiritual transformation. If this sounds too new-agey, think of it as simply a shift in perception. Since this is not something that can be figured out, we are naturally going to experience fear and doubt. Writing is an act of faith, but not an act of blind faith. We can have faith in structure.

If you’re struggling with Act Three, be curious about how your protagonist reframes his relationship to the meaning he’s attached to his goal. Notice how he recognizes the nature of his struggle as opposed to the appearance of a struggle. Allow images to emerge. Hold them loosely and gradually you will begin to see that although his situation may not have changed, he has altered his relationship to the situation, and can then move forward from an empowered place.

How to Become a First-Time Author

The journey to becoming a first-time author is different for everyone. For me, it involved letting go of the idea that I’d ever get published. I know this sounds counter-intuitive, but to be a first-time author you must write something that no else can write.

The temptation to imitate our heroes is one the biggest stumbling blocks for first-time authors.

Here’s the secret to becoming a first-time author: it’s like dating. When you don’t care if she says yes . . . she says yes.

When you’re not concerned with what the publishing world wants (and I mean, truly not concerned) you are free to write with the wildness and freedom that the world is craving.

Embrace the paradox.

By not worrying about being a first-time author, you are on your way to becoming one.

Conventional Wisdom

If you’re not at least a little scared writing your first novel, you’re probably nuts. Every writing project involves surrendering what we thought we knew. It’s a humbling process.

The thing about writing our first novel is that we don’t know much. We haven’t walked this path before. Neither had Norman Mailer when he wrote The Naked and the Dead, or Harper Lee when she wrote To Kill a Mockingbird.

There is something very powerful about not knowing. When you don’t know, you are not privy to conventional wisdom. That’s a good thing.

“Conventional Wisdom” will tell you that writing your first novel is nearly impossible, and it will give you a hundred reasons why you ought not to try.

But there is something more powerful. The desire to write is the desire to evolve. Evolution trumps “conventional wisdom” every time.

Go ahead. Write your first novel. Ignore the brilliant naysayers. They’ve been wrong before.

Write your first novel. The time is now.

Banishing Redundancies

redundant: 1 a: exceeding what is necessary or normal : superfluous b : characterized by or containing an excess; specif : using more words than necessary.

Redundancy is not only a sign of lazy writing; it can also pull us out of the story by interrupting the narrative flow. There are many types of redundancies in writing, from rehashing story information, to repeating themes unnecessarily, to using the same word or phrase within close proximity. Some words are like suntan lotion: a little goes a long way. If you’re going to use the word eidolon, fine, but only use it once.

When we read our work out loud we can catch most of the redundancies at the level of words, and find ways to remove them. Let’s try an exercise.

Read the following short paragraph.

 

“Bob drove to work early. He worked six blocks from home, and when he got tired of working in his office, he did his work from the donut shop next door.”

Can you convey all the information and only use the word work once?

 

“Bob drove six blocks to his office. When he got tired of staring at the same four walls, he worked from the donut shop next door.”

Now let’s look at a common problem: how to prevent exposition from becoming redundant. For example, sometimes a character must repeat information to another character. How can we avoid redundancy if the reader already knows the information?

Perhaps we could just show the other character’s response. Or maybe it could be dramatized and the second character could demand to know the story, and we could see the story told again, but from a new perspective, thus revealing new information about the characters’ relationships.

It is common for novice writers to repeat information ad nauseum. It’s the author’s job to find creative ways to keep the narrative moving forward.

A close cousin of this redundancy is beginning the story long before anything actually happens. Unless you’re F. Scott Fitzgerald, we probably don’t want to read twenty pages of backstory in order to get up to speed on the characters. Try to find ways to begin the action immediately, and creative ways to convey necessary information as the story proceeds.

This leads us to structural redundancy. Sometimes a beat can be played out repeatedly through varying situations, and the redundancy isn’t at the level of words or situations, but rather, of tension. The story is not building through rising stakes. This may be a structural problem, and it can be solved by first recognizing the redundancy.

It’s a dark day for the writer when the structure isn’t working, but as Ernest Hemingway said, “Every writer needs a good bullshit detector.”

Here are a couple of ideas if the story feels like it’s moving sideways without building in tension: consider tearing out scenes that feel emotionally similar but add little new information – and/or be curious as to how the stakes might be raised by exploring the dilemma at the heart of the scene.

Fiction is different than real life. Real life is mundane. We eat, we work, we laugh, we cry, we sleep, we do it again. The purpose of fiction is to imbue these events with meaning. We’re not interested in the appearance of eating and sleeping; we’re interested in the underlying meaning that is being expressed through these incidents.

It is through inquiring into why a particular passage has been written that we begin to understand precisely what we were attempting to express, and the scene springs to life, thus raising the stakes.

How to Write Your First Novel

Writing your first novel might actually be fun. I’m serious. I know you’re terrified. It’s a scary thing to do. But, at the risk of sounding like I was raised on a Portland commune, that fear is just energy. In writing your first novel, it really is possible to flip that switch, and allow your fear to become excitement. Because that’s all it is. It’s life force. And it’s necessary to write your first novel.

If you wait for it to go away, you’re missing the point. Use it.

Inquire into the nature of your fear, and I promise you that you will gain insight into the story you’re writing.

Your first novel lives within you. Everything you need to know, you already know. The challenge now, is to get out of your head so that your first novel can emerge.

Good luck! I know you can do it.