BACKSTORY

Hi Writers,

When we are feeling stuck, it is inevitably because some part of our backstory is unclear. Backstory refers to what happened before our story began, and is often revealed through exposition. A clearer understanding of our backstory will inform our characters’ present circumstances.

The challenge in clarifying backstory is to not force it to conform to our idea of the story. A character’s place of birth, level of education, relationship history, family dynamic, culture, ethnicity, religious beliefs, and political leanings are all in service to our story. Character is malleable; all of this information is changeable.

The act of seeking the ideal character is not something we can figure out. As we inquire into our story, ideas about are character’s past will come to us. They might seem surprising and unusual. They might even appear to want to take our story in a different direction.

Sometimes the appearance of a different direction is really just a stretching of the original idea. Nothing is lost if we entertain an idea for a few moments, yet I am frequently surprised at how rigid new writers can be about this. It is almost as if they are trying to hold the whole story in a small container, and fear that to add one more idea might lead to a super-saturation point.

Let’s say that I have a character who feels somewhat nebulous. He is a Senator, running for reelection. As I inquire into his backstory, I sense that while married he had a child with another women, a situation that has been kept quiet for years. What on earth does that have to do with my main story about his best friend, a priest who is dying and wrestling with the decision of whether or not to reveal a dark secret?

I begin to wonder if this is a story about secrets. Perhaps I wonder what it means to have a secret, and if it is possible to be forgiven when a secret has been held for such a long time that it has affected the lives of many people. Perhaps I wonder about the value of revealing the truth, and weighing revelation against silence. Perhaps I wonder about integrity. Should a man come clean about his past, even if it means it could adversely affect not only his career, but the lives of his family?

All of these questions sprang from the single impulse: “What if the Senator had a child with another woman?” The nature of ‘child with another woman’ in the context of this story might have to do with secrets. In another story, the nature of ‘child with another woman’ might involve issues of responsibility, isolation, guilt or forgiveness. It is valuable to be attuned not only to how new back story information affects the drama, but also to its deepening of the greater meaning at the heart of our work.

Until next month,

Al

- Albert Einstein

STAYING CONNECTED TO THE SOURCE

The rewrite uses the left and right brain simultaneously. We’re shifting gears between our imagination and our analytical mind. As our story evolves, we begin to see that it’s not precisely the book we’d imagined. There may be scenes and characters that we thought would be in our first draft, but couldn’t find their way in, while there also may be scenes we can’t bring ourselves to cut, yet they clearly don’t belong.

How do we know what to keep and what to discard? How do we make our story become what it is supposed to be? Everything else can be held loosely, but that raw primal impulse that got us started is the source of our story. We must stay connected to it as we continue to shed, layer, shift, edit, and add new material.

Through this process we’re moving in the direction of the most fully realized version of our story. It’s not a linear process, but we do have some guideposts to keep us on the path.

As we move more deeply into our first act, we’re looking for ways to show the opposite side of the protagonist’s apparent problem. Let’s explore how an opposing argument is revealed roughly two-thirds of the way through our first act, thus illustrating the dilemma. In essence, a dilemma is a “damned if I do, damned if I don’t” situation. Once, we’ve explored the “damned if I do” through the inciting incident, we must take a look at the “damned if I don’t” aspect through the opposing argument. It is only through understanding the nature of the dilemma that our reader will understand clearly why our protagonist makes his decision at the end of Act One. The opposing argument informs the protagonist’s dilemma and keeps our reader connected to our theme.

Let’s say a man wants to protect his grandparent’s legacy, a sprawling ranch that’s been passed down through generations and is now entrusted to him. Times are tough and his ancestors’ legacy is in jeopardy. Perhaps, in an attempt to protect the ranch, he commits a crime, which puts him in jail. While incarcerated, he realizes that his grandparent’s legacy was not their ranch, but rather, their work ethic and integrity. In the end, though defeated, he experiences a shift in perception, and it is from this new understanding that he can build a new life and carry on the true legacy of his forbears.

The dilemma could be that in order to protect his idea of his family’s legacy, ie: the ranch, he must jeopardize his reputation. In the first act it would be important for the writer to understand both sides of the protagonist’s dilemma in order to illustrate this for the reader, otherwise the central conflict could become vague and the underlying meaning of the story could be lost. If the inciting incident was a situation that foretold the loss of the ranch and all of the various consequences, ie: how it might affect his livelihood, his family, his reputation, and his future, the opposing argument might involve the presentation of an alternative, a single nefarious deed that could make all of his troubles go away, but flies in the face of who he believes himself to be. Act One is where this dilemma is set up through action, leading inexorably to the decision to commit the crime that sends him into the second act.

Although we may likely have written a scenario that can serve as the opposing argument, the challenge in the rewrite is to make it as clear as possible. If the man lacked integrity, it would weaken the dilemma and confuse the reader. If the man didn’t care about his family, it would lessen the jeopardy and the reader would not be clear on what was at stake. In the rewrite, we want to look for ways to raise the stakes, not in an attempt to “milk the scene,” but rather, to clarify the dilemma, so that our reader remains connected to the theme.

TODAY

Identify a scenario somewhere in the middle, or perhaps two-thirds of the way through your first act where you might illustrate the opposing argument of the protagonist’s dilemma through conflict.

Until next month,
Al

BUILDING SENTENCES

There are no rules that limit the length of a sentence, but when our sentences are strung together by a variety of actions, the sentence can begin to strain credibility. What is wrong with this sentence? “Sally ran up the stairs, went into her bathroom, and brushed her teeth.” It isn’t possible that all of those things happened at once. Watch out for three or more events in a sentence. Writers sometimes cram so much into a sentence that one can almost feel the sentence laboring under the weight. Try this. “Sally ran up the stairs to her bathroom. She stood at the sink and brushed her teeth.”

The key is to be aware of what you’re expressing in the sentence. For example, if we were attempting to express the instantaneousness of a situation, the following sentence might work just fine: “Paul flew to Japan, got off the plane, and found a job.” However, if we have simply strung actions together in the hope that we’re quickening the narrative – we’re not. Though it’s very common, and you’ll see it in almost every department store bestseller, it’s still sloppy writing.

CONFLATING CHARACTERS

Sometimes we’ve written characters that don’t belong in our story because their function is redundant. The character may be engaged in conflict that doesn’t add anything new to the story. In fact, the conflict might distract the reader from what we’re trying to express. If we find ourselves wondering why a character is in our story, and we’re unclear on what his function is, it’s possible that he doesn’t belong. When we imagine removing him from the story, does it tighten the narrative? Or is it possible that he serves a crucial function, but a function that might be better served through another character? We can always conflate characters by distilling one character’s function and giving the necessary traits and situations to another character in the story.

HUMOR IN TRAGEDY

If you’re going to write a tragedy, infuse your story with humor. Humor pulls us towards the characters and makes us care. It also ensures that your ending will resonate.

Tragedy is not about a death – it is about the context of that death. Tragedy isn’t about someone dying – it’s about a character recognizing the error of his ways when it’s too late. Death isn’t tragic; it’s inevitable. It’s the context of the death that illustrates the theme. We understand hubris, false piety, vanity, the desire to save the world, and how these traits can lead to our downfall. The tragedy of Mercutio’s death in Romeo and Juliet lies not in the act of him dying, but in the pointlessness of it, and in how his pride underscores the theme.

Until next month,
Al

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“Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.”
- William Butler Yeats

Choosing a writing instructor is a big decision. Here are some guidelines and suggestions that may help you in making your decision.

1) Is the instructor qualified? Does he have what you’re seeking? One can’t teach what one doesn’t possess. Has he accomplished himself in the area that you’re seeking instruction? Don’t confuse a writing instructor with an English major. It’s one thing to quote Joyce, and another to identify with, support, and offer guidance through experience to the daily struggle of the serious working writer.

2) Is she kind? Honesty without kindness is cruelty. Of course we want our creative teachers to be straight with us, but if they can’t do it without positive reinforcement, they ought not to be teaching. Period.

3) Watch out for gurus and authorities: This is common in creative instruction. Insecure teachers often overcompensate by espousing rules and demanding that your work be done a certain way. When our creative work is judged by someone who insists on having all the answers…Run, don’t walk for the exit! One size does not fit all. There are no answers. Any instructor who confuses principles with rules is a hack.

4) Is the class tone chaotic? Rigid? Are the other students supportive, encouraging and friendly, or are they competitive and distancing? Part of the instructor’s job is to set the tone for the class. If the tone isn’t inclusive, it’s difficult to do your best work. (Some MFA programs will disagree with this assessment, as if the writer must be broken in order to triumph. That’s bullshit. Writing instruction need not be a Darwinian nightmare.)

5) Punctuality: When the instructor shows up late, it’s a bad sign. He doesn’t respect himself, and he doesn’t respect you.

6) Curiosity: There are many fundamentals to be learned, but there are no rules. If your instructor does not display an unbridled curiosity for what you’re attempting to express, she is not serving your needs.

7) Respect: An instructor’s single most important job is to teach you to trust your instincts. Our stories live fully and completely within us. When a teacher treats you with basic respect, it has a powerful effect on allowing your creative self to emerge. When a teacher is rude or dismissive, it can kill the creative channel. Along with this, your job is to discover and celebrate your voice. A teacher who encourages you to mimic the writing of another is disrespectful, and sadly all too common.

8 ) Boundaries: If you choose to leave the class, the instructor does not bully or hound you to stay. She smiles, gives you a hug and says, “Keep writing. I’m here for you if you choose to return.” Writing class is a service, not a cult.

9) Maturity: Your instructor is a grownup. He can take care of himself. In creative workshops the developing artist is going to run the gamut of emotions. It can be scary and even messy at times. The instructor is there to guide, nurture, encourage, support and cheerlead. Not the other way around! It is in the job description that the instructor do everything he or she can do to help the writer to find his voice.
Because when we truly find our voice, an instructor is someone who can…

10) …Say goodbye and send you on your way: A good instructor’s job is to make himself obsolete. You are not supposed to stay in class forever. You are supposed to find your voice and share it with the world…and if you so choose, to guide and mentor those that come after you.

A writing instructor is just that…one who instructs. She claims credit for nothing. Your work is your own. It belongs to you. Her only job is help you to become most fully the artist you were meant to be. Good luck with your search.

Until next month,
Al

- Albert Camus

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.