Not always. In fact, it’s easy to fall for the temptation to replace that simple ‘he was sad’ with something much longer and more flowery that, in the end, contains no more meaning than ‘he was sad’. Rather than turning a passive sentence active, you wind up with the dreaded purple prose.
The problem here is that people are thinking too much about the letter of the rule with the intention (if it doesn’t contain a single instance of ‘was’, it must be active, right?). So maybe it’s time to rethink states of being– that elusive thing that a character ‘is’ at any given moment.
When we think of emotion, we often think of it as a reaction.
I haven’t eaten all day, therefore I’m hungry.
Her book got a bad review, so she’s sad.
He’s angry because he was insulted.
That line of thinking may be accurate, but it’s also passive. It makes the person feeling those things into an object to be acted upon, rather than an active agent.
Instead I challenge you to rethink emotion and states of being– not as something a character is, but as a thing they want.
In the most recent Sims game, all the characters have states of being called moodlets– happy, sad, uncomfortable, angry, etc– each of which triggers certain desires. A Sim who’s feeling embarrassed might have a sudden urge to hide from the world in their bed; a Sim who’s feeling feeling flirty might want to hug someone; an angry Sim might want to insult someone, and so forth.
What it looks like:
So let’s take a plain emotion:
Bob is angry at Jim.
Translate it into a desire, and you have:
Bob wants to punch Jim in the face.
The fact that Bob’s angry at Jim still comes across, but without that pesky ‘is’. Of course, repeating ‘Bob wants’ every paragraph is boring. So you can take it a step further. Figuring out what the character wants makes it that much easier to find a physical expression of that desire:
Bob clenches his fist.
Some further examples:
Sue was disgusted.
Sue wanted to throw up.
Sue tasted vomit rising in her throat.
Or
Dave is hungry.
Dave wants a sandwich.
Dave’s stare keeps straying to Dana’s sandwich during their conversation.
A few weeks ago, I celebrated my 25th birthday, and a few weeks before that, my sixth wedding anniversary. You’d think that at some point, I’d start feeling kind of like an adult or something, right? (more…)
A few days ago I found myself writing “his fingers plucked at the strings” in one of my stories.
Well, wait. That doesn’t look right.
I’ll get the same kind of weird cringe when I see phrases like “his eyes watched” or “his foot stepped”.
Why is that, though?
It adds unnecessary words. In modern literature (where we’re not paid by the word like in Dickens’ day), brevity is wit. These days, it’s more in vogue not to use two words when one will do. And yes, paying attention to the style of the day does matter, though it’s probably the least important thing on this list.
It implies unnecessary distinction. Unless you’re following somebody’s movements with your eyes but not actually paying attention, there’s no reason to point out that your eyes were watching them– and even then, there’s a better, more clear way of saying that. In every one of those cases, the ambiguous “he” is performing all of those actions, rather than the disparate parts of his body performing them of their own volition.
It distances the action from the actor. He’s not tapping on the glass, his fingers are. He’s not watching the woman cross the room, his eyes are. This is the same kind of mental distance often employed by liars, when they say “the report got done” rather than “I did the report”.
It makes some readers cranky. I can’t describe how many blog posts I’ve seen in which people will put down a book over phrases like “his eyes followed her across the room”, with the justification that that character’s eyes aren’t literally rolling out of his sockets and following a woman around. Normally I roll my eyes at these people– if this isn’t a sci-fi/fantasy book (or one that’s sufficiently gory), we all know exactly what the author was trying to say. But knowingly irritating readers is a dangerous game. And while we’re at it:
It can be unnecessarily confusing. If you are writing in a genre where body parts occasionally move of their own volition, you may need to be more careful with your turns of phrase, especially in situations where your readers haven’t yet learned exactly what is and isn’t possible.
Now let me add the obvious: there’s an exception to every rule. Maybe you’re writing about autonomous body parts, or an unreliable narrator, or you really need to distinguish which of his hands is doing what at any given time.
I consider this to be a very minor writing mistake, to the point where I personally cite only one reason for avoiding it:
I don’t think I can log onto Facebook anymore without seeing one of those personality tests:
“Which Hogwarts house do you belong in?”
“What Disney Princess are you?”
“What city should you live in?”
And right alongside them: “50 things only introverts will understand” and “Only nerds will get these jokes”, etc.
So while we’re dividing the universe into types and categories, here’s my take on the types of creative people.
Muses
In ancient Greek mythology, Muses were goddesses that bestowed inspiration upon artists. Since then, we’ve come to use the term much more loosely, sometimes as a metaphor for inspiration as a whole. In this case, I’m talking about specific people.
Sometimes you’ll hear me refer to my friend Kya as a muse, for example. She’s one of those people who just looks at the world a little bit differently, and can come up with new ideas and perspectives as easily as other people breathe. A short conversation with a Muse can be enough to trigger inspiration, and suddenly artistic types are just itching to get their hands on a keyboard/canvas/mound of clay/etc.
The funny thing about Muses is that they don’t necessarily consider themselves artists, and often don’t write/draw/whatever themselves– but they still thrive on the creative process.
Artists
I thought about the proper term for this group– composers, creators, technicians– but it all comes down to the same thing: these are the people we most often consider creative types. They’re the ones who sit down and put pen to paper, chisel to stone, and fingers to keyboard. Where Muses are defined by their ability to see the world differently, Artists are defined by discipline. They’re the ones who actually go out and do stuff.
Critics
These are the editors, the critiquers, the people who look over your shoulder and say “oh, you missed a spot.” They’re the ones who have the distance to look at a work objectively and find the little things that need to be fixed before it’s presented to the public. These are especially important, because often finishing a work isn’t enough– a good Critic is someone who will help bring a work to its fullest potential, by helping to polish it until it shines. And trust me, it takes talent and skill to be a good Critic: not only to spot those errors on both a large and a small scale, but to be able to figure out the best ways to fix them. They’re defined by their eye for detail and their attention to the big picture.
So get this
I’d argue that very, very few creative people would fit into only one of the above categories. Generally, they’re more of a mixture– because very few people are ever entirely just one thing or another. But at the same time, knowing where our creative strengths lie means that we can play to them.
For example, I’m predominantly an Artist with strong leanings toward being a Critic. When my creative juices run dry, I know to call up my friend Kya, and soon I’m overflowing with them. In the same sense, Kya knows that when she wants to see her ideas expanded into stories, she can call me up and I can make that happen.
“By the way, did you know they’re making Pacific Rim 2? Oh, and dinner’s ready.”
Cue five minutes of shouting and vague TV noises while Boxy shoots at zombies while some cheesy horror flick is playing on the second monitor, followed by:
“What?”
Seriously, that was last night’s pre-dinner conversation.
Real-life dialogue is… unique. It’s awkward, it’s choppy, it’s unfocused, it frequently meanders off-topic, it picks up on arbitrary unintelligible inside-jokes and half-finished conversations from earlier in the day/week/month/year, it’s full of filler words like ‘like’ and ‘um’.
In short, real dialogue is pretty much unintelligible.
In some cases, you get people who understand each other so well that their communication is might as well be another language to outside observers, full of codes and allusions and inside-jargon that’s unique to their in-group, even if it’s an in-group of two.
Linguistically and anthropologically, it’s absolutely fascinating.
As a general rule, though, dialogue shouldn’t require an advanced degree in anthropology and linguistics to figure out. In novels, dialogue is meant to convey information to the reader, so there are certain goals you should probably aim for:
A smooth flow from one subject to the next, and from one mood to the next
Clear language: even when using slang and dialect, it shouldn’t be a complete puzzle to figure out what your character is trying to say
Everything said in the dialogue should serve a purpose, so avoid filler topics and filler language
Of course, like all things in writing, those are guidelines more than hard rules. But when you deviate from the guidelines, make sure you do it with an understanding of why they’re in place and what you’re specifically gaining by going off that track.
If you’re like me and you cut your teeth writing for fandom, you might be more familiar with the term beta editor. I much prefer critique partner, because where beta editor implies a one-sided relationship (“you read my stuff and tell me what you think”) critique partner implies a more balanced relationship (“you read my stuff, I read yours”).
At its most basic, a critique partner is a peer who reads through your work to see if things work, and you do the same for theirs. Once in a while you’ll find a CP who’s great with grammar and can help you out, but that’s just icing on the cake. More often, they’re the ones who tell you that this part was a snorefest, that part made me laugh out loud, that line was glorious, that paragraph was confusing.
Why do I need a CP?
Having a whole lot of different people looking at your material and looking at other people’s material is one of the single best ways of improving, aside from writing constantly. They can give you feedback about what works and what doesn’t, what sounds natural and what sounds melodramatic, and give you a whole new range of insights into new ways of approaching your story.
At the same time, editing other people’s work lets you learn from their mistakes. It requires that you think critically about what you’re reading as you’re reading it. Initially you might only be able to say that something feels off, that a passage is difficult to follow or doesn’t quite sound right, or that ‘this section over here’ started to lose your interest, and that can be invaluable on its own. But as you critique more and more often, it’ll start to become easier to identify exactly what it is that’s working or not working. The more you do this, the easier it becomes to look at your own work and recognize its strengths and weaknesses, and you’ll have a stronger understanding of how to fix the shortcomings.
Working on another person’s story is also a good way of avoiding burnout. Sometimes it’s nice to be able to take a break from looking at your own manuscript for the billionth time and look at someone else’s work for a change. At the same time, sometimes having another person’s perspective on a problem can completely change the way you see it.
A new perspective
Well-chosen CPs are also going to have completely different perspectives than you will. For example, I once handed off a story that dealt with firearms and military politics to a friend who had (to my surprise) been in the military; immediately he started pointing out little details that I didn’t even think to research, like the way the various ranks of soldiers spoke to each other, or what it’s like to stand close to an artillery cannon.
A good CP might also be able to point out moments where what you wrote was unintentionally offensive or stereotypical, or points where the story dips too heavily into overused tropes.
Becoming part of a community
Some bizarre outliers notwithstanding, the success of a book on the market is determined by the way it’s marketed. Critique Partners are often some of the first and strongest contacts you’re going to find in the writing world, and they’ll be some of your biggest fans. As you and your CPs publish and grow, you can learn from each other’s experiences and help each other build platforms, or help to spread the word that a fellow writer’s story is going to hit the shelves. That can do wonders for building a readership and driving sales.
What makes a good Critique Partner?
They can’t be related to you.
Sorry. You might have a really brutally honest relative who is just great, but 99 times out of 100, a family member who’s willing to read your work has too much invested in your happiness to give it to you straight. They’re also more likely to share your perspective on a lot of matters, so you’re not going to get many of those advantages, either.
Aside from that, the most important thing is that they mesh well with you, so the rest of these are guidelines at best.
A good CP:
has read (and enjoyed reading) stories in the genre you’re working on
has a background that’s different from yours (worked in a different field, part of a different generation, has lived in different socio-economic sectors, etc)
is able to communicate with you effectively
is willing to point out the parts of a story that didn’t work for them
but isn’t going to be cruel about things that don’t work
isn’t going to take comments personally or get defensive (note: If you had to defend the work, then it didn’t speak for itself. That means something is wrong and needs to be fixed.)
is willing to ask ‘how do I fix it?’ and is willing to work with you on fixing problems of your own.
There are other qualities, but after that point, they get a whole lot more subjective.
I do recommend using more than one CP for any given story, because the second and third will inevitably catch things that the first one missed.
Where do I get one?
Some local writing groups exist, but I generally recommend looking on the internet first, where you can find dozens upon dozens of groups dedicated to the craft.
Facebook is always a good place to look for writing groups.
The Nanowrimo forums are also teeming with writers who need help polishing their new manuscripts.
It’s important to be polite and respectful, and to express that you’d like to trade manuscripts. I know I’ve spoken of the skills you pick up from helping another person develop, but a lot more people are going to be willing to read your work if there’s a promise of getting something in return.
All things said, though, a CP is not a substitute for a paid editor. Rather, having multiple Critique Partners look at your manuscript is one of the things you should be doing to make it ready to show to an editor.
Saturday was Free Comic Book Day. While I was making the rounds, I bought the first three issues of Loki: Agent of Asgard, and the new Amazing Spider-Man issue 1.
In medias… what now?
I’m a lifelong fan of Spider-Man. He was my first super hero; his was the first super hero movie I watched, and his were the first comics I read. But this first issue reminded me of why I had a hard time getting into American comics to begin with. It was the first issue– a bright shiny 001 on the front cover. But when I look into it, I find myself almost entirely lost, thrown in neck-deep into what looks like the middle of a very long and complicated story arc.
Er… sorry, I’ve been busy for the last few years and haven’t been able to keep up. What the heck is going on?
Fortunately, Peter is as confused about a lot of these developments as I am, and I can use his reactions to the situation to gauge how far this is from what he considers normal. The storytelling works in such a way that I can still follow along, but the entire time I feel like I’m missing something, and I won’t be able to feel like I’ve caught up until I’ve read the entirety of the plot arc that precedes this issue– or until I’ve been reading this series long enough that I’m acclimated to this new normal.
The story so far
On the other end of the spectrum is Loki. The first page is a Star Wars-esque page that succinctly explains the situation. A few pages later, he explains the powers he uses, so I clearly understand the rules of the situation. When other plot arcs are referenced, they’re labeled [See the Civil War saga!] which makes looking up what happened about a billion times easier.
(Full disclosure: The fact that the story opens on an attractive dude singing showtunes in the shower didn’t hurt my opinion of the book, either– in a medium that’s often brimming with cleavage, it’s nice to see fanservice aimed in my direction every once in a while.)
Getting to know you
A third approach is that taken by Ms. Marvel: we’re exposed to super-hero-saturated world Kamala Kahn lives in through background details while we’re shown a day in her life. The first few issues of her story have been focused on her origins, so the reader is introduced to the mechanics of her world and her powers at the same time that she does.
Back to writing
Fictional worlds are often large and complicated, and there’s always going to be a learning curve when it comes to figuring out a fictional character’s life and world. The further removed that they are from the reader’s daily life, the steeper that curve gets. And yes, if that curve gets too steep, some of your readers might fall off entirely.
The approach used in Spider-Man didn’t work that well for me– not because it’s bad, but because it didn’t mesh as well with my style of readership as other styles did. Most readers will have a preference about what kind of opening they like, whether it’s fast-paced and immersive, slow and guided, or something in between. Different approaches will work better with different worlds, with different narrators, and with different conflicts.
If you’re not sure if you’re starting the story the right way, try experimenting. Play around with different narrative styles– throw us in headfirst and only tell us the essential stuff, or give it to us piece by piece. Show it to readers (though preferably not to readers who already know what’s going on) and find what gets the best response. Sometimes you’ll find that you have to cut out a lot of explanations and background details over the course of exploring, but that’s all right. Even if those details are never used in the story, they’ll add even more depth to the world than it had before.
Actor Misha Collins portrays our unfortunate angel — Image from Wikimedia Commons
(Warning: Since this is about Supernatural and its approach to plot and characterization, there’ll be unmarked spoilers all the way up to Season 9.)
While I’m posting disclaimers, I should include another biggie: I really love Supernatural. It’s a fun show, I watch it every week, and Castiel is by far my favorite character.
That said, he’s also the character I would probably change the most dramatically if I was writing the show, if not cut him out entirely. And here’s why:
Same verse, same as the first
Castiel has a bit of a cycle: He trusts the wrong person, does bad things on their behalf thinking it’s For The Greater Good, is betrayed by said person, mucks everything up, and gets redeemed by the Winchesters (usually within an episode or so of them finding out about it). Somewhere along the way, he’ll be stripped of his (pick as many of you like):
Powers
Wings
Memories
Morality
Autonomy
Life
But only for a few episodes– just enough for a quick “DUN DUN DUN” and maybe some brief scenes of him adjusting to the new status quo. But before there’s any real chance to fully explore the complications and long-term consequences of this major change, it’s fixed… just in time for him to meet the next wolf in sheep’s clothing. It’s gotten so common that I’m wondering why he doesn’t introduce himself with “Hello, I’m Castiel, and you’re probably going to betray me.”
I don’t know why the show is written the way it is– clearly people are aware of this cycle, since several times the characters have pointed out that it keeps happening to the poor guy– but this blog isn’t about picking apart other works. It’s about learning from them.
What we can learn from Castiel:
A character can be too powerful
I firmly believe that one of the reasons Castiel keeps getting nerfed is because he’s simply too powerful. The guy unsank the Titanic for an episode, for Chuck’s sake. Time, space, the laws of physics– none of these actually matter to this guy when he’s at full strength. It’s pretty awesome when his opponents play by the same rules, but not so much when you’re dealing with werewolves, vampires, and other puny mortals. For an added bonus, he’s not even the protagonist, which means that the real protagonists of the show– puny mortals that they are– keep getting overshadowed by their literal Deus Ex Machina best friend unless you depower him, turn him evil, or punt him out of the picture.
Characters have to learn from their experiences in order to be dynamic
The first time Cas went through the cycle, it was gut-wrenching. He lost his faith and went on a huge drinking binge, only to learn that it didn’t actually fix anything. He had to learn how to be useful with his knowledge, his ingenuity, and with puny human weapons like shotguns and molotov cocktails. He saw his friends in pain and need, and had to deal with the anger, blame and guilt of not being able to help them when he could have before. As a result, he had to completely re-evaluate his perspective, his loyalties, and the way he thought of himself.
Fast-forward four seasons. We’ve learned the hard way that every time he gets put in cosmic time out, he’s pulled back again. Rather than adjusting to a new way of life and learning from what happened, he gets a pat on the shoulder, an assurance that “we can fix this,” and a heaping helping of Winchester brand self-loathing. He doesn’t learn from these mistakes, because if he did, the same plot wouldn’t keep happening to him over and over again. In short, it drags character growth to a near halt. Rather than exploring the way a permanent change can affect relationship dynamics and approaches to old problems, we’re stuck in a sort of plot purgatory, reliving the same developments over and over again.
If you’re going to pull a game-changer, be willing to commit to it
I recently saw a post on Tumblr comparing the first three seasons of Supernatural to the recent seasons, calling the former a genuinely frightening horror series and the latter a “soap opera”. And as much as I recoiled from that statement when I read it, I can’t argue against it. As a viewer, it’s hard to take major developments seriously anymore. Death stops being a threat when Dean looks at his murderer and declares “When I get back, I’m gonna be pissed.” Death, possession, de-powering, even major psychotic breaks are fixed within half a season– which, while it doesn’t take away the fun of watching it happen, takes away the legitimate drama of those events and brings them into the realm of melodrama.
If you want your audience to take you seriously, you have to be willing to do the same to them. Don’t pull any punches. If we’re told that “this is going to change everything,” let it actually change everything.
Be careful of repeating yourself
One of the issue’s with Castiel’s character arc is that it keeps repeating itself so precisely. It’s one thing to repeat themes or motifs throughout a story, but if you recycle the same conflict or plot point over and over again, your audience will notice. Do it blatantly enough, and they may even get bored and move on.
If any of this is hard to remember, I can sum it all up in one simple point:
Chuck is God, the Status Quo is not
Don’t keep trying to drag the story back to its baseline. Don’t keep trying to turn a character back into who they used to be. Don’t keep tempting us with major changes and then bailing out at the last minute. Allow the story, the characters, and the situations to grow and change organically, without shoehorning them back into their old shape.
Your readers will thank you.
(Though if Supernatural is any indication, your characters might not.)
I have a hard time reading in public, because I’m very… let’s say interactive with my reading. I make faces, I get up and pace, I yell at the characters, I (carefully place a bookmark on my page and then) hurl the book across the room.
It’s such a common practice for me that I sometimes forget that not everybody else acts that way all the time. I was talking to a less violent reader about it, who had this to say:
Stacy: I have done that in two other cases. One: reading Lord of the Rings. Two: reading Red Dragon by Thomas Harris. // It is like the story itself slaps you with an unexpected left hook. And you are all glass jaw and feelings.
Me: I’m curious– which part of the The Lord of the Rings got to you?
Stacy: Sam facing Shelob. // He yells Elvish and it is a miracle that he knows it. // And then Tolkien is all “by the way, this monster is older than Elves and finds the attempt adorably useless”. // And I screamed at Sam because he doesn’t know. // Elves are everything. And good. And like a secret crazy weapon. So good vibes that Sam has that. Then… dashed.
I hear a lot of advice about surprising a reader by doing the unexpected, and about using dramatic irony to build suspense. Usually those pieces of advice are in completely different conversations, but they can come together beautifully to leave the reader completely shattered– as Stacy put it– all glass jaw and feelings.
By definition, dramatic irony is what you get when the reader knows something that the character doesn’t. You’ll see something big revealed during a prologue, or you’ll have seen Psycho and Silence of the Lambs before watching Bates Motel and Hannibal, and every moment after that is just waiting for the ax to fall on the unwitting characters.
With a situation like Sam’s in The Lord of the Rings, you get something a bit different.
After all this time, the reader has caught on to certain rules. These are the tropes upon which the world (or even the entire genre) is built, and the reader has learned to predict what will come next based on those rules, right along with the character. And then you learn that the context has changed, just in time to watch it all fall apart.
Everything in moderation
I love Tumblr
The thing about this technique is that you can’t use it often. Joss Whedon and George R. R. Martin are both famous for their ‘anyone can die’ philosophy– and so while it might have been shocking the first few times a beloved character meets an unfortunate end, after a while the readers stop trusting them. They hold characters at arm’s length and hold pre-emptive funerals for their favorites. But they’re master storytellers; change the rules once too often, and you may lose your credibility to the reader.
I had one particularly bad experience in which we got so many flip-flops between magic and science (“there is magic in this world!” “Just kidding, it’s sufficiently advanced technology!” “Just kidding, it’s actual magic!” “Just kidding, it’s actually technology!”) that it was starting to sound like the author was just making up new rules as they went along, without any plan or consistency, and I gave up entirely.
Some tips
Use gut punches like this sparingly– they’re most effective when they’re unexpected.
Look at the rhythm of your scenes. Some scenes are obviously building up to a big shock, and so the reader is likely already bracing for impact before it strikes.
This is one of those situations where mood whiplash would come in handy.
Even if gut punches are effective, they won’t affect everyone equally. Make sure the scene is strong enough to be plausible even if the reader isn’t caught up by shock.
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