Arguments of Conviction

Dramatic stories revolve around conflict, and I've heard that conflict defined as a moral argument.  I don't like the word "moral" because it seems to imply right and wrong choices, and the most interesting stories include tough choices that aren't easily made.

Even a straight up action-adventure, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade gives the hero an impossible choice.  Should Indy save his father's life by retrieving the Grail, or should he refuse to help the Nazis recover the Grail? For as the story has clearly laid out for us, when Henry lies mortally wounded the only thing that can save him is a drink from the holy cup.  However, we also know that the Grail must not fall into evil hands. 

What I love about this story is more than this one brilliantly crafted moment that puts the hero in that impossibly prickly place.  My friend Jim Fisher calls this "the horns of the dilemma."  I love the thorough way writer Jeff Boam marinated the screenplay with arguments of conviction.  Yesterday I counted a dozen places where characters argue over the significance of the Grail artifact, the object of the quest. (That's a lot of dialog story events between all the chase scenes! And it's likely I missed some.)  

The quest begins with Indy clearly saying he doesn't care about the Grail, only in rescuing his missing father (who not coincidentally disappeared while seeking the location of the Grail). In the following scene Indy asks, "Do you believe the Grail actually exists?" Brody, his intellectual colleague answers, "The search for the Cup of Christ is the search for the divine in all of us." Brody doesn't claim to know if it exists beyond its metaphorical sense, but he clearly gives room for faith in the possibility of a physical cup.

Across Europe Indy argues with Henry about the importance of the finding the Grail first. Henry insists their search is more than archeology, "It's a race against evil." And he means it cannot fall into Nazi hands.  Indy argues with Elsa, beautiful archeologist-turned traitor, that she's aligned herself with the Swastika, implying that he also now believes that the Cup is more than a coveted archeological artifact.

Even side characters argue with conviction.  The bad guy who is financing the Nazi quest for the cup wants eternal life and sees Hitler as a convenient, silent partner in his pursuit for eternal youth. Brody--captured for the map that leads to the secret temple where they find the Grail--warns against, "You are meddling with powers you cannot possibly comprehend."  Vigilantes from a brotherhood sworn to protecting the Grail, die to protect the temple from the Nazi's approach.

These are the arguments that lead up to the final confrontation inside the temple.  The big bad "Nazi stooge" wants everlasting life, yet Indy's been convinced by his father and others that the Grail deserves his protection.  Yet, darn those prickly horns, Indy and Henry have finally begun to mend their estranged relationship.  He needs more time to enjoy his father.  Indy has to save Henry! Can he do it AND keep the Grail from the "unrighteous."

Number IV's due out this summer. Hope it's got the resonance of I & III and is also marinated in theme, laced with arguments of conviction. 

Hibernation

I've been hibernating. Along the way I've kept attention on Green Tara. The best I can do here at the blog is to report my progress.

Today I printed out through page 95 of 159 on this rewrite. (I print when I'm done with the polish.) This last scene was tough for me. Not bad tough. It was a lot of new material, late reveal exposition that I realized is essential for truly engaging with the last half of the adventure.

My tendency is to shy away from a big information dump, but at this point in the story everyone--my audience, as well as the characters--needs to be "sold" on signing up for the rest of the mission.

The ice is finally melting.

Wisdom from Jim Fisher

Monday Jim Fisher visited my class and lead a workshop in which we developed a couple of story ideas. Both students already had concepts, but one of Jim's gifts is to marry dramatic structure to a crisis of choice for the main character. In class we brainstormed what that crisis would be for each of the stories and what elements would be in place to bring the characters to that terrible place. Both students left with juicier stories.

Here's the essence of what Jim, an alumn of Second City and a working writer with numerous credits for both film and television, taught us:

Understand that if we give a fictional character an easy choice, we get: Who cares? But give a fictional character an impossible choice, say between rescuing her mother and saving the Earth, and we get some heat.

About three-quarters of the way through a story--the Act II climax, a.k.a. the Central Ordeal, a.k.a. Plot Point II, for those who like to locate a turning point in dramaturgy terms--Jim says put the hero in a situation that's "the exact opposite of where the character wants to be. . . . on the horns of the dilemma."

Thanks, Jim, for serving as my muse.

Happy New Year

In honor of the Chinese and Tibetan New Year, the year of the rat, I offer inspiration from another artist. This is a quote from a letter written in 1810 by Ludwig van Beethoven:

"Art! Who comprehends her? With whom can one consult concerning this great goddess?"

So when we're feeling bemused and bewildered by our creative efforts, we can take comfort in knowing that we're in good company. It's a great year.

The Explaining Tendency

In the context of storytelling I liken "explaining" to the human tendency of "complaining."  In other words it's a bad habit.

Allow me to explain. (HA! Caught me, didn't you?) But this is a brief expository essay, not a story.)

Last week my class played the What's in the bag? game. Briefly, the goal is to write an original scene and in it conceal an object, allowing the secret to generate excitement and momentum. (See 9/2/07 for a fuller description.) I had everyone break up into writing teams of three.  What I observed was all but one team revealed what was in the bag by the end of the scene. Which meant end of interest, end of story. So we ended up with a lot of blackout scenes that led no where, because most fell into the sand trap of the desire to explain. 

Notice that explaining is qualitatively different than describing. The latter is an integral part of our craft. I've noticed in my own work my tendency to under-describe the details of the action and the physical world. I may have a vivid picture in my mind's eye, but neglect getting that picture on the page so that readers can share it with me. 

 

Which leads me to the confession that in the last two weeks all the rewriting I've done on Green Tara has been focused on expanding descriptions.  I'm talking an added twelve pages out of what is now 150 and I'm only 20% into the story. At this rate I'll add another fifty pages to my young adult novel! Though I'm not sure it will follow, because it's in the beginning of a story that the reader needs enough detail to fully picture the story world. 

I'll report soon, and forgive me for taking so long between posts. My attention has been very much on my novel rewrite and how to fully describe without falling into the sand trap of explaining.

Recharged and Ready

Last night I went to a rollicking BLIZZARD of super short plays at the Bloomington Playwrights Project. There were so many titles performed by a company of artists that I lost track of names and numbers. Some made me laugh, some made me think, some left me bewildered (as in, what was that supposed to be about?). In short, I got a solid dose of variety. At least twenty different authors put out a little bit of themselves and shared their creative vibe with me. 

And I feel nourished! Ready to tackle the next outline. Ready to write the next scene filled with dreaded feelings of betrayal.

Thank you for your generosity, B.P.P. and the Blizzardites. I extend that thanks to every artist who has ever given something of his or herself to the world.

More rewriting!*! Do I have to?

As I flesh out my set-up, creating a fuller storyworld and building its inherent opposition to the main character and her family, I've been surprised that I'm also reconsidering the ending. I don't mean that it's not working. I love the ending. It's very powerful. Exciting, visual, emotional. Rather, I may have too much story and perhaps the novel Green Tara ends earlier than it has in previous drafts.

I'll digress. I've always imagined this story as the first part of a trilogy. Part I - Virginia finds her missing mom on the planet Green Tara. Together with her cousin, Gordy, they collect living ocean greens--the oxygenators, if you will. And when her dad tracks them down and reconnects, they all travel to Earth and replenish the dead ocean waters. Of course, the novel goes into 133 pages of detail for all this to happen.

I have sketched out Parts II and III in a similar general story arc, but I have yet to work them out in any detail. One thing at a time, right? . . . Maybe.

Back to the current rewrite of Part I: I'm taking more time to set up the nature of the controlling entity, the Triumvirate, in the beginning. And I'm reincorporating direct conflict via a pair of Triumvirate sentries in a scene that comes later in the story. I want to get these fixes done and get this story out the door.

But my instincts are saying, Don't rush it. Take the time in Part I to know the larger threat and to feel the dissonance of a family fraught with betrayal. End it with Virginia's family reunited, and leaving the lush sanctuary to begin the next phase of their journey. I can combine rescuing Gordy's mom and restoring Earth's oceans in Part II. (The other missing mom is, after all, hiding out in the Mars colony and has been waiting for the rest of the family for years.)

Am I dawdling on this one manuscript, just because I'm afraid to get it to publishers and to hear all their objections? Or have I found a more elegant way to divide the trilogy? The only way I'll know, is to outline Part II. And while I'm at it, outline Part III.

Ouch. Outlining's the toughest, makes-my-brain-hurt part of the process.

Do I have to?

I heard that George Lucas outlined all of the Star Wars saga before he made "Part IV" and that Jo K. Rowling outlined all seven of her novels before Harry made it big. If they're my muses, I must follow their lead.

More on rewriting

Last week I faced the stark truth of just how much rewriting is in my future.  A couple of early readers of my Young Adult novel Green Tara have sent me praise--always welcome--but one pointed out a lack of clarity in the story world. Alas, I see now that the story's set-up needs attention.

 

I've written a new opening sequence that dramatizes the overarching problem of the futuristic world: the laws are oppressive and the people defacto slaves of the corporation.  Specifically, I've put the main character in a physical position to witness how a small group of people are "volunteered" to go on a suicidal exploration mission. I reread the sequence yesterday, and though the language is clunky and needs a polish, the images and basic arc of the story are great. But--

Darn, there's always a "but." On reflection I've got two of them.

How do I maintain the light, humorous tone when the consequences are so dire? And the other biggie--it's now clear that I've neglected the all-important establishment of theme.  If there's one rule that's inviolable, it's that theme belongs at the top. Lo, the entire story is most satisfying if it's marinated in theme. So, how do I invest both these essential ingredients into this new opening sequence?

The theme revolves around betrayal and loyalty. And though my young heroine might be disturbed by the cruelty of the laws, the sight of  people she doesn't really know getting the short end of the stick won't feel personal enough to call up the emotion of betrayal. Back to the question of tone, if she sees the cruelty but doesn't protest at least in private, will she be seen as heartless? That's not generally a good quality for a main character.

These are the questions I'm asking myself.

They say . . .

They--meaning practicing writers--say, "Writing is rewriting." And that's where I'm at today. If I didn't know others have gone this way countless times ahead of me, I'd be lost.

What's the process? 

• Identify places where there's lack of clarity or lack of engagement.  Check. Weakness is most pronounced in the set-up of the story world.
  
• Sketch a plan for a new opening sequence that more clearly establishes the problem at the global/story world level. Check. 
  
• Revisit to make sure the scenes are a satisfying dramatic hook and not just expository, situational scenarios. Next to do in my process today.
  
• Flesh out the descriptions. Note to self: In my futuristic setting I can't always rely on the less is more strategy. Here's a case where clarity trumps, so over-describe, then edit for a cleaner, leaner read.
  
• Crisp up the dialog. Note to self: Maintain the snappy personalities and beware the trap of explaining the situation via "natural" conversation, which won't sound natural at all if it explains everything. 
  
• Come back to the sequence tomorrow, edit and continue with a revision of the old opening scene so the two sequences flow.
  

Good thing I love the process.

Taking Notes

I received my first set of notes last night and I won't lie to you--it hurts. I wanted and expected polish notes, the kind that would take 5-10 hours to pound out. What I got was: when the main charactery rescues her mother the meeting's "tepid" (read: boring), and the second half of the story's generic (read: boring) and why don't I consider making the main character's father a traitor to give the story some real conflict (read: the story I've been writing's a real bore).

If only I could take this last story suggestion, rework the second half of the story with betrayal at its core and--KAPOW--fix the boredom quotient! Unfortunately, the suggested fix would completely undermine the spirit of the story I've been writing.

So, I ask the story goddess, what's this author to do? Trash two years of work and go hide under a rock? It's tempting. But I know from experience that notes like this--no matter how bluntly delivered--and the suggested fixes--no matter how ill-fitting--point to underlying holes. The interesting thing about the betrayal suggestion is that it actually speaks to the theme of the story, which revolves around the dynamic tension of betrayal vs. loyalty.

I realize and fully admit that there's no single bad guy in the story. EGADS! How could I have proceeded without this essential element? But, in the author's defense, I've stayed true to many futuristic settings-- the true antagonist is the most insidious kind because it masquerades as law and order and security. But the social order and laws that control the characters and their world are founded on greed and power. In short, the society may feel secure, but it's Evil.

The story goddess says look at the beginning and make the threat from the true antagonist more threatening and palpable. Because this is a novel for young people and for my own philosophical reasons, I've been shying away from violence as a way to demo the threat. Perhaps it's time to reconsider how I set up the story world.

In praise of addiction (at least this one)

It’s the season when many folks make resolutions to give up addictions, whether they be to drugs--legal and illegal, wreckless spending habits, or any other self-destructive mental attitude. I’m not willing to give up my addiction, though. I don’t believe it’s a self-destructive habit, though it often keeps me awake at odd hours or takes precedence over optional meetings. I’m talking about my addiction to writing.

I used to think I was the only one who named her writing "addiction." But read what John Vorhous says in his Dec. 25th posting about.  Once again I'm not alone! Though some brag about their morally superior self-discipline, I know that I'm not that morally superior. (Apparently J.V.'s not that morally superior either.) The truth is, I can't control myself. Writing is my favorite habit. 

When I’m focused completely on the emotional point of a scene and how best to clarify that moment and a character’s intention. I'm solving a glorious, intricate puzzle. Everything else falls away. All the stress over past mistakes or future choices recedes into the background. Any anxiety over health challenges for myself or my family takes a vacation. And most welcome, the fear of finishing a satisfying story disappears. All I need to think about is the present moment of the scene.

I've been practicing meditation--or trying to. But I keep coming back to the awareness of my thoughts: that writing is a neat combination of meditation and game play. Relax, focus, go into alpha state and have fun at the same time. No wonder I'm addicted.

I made it across the quagmire.

I finished my young adult novel GREEN TARA: A Space Adventure! (I'm talking New Year's Eve and not the Thanksgiving completion schedule I'd hoped for, but hey, I squeaked under the 2007 wire well before midnight.)

New Year's Day I celebrated by polishing little mechanical details in the manuscript and grooming the spacing and page breaks.

This morning I asked a handful of readers to examine my baby with their expert editorial eyes.

I feel --

MERRY MERRY HAPPY HAPPY JOYFUL JOYFUL MERRY MERRY HAPPY HAPPY JOYFUL JOYFUL MERRY MERRY HAPPY HAPPY JOYFUL JOYFUL