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.

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.

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.