Category: on writing (Page 3 of 4)

Unconscious Details that Reveal Character

April 24, 2020 / / 0 Comments
Screenshot from “Cheers.” Sam shows Norm the proper way to hold a ball before a pitch. It’s a perfect character moment, as I’ll explain if you’ll just keep reading. Go on. Keep going. I dare you.

A while ago I started a rewatch of Cheers on Netflix. It’s a show I saw a lot of as a kid because my father watched it whenever it was on (including reruns), but I don’t remember a lot of specifics about it. It’s a great sitcom, masterfully written, acted, and shot. The first thing that stuck out to me is its forward momentum and how it varies its use of a single location. The entirety of the first season takes place in the bar itself, only leaving the main bar area for the pool room or (in one episode) a bathroom a few times. But it holds your interest.

I was also struck by the ability of the actors to improvise. There are some comedic greats on the show, like Rhea Perlman, Shelley Long, John Ratzenberger, and George Wendt. Wendt, in particular, brings a lot to his role as Norm. And there is a character moment he shares with Ted Danson in the season two episode “Norman’s Conquest” that I think illustrates what he added to the role.

Throughout the series Norm is constantly joking about how terrible his marriage is to anyone that will listen. For a long period of time, he and his wife, Vera, are even separated. So when Norm, who is an accountant, brings an attractive client to the bar and she shows an interest in him, nearly everyone in the bar pushes him to cheat on his wife. Of course, hijinks ensue.

But the character moment that most stood out to me, while a direct result of that conflict, doesn’t hinge on it. At the climax of the episode, Norm and the bar’s owner, Sam, a former pitcher for the Boston Red Sox, are discussing Norm’s feelings for his wife in the pool room. Norm is leaning on the pool table, holding a pool ball, while Sam paces around the room. In the middle of their discussion, without changing topics or acknowledging what he’s doing, Norm turns his wrist like he’s pitching a baseball. Sam stops, adjusts his fingers, and then mimes the correct way to add english to the ball, all without missing a beat of their conversation.

This speaks volumes about the characters and their relationship, despite the action not relating to the substance of the conversation. Norm looks up to Sam, wants to be like him in a lot of ways (including being a womanizer until Norm admits that he loves his wife), and unconsciously treating a pool ball as a baseball in a moment of distress illustrates this desire. Sam taking a moment to correct Norm’s form plays into this. The way the action plays out is a minor thing without bearing on the situation at hand, but is so perfectly in character for both of them. My hunch is that this was totally improvised by George Wendt and Ted Danson.

For me, the lesson is that there are conscious and unconscious ways to communicate character and relationship to an audience. Conscious ways are big, broad actions and conversations. Whether or not a character saves a kitten stuck in a tree. An argument with a loved one about one being emotionally distant. These are big moments that illustrate, broadly, who someone is.

The small moments might be the way a character leaves a dirty glass in the sink as opposed to the dishwasher or just washing it immediately. Whether or not they make their bed in the morning. If they smile at a child while waiting in line at the grocery store while having a conversation with the clerk. Little things that we all do unconsciously everyday that illustrate the types of people we are.

If done right, these tiny actions might better communicate a character than any broad, dramatic argument.

The Art of Titles

April 21, 2020 / / 0 Comments
Is there anything better than an artfully framed photo of books? The stories within the books themselves, you say? Well that’s one opinion…

So I’m going to say something controversial, yet brave: Titles are hard.

For me, titles have always been hit or miss (as you’ve probably noticed with my Vignettes). I’ve always just kind of gone with the first thing that I thought sounded good. Recently, though, a beta reader for a novella I wrote last year said that based on the title he expected to read a romantic comedy, which does not describe the actual story. That got me thinking about what titles should do and after paying more attention to some of the titles of things I enjoy, I settled on four things that I think a title should strive to do. Not always all at once, but in some combination that gets a reader’s attention.

BE DESCRIPTIVE, BUT NOT OVERLY SO

This is the trap I most often find myself falling into; my titles are too descriptive. My instinct is always to use my title to describe what the story is about. A good instinct! It’s important to offer a hint to the reader what they’re about to dive into. But being overly descriptive can also be bland, boring, and other bad things that may or may not start with “b.”

For example, Stephen King’s short story A Very Tight Place is very descriptive if you’ve read it, but not so descriptive as to give away the story or feel too familiar. Chuck Wendig’s Wanderers is also descriptive, but still holds an air of mystery that piques one’s interest. Joe Haldeman’s The Forever War describes the story by combining something we’re all familiar with–a war–with something that seems impossible–a war that never ends. In that way it feels fresh and interesting. Arthur C. Clark’s Childhood’s End is descriptive in a way that isn’t apparent until the last bits of the novel have been digested.

I think that’s the trick to these types of titles: They give a hint to the reader as to what they’re about while also meeting one of more of the next criteria.

HINT TO GENRE

As I mentioned above, the title I had settled on for my novella was descriptive, but misleading. Great titles can indicate what genre they are regardless of where they’re found.

No one would ever mistake The Twilight Zone for anything other than science fiction, for example. Ray Bradbury’s The October Country tells you exactly what sort of book it will be, and informs the read of its tone at the same time. Same with The Martian Chronicles. That title tells you its genre, what it’s about, and even its format (a chronicle of related but unconnected stories). In the horror realm, A Head Full of Ghosts by Paul Tremblay sets the expectation that his book is psychological with horror elements with its word choice.

People have expectations for the genre they’re reading and a title should reflect that. Word choice matters and lots of readers associate specific genres with certain words. When I say “dark” or “black” or “nightmare” you would assume I’m describing a horror or thriller. When I say “ship” or “planet” you might assume a space epic. These are all considerations to take when titling a story.

BE PROVOCATIVE

The most important thing a title can do is entice a reader to pick up the book. In that sense, it helps to be provocative. A little mysterious. Promise something that the reader may not have seen before.

Haruki Murakami achieves this with 1Q84. It’s familiar, a riff on Orson Welles’s 1984, but spins it just off-kilter to be interesting on its own. Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes makes the reader wonder just what is wicked and where it might be headed. I know that was enough for me to crack open the book. Maggie Shen King’s An Excess Male sounds counter-intuitive (how can there be excess people?) while also describing the plot.

Stories with something unique at their center, something specific to that story, often make good titles. Stephen King’s The Tommyknockers, for example. The Andromeda Strain by Michael Crichton. Or The Windup Girl by Paolo Bacigalupi.

Again, anything that will grab a reader’s attention.

SET THE TONE

A good title should clue the reader into the tone of the story. This is related to being descriptive and hinting at the genre, but is slightly different. Hinting at the tone can tell your reader if your story is heavy or lighthearted, serious or satirical, or any other number of things along this spectrum. Twilight Zone episodes, with each episode its own unique thing, excelled at this. For example, I know the episode “Nightmare as a Child” is likely to be heavier in tone than “The Rip Van Winkle Caper.” “In Praise of Pip” tells me the story is likely to be nostalgic, while “One More Pallbearer” is likely to be dark.

The October Country, mentioned earlier, is another great example of setting the tone for the (in this case) collection with the title. We have a specific idea of what October feels like and Bradbury leaned into that for the stories presented. Same with King’s Just After Sunset.

In short, in my opinion a lot of the heavy lifting a title does is setting reader expectations. Describing what sort of story they’re getting, hinting a plot, genre, and tone. Not every title needs to do everything, but I think that the more of these quadrants (because there are four?) you can hit, the stronger the title.

Behind the Vignette: To Go Back

March 31, 2020 / / 0 Comments
If you haven’t, yet, read TO GO BACK before continuing.

When I was barely into my 20s I went on a bike ride with my best friends. It was something we hadn’t done in a long time, having graduated from bikes to our own cars years before. We rode around our old neighborhood, then expanded into other neighborhoods nearby. I remember the day clearly, not least of all because I had a nagging thought throughout the adventure that it would be one of the last times the three of us would do something like that.

More recently, there has been a meme going around Facebook about going outside to play with your friends for the last time and not knowing it. It’s corny, but it’s true.

These feelings got me thinking about appreciation. About how, without the benefit of hindsight, impossible it is to fully appreciate the moment you’re in or the people you’re with. We’re not built to have that perspective. But what if there was a way?

Time travel has always fascinated me. In a sense, time travel is the ultimate form of control. If you make a mistake but have access to a time machine, that mistake can be corrected. And if you remember the last moments you had with someone, you can relive it to better appreciate it at the time.

Both of these concepts–nostalgia and time travel–are core concepts in some of Ray Bradbury’s work. You may sense some of his influence in the story. I don’t try to ape his style (anymore), but for this story I wanted to hit the same tone he might. Use some of the same language. Especially for Barry. He strikes me as a Bradbury-type character.

Most of all, I hope that this story makes you consider being a bit more present. Reflect on the moments you have with the ones you love with no distraction.

Drive and Storytelling Through Absence

March 27, 2020 / / 0 Comments

I rewatched Drive recently. Written by Hossein Amini, directed by Nicolas Winding Refn, and starring Ryan Gosling with Carey Mulligan, Albert Brooks, Ron Perlman, and Bryan Cranston, I was struck by how devoid of dialogue or major actions most scenes are while still being able to connect us to the characters and move the story forward. Aside from the violence, it’s a film of subtlety and nuance, one that strives to connect us to the characters and move the story forward with askew glances rather than big motions or long-winded dialogue.

I think in our search for clarity, to ensure that our audience is following along the path we’ve laid out for them, writers often make things too obvious at the expense of being compelling. Although Drive doesn’t even bother naming its main character and he speaks somewhere in the vicinity of 380 words throughout the entire film, we’re compelled by him. By his relationship with Irene and Benicio. By the situation he finds himself in, first with Standard coming home and then when he gets caught up in a failed heist because of Standard.

When there is dialogue, it’s rare that the characters say what they’re thinking. Instead, everything going on in their heads is communicated with looks, grins, and undertones. Take the scene where Driver first meets Standard. For context, we have spent the first 40 minutes of the film watching Driver and Irene become close in a very sweet, platonic way. There is definitely an attraction there, but neither character has been bold enough to act on it, nor do they need to. Their romance is a pure one. We have a sense that Driver may be dangerous, but aren’t sure how. Standard, meanwhile, has just been released from prison. We aren’t sure what for, or if that means he’s also dangerous. All of this groundwork is the undertone for the scene.

First, Standard says that Benicio, his and Irene’s son, is the one that told him about Driver, insinuating that Irene hadn’t. He also characterizes Driver as someone who’s been “Coming around, helping out a lot,” downplaying his relationship with Irene. Driver doesn’t exactly ignore Standard, but doesn’t engage with him either, instead focusing solely on Benicio and Irene. Standard clearly takes offense to this, repeating himself until Driver answers. Standard then “thanks” Driver in a way that’s more dismissive than sincere. Driver again doesn’t engage, accepting the thanks as if Standard meant it. Through all of this, Standard has held Benicio close to him and kept Irene between himself and Driver, as a show of possession.

Standard tells Driver what he knows about him, that he drives for the movies, again using a dismissive tone. It’s here that Irene steps in to try and defuse the situation, offering to take the trash Standard is holding, ostensibly in the hope that Standard will go back into their apartment. Standard refuses, intent on holding his ground against this man that’s infiltrated his family. Still, he understands what she’s doing and finishes taking the trash to the compactor with Benicio. The clip above ends there, but after this Driver, too, senses an end to the standoff and tells Irene goodnight. As Standard passes by the hallway that Driver has just walked down, he tells him to “Have a good night,” more dismissive as ever.

In less than a minute, with sparse dialogue, the scene paints a vivid picture of jealousy, male posturing, and the complicated relationships between these four people. It doesn’t do so with a big confrontation. There’s no, “So you fucking my wife?” from Standard, no “She deserves better than you,” from Driver. The tension is in the context of what we know about these characters and what we don’t know. That’s brought forward through nuanced dialogue that dances around what everyone is thinking without confronting it head-on.

You could break the scene apart on a technical level, too. The low drone of the music builds the tension. The blocking of the characters illustrates their relationships and power dynamics. The color scheme, lighting, and camera angles all add to the scene’s power. But for me, from a purely writing perspective, the magic lies in what isn’t said.

The entire movie is an exercise in this kind of abstraction and restraint. Apparently, as the director, writer, and actors workshopped the script they purposefully kept cutting dialogue between Driver and Irene, their goal to keep things sparse. It’s a good lesson as a writer that subtlety is often more impactful than not.

One of the Invisibles

March 24, 2020 / / 0 Comments
I’m so sorry.

I believe that there is an invisible population that are rarely spoken of. It consists of somewhere around 99.9% of the world’s population. These are people that we meet everyday, but pay no mind. Considering who they are, it’s likely you’re one of them. I am.

These are those who want badly to do something or be something, likely an artist or a writer or a musician, but also those that are spending hours coding their apps, those building inventions in their garages, those training to be their physical best–anyone striving to do something that will result in a better world and maybe, hopefully, recognition.

Most of these people, myself included, won’t ever succeed in any meaningful way. Instead, they’ll keep trying, keep creating, until they either tire and give up, or die without having left their mark.

I think about this a lot. With every rejection I’m reminded that I’m spinning my wheels, waiting until something catches or someone stops to help and I’m freed to travel down the road I’ve so far failed to explore in any meaningful way. I think about all the open mic nights I’ve been to–for comedy, poetry, music–and all those men and women that hustle every night with such little appreciation. Yet we keep going. Some for love. Some because they don’t know that they’ll never succeed. Most a combination of both.

I love writing. Or, more accurately, I love storytelling. I’m compelled to do it irrespective of any past success or future potential. But there are days, and lately it seems like there’s been a lot of them, where it feels pointless. Where I worry that I’m one of those millions of aspiring writers that don’t know they’re bad.

Nearly six years ago I first read Stephen King’s On Writing. In it, he talks about bad, competent, good, and great writers. His perspective irked me, then, but now I think I see what he was getting at. Ability doesn’t so much a plateau as it hits a ceiling. Everyone’s ceilings are different heights. Some can raise their ceilings with hard work, but most of us are what we are. When I’m feeling cynical, as I’ve felt lately, I wonder if I’ve already reached my ceiling and just don’t know it. If I’m destined to just keep spinning those wheels.

I know rejection is part of the game. Every little failure is supposed to teach us something that will eventually land us the one success we need. One success trumps the trillion failures no one knows about. I just don’t want to be disillusioned. I don’t want to put all this effort into doing something I’ll never be good at when I could redirect that effort into things I could get better at. If we all, those of us in that 99.9% of perpetual failures, could get a glimpse of the future and see that we’ll never make it, how would that change our current focus?

When I was hip-pocketed by a manager those few years ago one of the first things he told me was to stop writing whiny blog posts (my words, not his). He’s right, lamenting your failures isn’t a great look. But, at the same time, I think these are things we need to confront. Imposter syndrome, anxiety, and depression are all demons most creatives co-exist with. And, ultimately, confronting the demons and still finding the willpower to push forward, keep trying, continually improve is perhaps more impressive than any success.

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