101 Slightly Unpredictable Tips for Novelists and Screenwriters

101 Slightly Unpredictable Tips for Novelists and Screenwriters Innovative Ways to Jack Your Creative Productivity and Sell What you Write by Larry Brooks www.storyfix.com

© 2009 by Larry Brooks All rights reserved. No portion of this material may be copied or transferred without written permission permission from the author.

“101 Slightly Unpredictable Tips for Novelists and Screenwriters” www.storyfix.com

101 Slightly Unpredictable Tips for Novelists and Screenwriters by Larry Brooks

Introduction As I begin this modest little tome of writing tips and tricks – and I do hope that you, as a writer, noticed the schnazzy alliteration within that opening phrase – I can assure you of only two things: 1) there will be pearls here of which you are already quite aware, in which case I’ll attempt to cast them in a new and compelling compelling light; and 2) there will be ideas here that are completely new to you. I know this because I made them up. Mostly, though, these value-adding strategies strategies should make sense and, if vaguely familiar, have been skewed to better connect to the desired result: more effective, more efficient writing of your novels and screenplays. And who knows, maybe maybe a few blogs, letters and press releases. Writing is writing, and the means by which it finds wings is still the product product of, for better or worse, a process. process. This book is all about empowering that process. There are no magic pills here. Only vitamins and antidepressants. antidepressa nts. Credibility is important. important. At some point you may begin to wonder wonder who came up with all this stuff. If I’ve done my job, you shouldn’t care (I wouldn’t), since since chances are you’ll recognize something something of value that you can plug into your own writing process. process. And if, after that, you’re just plain curious, I’ll toss an obligatory obligatory bio in at the end, where it’s not in the way. These 101 tips – and dare I say, there are many more out there, but I’m hoping for a sequel – are deliberately presented in random order with no hierarchy or sequential logic whatsoever. I considered lumping lumping them into categories of affinities – finding ideas, building stories, creating characters, finding an agent, drinking games, games, etc. – but that seemed a bit too obvious, and obvious is boring.

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Rather, I looked at the process of writing itself – random, chaotic, scattered… a thing often done with no hierarchy or logic whatsoever – and concluded that this should be experienced experienced in a similar fashion. Along the story’s path the writer’s writer’s mind leaps from thing to thing; one minute you can be pondering your hero’s backstory and, at any unforeseen moment, be interrupted by the irresistible urge to look up agents or sports trivia on the web. And so it goes here. May you find at least one idea that helps you move toward the birthing of the best story you can write. If I can deliver that, then you won’t ask for your money money back and we’ll both be delighted with the outcome. That’s any writer’s dream. dream. If you can touch one heart outside of your own, you have succeeded. Larry Brooks July 2009

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101 Slightly Unpredictable Tips for Novelists and Screenwriters Read ‘em and reap. 1.

Listen to music as you write. Great writing has a rhythm to it. A lyrical sensibility. And nothing says rhythm and lyrical sensibility better than music. Movie themes work great for this, especially if the soundtrack you choose fits the theme and mood of the scene you are working on. Which means, you’ll need lots of soundtracks. If the moods don’t align then it’s all just background noise. Haven’t come across a scene yet that makes me want to listen to rap. But that’s just me. Unless you’re writing a book about submarines that delivers a Clancylike focus on technology (good luck finding that soundtrack), and if you’ve chosen wisely, you’ll find the music taking you to precisely the place you need to be to evoke the tone and context required on the page. Music speaks to your subconscious mind. And believe me, your subconscious mind is writing along with you. Some claim it’s the actual author of their work. Your tastes in music don’t matter here. In fact, go counter to them if the scene demands it. Hate rock? Blast the Metallica if you’re doing a fight scene or a chase. Make it hurt. Hate jazz? Your steamy New Orleans bar scene doesn’t care. And if it’s a love story, relax and allow Sade to take you to that special place, the one you won’t admit to personally but can’t wait to put on the page. Or Rage Against the Machine,

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whatever works for you, romance-wise. Those are the best sex scenes anyhow. My favorite writing music: the soundtrack from The Cider House Rules. A mood for everything under the literary sun. The soundtrack from Once Upon a Time in the West – a classic film, by the way – is great for suspenseful moments. And in case you think I’m speaking only to screenwriters here, you’re wrong. Novelists need visualization and emotional resonance every bit as much. In fact, because novelists have to paint the sky with words instead of stage direction, music can be an even more powerful tool for getting there. Another hint: learn to use the “repeat” button on your CD player. When you find just the right cut, wear it out.

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2.

Reverse engineer an existing story – book or movie – to see how it works. That’s how Motorola, BMW and the folks who make intercontinental ballistic missiles do it, why not you? There are two ways this can help. How much depends on your level of knowledge about the infrastructure of storytelling (what I like to call story architecture; much more on that later) when you start. 1. If you’re new to story architecture, then performing an autopsy on a book or movie you admire – or, that you don’t , which can be just as helpful – will help you understand how and why it works. Or not. 2. And if you do get story structure, then overlaying that understanding onto a given story can, just like watching Roger Federer at the net, help your own game. A story is a machine, in essence, and like any working machine it purrs along with seeming simplicity. Peeking under the hood, taking a wrench and a cutting saw to it, can help you cement your grasp of story architecture in a way that fumbling with it in your own stories cannot. Story architecture is easier said than done, and much more easily comprehended when witnessed. How is this done? Scene by scene, you simply summarize what happens in the book or movie you are ripping into, both specifically and generically: Scene 1 (story-specific): Ralph meets the girl he’ll ultimately marry. But he thinks he hates her because she’s dating his nemesis, so he’s rude and arrogant in her presence. She thinks he’s an ass. Scene 1 (generic): Hero meets the object of his forthcoming quest, but doesn’t recognize her as such, thus adopting behavior that will make the quest more formidable down the road. When you’ve done that for some 60 scenes, believe me, you’ll know more about story architecture than you thought you did (see Tip 6


#84). You’ll experience how the writer followed standard story structure, and what scenes represent specific story milestone. And, you just might find a generic roadmap for your own story that is better than the one you’d planned. You could even fill in the blanks with your own story points and have the bases covered. Which won’t happen, of course, but at a minimum you’ll see how your story could work.

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3.

Name characters after real people who represent what you’re going for. Once you name a character after someone real, you can’t help but picture them in your mind as you write. It could be because of looks, their place in the world or their character. If it helps the character come alive for you, if it leads you somewhere and establishes descriptions and limits for your characters, even before you’ve come to know them, this becomes a powerful technique. It could be a friend or a public figure, like a movie star. In fact, movie stars are good candidates for this because you can imagine how they’d inhabit the role. If Clint Eastwood is your character placeholder, for example, and you can’t imagine him saying a particular line of dialogue you’ve written (like, “sorry to bother you, kind sir, but could you please pass the butter knife?”) then it just might not be the right line. When you’re finished with the draft you can change the name (thank the Geek Gods for word processing software). Let’s face it, Clint probably doesn’t want to appear in your masterpiece anyhow. Which conveniently leads us to the next tip…

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4.

Post pictures of your placeholder character surrogates on your desk or computer. This is good for all the same reasons as #3. Whatever gets you closer to your goal. Piece of advice here – if you choose people from your life, make sure the emotional baggage they evoke (i.e., they make you warm, they piss you off, they turn you on, etc.) matches that of the character they represent. A visual placeholder is even more powerful than a name, so choose wisely.

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5.

Copy something. Dissect and then emulate a story that is similar to yours. That one may not go down easy. But don’t shoot the messenger just yet. It’s a tip, not a mandate. We writers need all the angles we can find. This is similar to Tip #2, but with a different agenda. That was to study and understand story architecture in a way you can apply to your own story. This one is more about getting unstuck. We all write ourselves into dark little corners. Usually we have to backtrack a ways and, in the next draft (or, if you’re blueprinting before you write, then in your story sequence) make a different choice. In that case you’re looking for and interviewing choices, and one of the ways to inventory your options is to find a similar story and see how those situations have been handled by someone else. It isn’t really copying, because you’ll have to adapt what you see to what you apply. It’s like watching a cooking show – we all gotta eat. By the way, doesn’t matter if you’re working on a novel or screenplay, you can use either as a deconstruction tool. In fact, novelists can find quick access to story examples by renting a DVD and sitting down with a pad of legal paper and a pen.

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6.

Stuck? Verbally tell your story to a friend. Just be careful who you pick on. Try this and feel the magic happen. It’s never failed me yet. Chances are you feel very alone with your storytelling problem. Sure, you’ve told others about your project using broad strokes. But now here you are, staring at the screen and considering all sorts of unpleasant things to do to it because you’re frozen tighter than Ted Williams. (Don’t get that one? Google him with the word corpse…). Instead, do this. Find a warm pulse and go for a walk. Or sit down with someone, anyone you trust, anywhere you’re comfortable and not distracted. Ask permission to tell them your story. If they know you well, so much the better. Tell that person your story, beat by beat. Pause to set things up as necessary, to create context that adds clarity. Don’t skip anything, but stick to the high points (see Tip #96; this becomes your script for this telling). There’s no explanation for what will happen next. Don’t expect your listener to come up with the Big Idea that will solve your story problem. Nope, the solution will come from you. Every time. Why? Because you already know the context of each story point – and if you don’t, that’s your story problem right there – and whatever has caused your problem resides in the hidden shadow of context, nuance and execution. When you say it out loud, any holes and illogic in your story will scream out at you. It’ll just happen, a bolt of orgasmic storytelling lightning, and you’ll recognize it – the solution – when it comes. Which it will. If it doesn’t, tell the story to someone else until it does. Hey, you created this story problem, and only you can fix it. Because the fix relies on the nature of the creation, which only you understand. Trust me, this works. Then just hug the person listening, tell her or him they are a genius, and get back to work. 11


7.

Study screenwriting books if you’re a novelist, novel writing books if you’re a screenwriter. Take a trip to the dark side and regard the craft of storytelling from another point of view. Some novelists tend to look down their noses at screenwriters, yet they suck up screenwriting books like valium for the literary soul. Why? Because nothing saysstructure quite as clearly as a screenplay, and screenwriting books (especially Screenplay, by Syd Field) make it clear and accessible. Viewed through a slightly different and more liberal lens, the structure taught to screenwriters directly applies to novelists. Only without the fascist inflexibility Hollywood demands. And yet, screenwriters steer clear of novel-writing books like a literary plague. Why? Because screenwriters don’t care all that much about sentences, and they perceive (inaccurately) that novel writing books are all about active verbs and dangling participles. They do care about dialogue, certainly – frankly, they’re better at it than most novelists – but grammar and writing elegance isn’t in the game for them. Story is. And nothing defines story quite as well as the fundamentals of screenwriting.

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8.

Play “what if?” with your initial idea, see where it takes you. This is huge. Because “what if ?” can help you land on a killer idea that becomes the landscape for a rich story. It can also help you develop your storyline in creative and unexpected ways (the death of a killer idea is a predictable sequence of execution). The what if ? concept is simple. Just ask the question about anything and everything, and then apply it to genre. For example, if you’re a mystery writer, ask what if? a murder happened, and then wrap it in context and circumstance. If you’re a thriller writer, ask what if? the unthinkable is about to happen. It works for romance, erotica, historical… any genre you can name. What if? is, in essence, the immediate introduction of stakes and conflict, the two most essential elements of fiction. You can play what if? anywhere, anytime. If you’re in a museum, ask what if? someone steals a painting before your eyes? What if? security guards pounce you and accuse you of stealing a statue? What if? you get to your car and a piece of art is inexplicably there in the back seat? What if? you were seduced by the security guard at closing time? What if? he looked just like Brad Pitt? What if?, in that case, your name is Frank and you sort of liked the idea? What if? the doors bolted shut and you couldn’t get out of the place? The possibilities are endless. Anywhere, anytime. Let’s say you already have a creative idea as a starting point for a story, and you’re having trouble moving it forward, struggling to deepen and layer it into a compelling story. What if ? is a tool that can unblock you. Use your initial what if? as a starting point, and then begin sequencing subsequent what ifs from there. You’ll find yourself traveling down different story paths, each with its own thread of what if?-inspired emerging storylines. From there you can branch off the branches, all keeping an eye on your pulse rate to sense which options excite you.

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To prove to yourself this works, take a finished work – either yours or a book or movie you know well – and tell the story with a series of what if? scenarios. For example: What if Air France Flight 800 was really bombed out of the sky, instead of the fuel-tank explosion accident that the FAA would have us believe? What if someone caught it on videotape? What if they were making love on the beach in front of a video camera? What if they took it to authorities, who later deny it? What if the couple mysteriously disappear shortly thereafter? What if a few years later the rumor of the tape reaches a cynical ex-military investigator who is already suspicious of government cover-ups based on firsthand knowledge? And on it goes, until a fully realized story takes place. As you play the game, you make creative choices about what to keep and what to discard, building on the keepers. This story was the #1 New York Times bestseller Night Fall , by Nelson Demille, the first book to knock The DaVinci Code out of the top spot. As a side note, Demille’s solution for his ending – what if all the players are gathered to finally out the truth, and the meeting happens to be in the North tower of the World Trade Center on the morning of September 11th, 2001 – might have been the undoing of the book, which quickly faded and allowed DaVinci to again assume the throne. (Note: deus ex machina – see Tip #61 – never works as a story device, and bestseller lists reflect author brand fame more than story quality.) Try it. This is one of the most powerful techniques available to writers at the story development stage.

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It is also (see Tip #98) a technique that is far more useful as a preplanning and blueprinting tool than a draft-writing tool. Organic writers who commit to one thread of what ifs? from the outset miss the opportunity to explore different and perhaps better ideas as the story unfolds. Or if they do sense a better option mid-draft, they’ll have to either start over and trash the draft-in-progress, or revise what they have to an extent that anything they attempt to rescue may find itself force-fed into the mix. Such is our hesitance to give up that which we have already created. Which is puzzling, because organic writers who argue against the pre-planning of story architecture do so in the name of stifled creativity. Precisely the opposite is the case. Get downright whacky with your what if?-ing. There are no rules, only ideas. Inject the unexpected. Watch what happens to your story.

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9.

Looking for a plot? Kick around your starting point with a bunch of friends. The drunker the better. Remember that old childhood game where one kid whispers something into the ear of the next, who then whispers it to the next, and then on down the line to see what the last kid says and have a laugh about how the story changed? Out of the mouths of babes. This can work for you, too. Try this at your next writing group meeting, or during a break from playing cards. Determine a sequence of exchanges, usually just going around the room. Throw out your initial story idea, or the story point you’re struggling with. Then the next person uses it to create the next story point in the narrative. Then the next. There are no rules – other than no criticism allowed – and no limits. See where it goes. It might lead you to a breakthrough.

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10.

Imagine your novel as a movie. Or imagine your screenplay as a novel. Story is always about atmosphere and nuance. At least good ones are. One of the best ways to go there is to think outside your comfort zone and imagine your story as a fully produced film. Or your screenplay as an eloquently rendered novel. Movies are visual. Is your novel visual enough to evoke the same sense of place and time as the movie adaptation? Do the characters chew up the screen? Does the soundtrack add something (yes novelists, you can and should write the literary equivalent of a soundtrack into your stories), does it jack your adrenaline to the red line? Novels are introspective and deep. Is your screenplay going deep enough, as deep as the novel upon which it could have been based, or might be written after your movie hits it big? Does it have a narrative voice, an essence that marks the story as something significant and relevant? Sparks might fly, but if even one sentence of your work improves because of it, this is worth considering.

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11.

Outlining your novel? Consider writing it as a screenplay first. Seriously. Who knows, you might get two saleable properties out of the deal. The previous tip suggests imagining your novel as a movie for the purpose of giving it sensual texture and cinematic impact. This tip suggests actually writing the screenplay itself as an exercise in story architecture. If you’re an “organic” writer, if you absolutely refuse to do any preplanning of your story architecture… in other words, if you refuse to outline – and there are more of you than there are of me and my kind – then this tip is one of two things for you: complete lunacy… or perhaps your saving grace. Nobody, and I mean nobody, writes a screenplay without knowing the following things before they begin (oh sure, they may start on a draft, but when they hit the inevitable wall they’ll go back to this point and do this): the ending, the beginning, the first plot point, the mid-point context shifting plot twist, the second plot point, and the general arc of the character. Imagine if a novelist knew these things, too, before they began writing. How much more could you do with your scenes if you knew, in a contextual sense, what they were leading up to? If the lack of knowing these elements, or even recognizing them, is what plagues your novel, then I strongly recommend that you study screenwriting – even at the most basic level – and tell your story in that format. It will force your story into a structure that works. Every time. I like to – legitimately – tell the world that the first draft of my first published novel sold on the first submission, and that it took only 20 minutes to implement the few changes my editor requested. All true, no exaggeration there. Here’s what’s just as true: I adapted that story ( Darkness Bound ) from my own screenplay. And that screenplay had gone through some 19 revisions, most at the behest of Hollywood types who had story notes.

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My unproduced (but optioned… twice) screenplay became a detailed outline for what would become a minor bestseller. This works. It’s the most productive way to outline your story imaginable. And by learning about screenwriting, you’ll tip your novelist learning curve to the nearly vertical.

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12. Write a book review of your novel – or a movie review of your screenplay. Even if you haven’t finished it. Especially if you haven’t finished it. Pretend you’re Roger Ebert (then again, maybe not a good idea…) or someone from Publishers Weekly. Assuming the hard-to-please aesthetic sensibilities of a reviewer, be honest about how your work holds up under such scrutiny. Reviews identify what works and what doesn’t in a story. If you can get outside yourself and imagine what a reviewer would say, you just might find an opportunity to take your work to the next level. Or, discover a new outlet for your writing. Using this exercise as a beginning, I’ve published over 20 book reviews in major newspapers and online. Now if they’d only let me review my own books…

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13.

Seek out every adjective or adverb in your manuscript, then hit Delete. Just after I sold my first novel to Penguin Putnam in 1999, I attended a Big Daddy annual conference for mystery and thriller writers, called Bouchercon (after some dude named Boucher, of whom I had never heard). The keynote speaker at the banquet was Elmore Leonard – of whom I had certainly heard, and read – who presented his own personal Ten Rules of writing. Frankly I can’t remember them all, but one stuck in my head like a misplaced catheter: eliminate each and every adjective and adverb from your manuscript. At a glance this seemed a rather radical approach. In reading Leonard, one quickly observes that he follows his own advice, and when a descriptor does appear, which they do, you can imagine him lighting his 63rd Marlboro of the day and staring at the screen for an hour before reluctantly going there. I didn’t, and haven’t, and won’t, follow that advice. But it did create an acute awareness of the risk of too many adjectives and adverbs, and a subscription to the Less Is More belief system (see Tip #88). If you’ve been told you overwrite, or if you sense it, or if you just want to see what happens, go back and clean out all the adjectives and adverbs you can find. See how it streamlines things, and how it forces you to use more active descriptions that crank up the volume in your scenes. When you ask your readers to sense and feel the story, rather than telling them what to sense and feel, they are sucking into the action in a way that makes the story sensual and rich.

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14.

Stop reading writing books and blogs. This from a guy wh0 has just launched a major writing blog of his own. Articles about writing can sometimes bring you down (note: I try to avoid that at all costs, by the way). Many are riddled with frustration and negativism, in a craft that will summon and challenge every shred of self respect you have in you (see, I just went negative… goes with the territory when writing about writing). Or they describe a bar that is so high you can’t imagine playing at that level (yeah, been accused of that one more than once). The real risk, though, is avoidance. You can get hooked on how-to articles, writing magazines, writing conferences, writing groups, writing cruises, blogs and informal lunches with other writers… to an extent that one day you look up and realize you’re doing more commiserating about writing than actually putting fingers to the keyboard. Then again, see Tip #75. Because if you’re new to the writing game, chances are you need all the writing books and blogs you can consume. Get used to contradictory advice, folks. It’s the hallmark of the writing workshop business. And that’s not a bad thing – workshops don’t exist to tell you how to do things… they exist to allow you to discover what works for you.

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15.

Re-conceive your story in another genre. Rumor has it that George Lucas conceived Star Wars as a western that takes place in outer space. Harrison Ford on a tin horse. Talk about two separate genres, and yet when you watch the Star Wars films with that in mind, you see the hallmarks of the western genre in play. This technique may help you unblock your writer’s block, which, by the way, is nothing more than one of two things: you’ve fallen out of love with your story, or you’ve written yourself – or outlined yourself – into a creative corner. A change of scenery, of context and of language, all of which are specific to different genres, might just put the love back into your storytelling. If you don’t read multiple genres the potential here won’t be obvious to you. But if you do, notice how proven dramatic themes are not genre-specific: the pursuit of love, safety, answers, salvation, hope, retribution… they are all universal and timeless. And who knows, maybe the reason you’re blocked is that your story is screaming for another genre anyway.

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16. Watch Dr. Phil. Read Dale Carnegie. Order The Road Less Traveled . Watch Oprah. Attend a self-help seminar. Why? Because fiction is about how characters behave and why, what they think, how they feel. In other words, human psychology 101. The more bizarre you make your characters, the more you need to understand about the psychology of it all. It isn’t as simple as implying that your bad guy kills women because his mother abused him. Or that a woman keeps hooking up with strangers in search of a good beat down because she thinks she can heal them, the result of a disapproving father. Leave your boilerplate, locker room explanations on the shelf and really dig into what makes human beings tick. At least, before you try to justify their tock. This understanding isn’t just for the purpose of creating a credible relationship between human action and reaction in your stories. It also becomes context for whatever means you use to illuminate the backstories of your main characters, both protagonist and antagonist. We need a peek into a past that created these heroes and monsters, as well as the personal demons and fears that stand in their way. And when you do lay it on us, the more psychologically valid it is in an accepted academic sense, the truer it will ring on the page. Readers can sniff out contrived pop psychology baloney from the Barnes & Noble parking lot.

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17.

Take your favorite old stories and make them contemporary. Imagine Gone With The Wind as a movie set in Beverly Hills. Imagine Top Gun as a novel about bloggers instead of pilots. In the movie Enchanted , a princess is propelled through time and lands in mid-town Manhattan, with her Prince Charming and the Evil Queen right behind. It worked. One of my favorite films of all time was “Once Upon a Time In the West,” by the infamous Sergio Leone. Charles Bronson, Jason Robards, Henry Fonda, Claudia Cardinale… if you haven’t seen it, do. It’s a classic story about greed and revenge that could work in any genre, any era, any arena (see Tip #55). I’ve always wanted to recast that story in a contemporary way, as a novel, and someday I just might. And if I do Sergio won’t mind, because even if it becomes the next DaVinci Code, he probably wouldn’t recognize it (perhaps because he’s dead). Such is the universal nature of those themes. And if you beat me to it, more power to you. I probably won’t recognize it, either, so have at it. The classics got there for a reason. One of them is that the story they tell is universal. You may just ignite a great concept by imagining your favorite childhood tale in a new genre and timeframe.

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18.

Go there. Personally. Get a firsthand feel of the setting of your story. You can find virtually anything and everything on the internet these days, including pictures and videos of the setting for your story. But sometimes the vivid, sensual reality of a place cannot be translated to the page unless you actually feel the sand between your toes. If you’re stuck, try going there. If the ambiance of where your story unfolds can’t unblock you, then you have a bigger issue, because blocks are, at their heart, the fruit of a broken story. And besides, if you file a Schedule C as a writer, the trip could be at least partly tax deductible. But don’t tell the I.R.S. you got that from me.

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19.

Forget most of what your high school creative writing teacher told you. They meant well, but the rules of writing publishable fiction have evolved. No longer is a lengthy description of the setting of each scene and the wardrobe of each character required. The more common and disconnected to the plot these factors are, the less words you should devote to them. Assume your readers know what the interior of a taxi smells like and get on with it. Another classroom myth debunked: sentence fragments are permitted. If you handle them right. As in, artfully. There are no Queen’s rules of English when it comes to dialogue. None whatsoever. In fact, the less your characters sound like your high school English teacher, the better. Nothing says amateur like stiff, overly written exchanges between folks with absolutely no sense of humor, irony, sarcasm or edge. Who think the word hip refers to a joint next to their pelvis. Someone along the writing road has probably told you to avoid writing in first person. That it’s best left to the more experienced. Not true. Choose the voice that best fits your tastes and the demands of the story. Slang is not only permissible in dialogue – in fact, it’s encouraged – it’s welcome in narrative exposition, too. But only so far as it fits the stylistic context of the story’s narrative voice. This issue falls into the it’s art after all category. Which means, rules don’t apply. You get to make them up, and you get to live with the consequences. So choose your violations carefully.

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20. Try out a different voice. Story not working? Try telling it in first person. Get inside the head of your narrative protagonist and go on a bit of a rant. Dish the attitude and the witty bon mots. If your story is complex and requires multiple points of view, then forget about first person (see Tip #52 for an exciting exception) and stick to third person omniscient. Just make sure you don’t switch point of view within any single given scene. Then again, first person is like kinky sex. It’s liberating. Quick trips to the attitude bar and the inherent hidden self-dialogue allow you to burrow deep and wide into your character without distracting from the pace of your story. You won’t know if you like it until you try it. And you shouldn’t try it until you read a lot of it. I recommend Nelson Demille and Harlan Coben, but there are hundreds of first person masters out there. This tip is strictly experiential. Give it a shot simply to see how it feels. If it turns out your writing comes alive in unexpected ways by switching from third to first person, then this may be the most important tip of all.

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21.

Keep a list list of new new ideas. Write them down down as titles. Every writer has lived this little nightmare: you come up with an idea that excites you, and later you can’t remember it. Here’s a rocket science science idea: write it down. Which means, keep a notepad or portable recorder in your car and office, or handy near your writing workstation. workstation. The acid test of an idea isn’t whether you easily forget it or not, it’s whether remembering it and playing with it makes it grow wings. A great idea has a way of lingering, and a great title is a wonderful way to begin expanding that idea into a storyline. Even if you have to park it until you finish something else.

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22.

Pay attention to song lyrics. Seriously. I kid you not. Songs are really short stories set to melody, and often they are steaming with artful irony, poignant characterization and emotional resonance. If nothing else, hearing great lyrics might send you to a creative place that empowers your storytelling. You may even hear a song that tells a story you want to finish in the form of a novel or screenplay. You may hear writing that touches your heart and inspires you to get back to the keyboard. When you hear a lyric lyric that rocks your your world, write it down. down. There’s a chance you may have just stumbled upon a theme that becomes your first bestseller. bestseller. Because if it moved you, it’ll move your readers, too. But be careful not to use that lyric in your work without permission from the songwriter. Nothing says litigation like a pissed off rock star. Contact the American American Society of Composers, Composers, Authors and Publishers (ASCAP) (ASCAP) or Broadcast Music, Inc. (BMI) to help get in touch with lyricist and rights-holder of the piece that you seek to use.

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23. Actually write out the backstory of your main characters. Then psychoanalyze them. Backstory is tricky tricky in the hands of the unenlightened. unenlightened. It can weigh your story down like a pair of concrete concrete swim flippers. Or, it can imbue the work with texture and empathetic energy. Definition of backstory: the life experiences, good and bad, that have created the programming, preferences, tastes and belief systems that drive the decisions, actions and feelings of the characters in the story you are telling. With backstory the iceberg analogy always applies: what you see above the surface is only ten percent of what exists hidden below the surface. Hidden is the operative word here – too much backstory is not only unnecessary, it’ll put the brakes on your narrative pacing. Just give us a glance. Keep the iceberg on the horizon of your story, but never on the main stage unless it surfaces as a major story point. Avoid scenes that are entirely backstory (this being one of the rules that you can break when called for… that’s the art of storytelling, you get to make that call). When writing in first person, backstory is easily revealed through snap flashes of character memory. Such as: When I saw her face it reminded me of my mother when she was drunk, which was every Friday through Sunday, including church. Flashbacks are not for not for the purpose of illustrating illustrating backstory. backstory. Flash backs are for inserting the requisite groundwork for plotting – not character, character, as a rule – that occurred prior to the timeline of your story. Dialogue is a great backstory tool – have one character briefly tell about something from their past – even as a thinly veiled reference – that illuminates their current behavior and thinking.

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24. Work on your writing every single day. Writing is not a job, it’s a lifestyle. For many it’s an addiction. A day without storytelling is a day without furthering your writing dream. If you can write every day, even a little, that’s an ideal discipline to cultivate. Even just a few minutes takes you forward. And if you can’t actually write, there are few excuses in the world short of death and dismemberment that warrant the avoidance of at least thinking about your story. Which does count as working on your story. Sometimes the most creative and productive work on your novel or screenplay takes place in your head. This is as obvious as it is universally true, and yet some writers simply get out of the habit of writing. Get addicted to it. Feel guilty when you don’t do it.

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25.

Stop avoiding writing by doing writing-like activities instead. Like hanging out in bookstores. Like reading about writing. Like attending too many redundant writing conferences. All of those are wonderful, by the way, unless they become avoidance mechanisms. Which they can easily become. You probably got into this avocation because at some point you have experienced the act of writing as pure bliss. But like any form of bliss, it can be transitory and fickle. Bliss or no bliss, writing is always hard work. Accept that, and derive more joy from the work by focusing on the big picture and acknowledging the progress your day’s work has manifested. Sometimes it takes courage to write. Step up and get on it. Confusion and writer’s block is the devil laughing at your writing dream. (See Tip #34.) Doing writer-like activities instead of working on your story is the devil telling you a lie.

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26. Start a blog. It can jumpstart your creativity. It can resurrect the muse. It did that for me. The more you immerse yourself into your writing the better your writing will be. Universal truth. Earlier I suggest you cut down on reading blogs about writing if you use that time as an excuse to not write. But writing them is another thing altogether. It’s almost impossible to become blocked if you’re writing something. By writing about writing, you are immersing yourself in the context of the craft, which will serve to refuel your confidence and energy. Blogging is like writing erotica. The more you write about it, the more you desire the real thing. And the more you desire something, the sweeter it is when you get it. For one thing, chances are you’ll enjoy writing your blog less than you enjoy writing your novel, and the process will send you back to your manuscript. If that’s not the case, consider the possibility that you’re writing the wrong novel, or at least writing it in the wrong way with the wrong ideas. Which becomes something to blog about, actually.

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27.

Schedule yourself. In Tip #24 we looked at finding the time to write each and every day. But your days are busy, and it’s a good idea to dedicate a specific block of time to write. If you have to sacrifice some sleep, ask yourself how important your writing is to you. James Patterson got out of bed at 4:00 am every day to work on his novels. Now that’s dedication and discipline. Why did he do this? Because he happened to have a day job as CEO of the world’s largest advertising agency (J. Walter Thompson), the youngest head cheese ever in that firm, which consumed the rest of his waking hours. Turned out pretty good for him, I think. Behind every enduring writing superstar is a work ethic that rarely gets air-time. Same for great athletes and entrepreneurs. Sleep is optional. Find your sweet spot during the day – or night – and make it sacred. Inject some serious discipline in your writing life.

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28. Raise your writing bar. Then belly up. Stories can be like love affairs. In the beginning it's all so exciting. Each day brings new bliss. Another sensual, orgasmic experience. The future looks so bright. The object of your desire can do no wrong. And then reality sets in. Bliss turns to banality. Desire turns to dejection. You begin to doubt. And nothing kills your love affair – or your story – quicker than doubt. Maybe you’re settling. Maybe you’re jumping into story ideas before their time, or making love to concepts that simply aren’t strong enough. But you stick with it because you're committed . You will force this thing into existence if it's the last thing you write. And it very well could be. Not all seemingly great ideas make great stories. Sometimes your first round draft choice turns out to be a bust. Sometimes you really do need a long courtship before you tie the knot. More often, though, a good idea tanks because it doesn’t get the development it deserves. The writer settles. The more difficult the process you bring to it, the easier it is to settle. And nothing is more difficult than writing draft after draft in search of your story when you aren't in command of story architecture in the first place. Are you in command of the elements of story telling excellence? Tell yourself that your next project will be your breakout. That it’ll have the stuff to become a bestseller or a blockbuster spec script sale. Understand what that will take, and then don’t settle for less than a process that covers all the bases. And yes Virginia, there is a process. It’s called story architecture.

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The writing forums and blogs are full of commiseration about works-in-progress and a writing process that is totally organic and therefore lengthy and imprecise. Trust me on this – the only organic process that is completely efficient – notice I didn’t say effective, I’m not dissing that – is one executed by someone who already has complete command of the basics of storytelling structure, content and form. People like Stephen King or Dennis Lehane or Michael Connelly. If you own it like they do, then start drafting, you don't need a plan. It all flows out of your head like sonnets from Shakespeare. Those of us with lesser command of the craft are, by definition, using the drafting process to discover the story, which is like trying to learn to fly an airplane without ground school first. The temptation to settle can be overwhelming, or worse, insidiously transparent. Good isn’t good enough to get published. Editors’ desks are piled high with good manuscripts. You need a story and an execution that sparkles with originality, craft, thematic and emotional resonance and, most of all, commercial appeal. Even if you consider yourself the most literary of writers. Literature is just a story that really, really works. Is your concept wildly original and inherently appealing? Is your hero worthy of empathy and hope? Are the varied technical milestones of story pacing and construction all in the right place, rendered with just the right touch? Does the story evolve, do the characters arc in a way that touches the heart and mind of the reader? Does the ending strike just the right cord? Is the writing efficient, sparkling with personality and wit and warmth and unique voice? Maybe this isn’t as easy as it looks after all. By raising the bar, I mean refusing to write a story that doesn’t hold the inherent potential to achieve the greatness required to grab that editor by the throat. Or, one that won’t get the story architecture process it deserves.

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Many newer writers set off down the storytelling path on the strength of a sparkling idea, without regard or thought to the myriad criteria and multiple dramatic elements that go into a successful story. Or, story architecture. But for the writer who is willing to invest in that process - whether the road is organic or blueprint-driven - the rewards are great. Orgasmic, even. So… how do you know what the story architecture criteria and elements are? The quest for that answer defines the writing life itself. Another book, another time.

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29. Put your energies into finding an agent instead of a publisher. I like to say there are no dumb questions when it comes to writing. But there are dumb questions when it comes to the issue of trying to sell a novel or screenplay – especially a screenplay – without an agent. One of them is this: can I save some money and just sell my work without an agent ? Sure you can. You can also buy a lottery ticket and never have to work again. The odds are about the same. Asking if you need an agent to sell a novel to New York publishers or a screenplay to Hollywood is like asking if you need an accountant because you’ve just won that lottery. If your manuscript is good enough to sell, the metaphor fits. The trouble with notions such as this is that it actually happens. Once in a faded blue moon. And in the even rarer instance in which a book or screenplay has sold without an agent and then becomes a commercial or critical hit – about the same odds as winning the lottery… twice – it perpetuates the fantasy that you can do it, too. You can’t. Not really. It’s just not gonna happen. In the case of screenplays, they won’t even open an envelope containing an unsolicited screenplay – take that literally – and where books are concerned, you’d have to query first and then your book goes into what is known as the slush pile, to be read by part-time lit major living in Hoboken getting paid ten bucks an hour. The good news is that it’s actually easier to land an agent than it is to sell your work directly, and involves much the same process. Put your money where the odds are and sell smart. What you’ll pay an agent to accomplish what you’ll never accomplish on your own is worth every dime.

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30. Don’t sweat your prose. Do sweat your story. This one is a little like learning there is no Santa Clause. Newsflash for writers: if there was and he was an editor, he wouldn’t give a rip about the sweet lyric rhythm of your prose. Most people get into writing because they love the sound of their own prose. People have told them you ought to write because their letters and emails play like song lyrics. So we bring this love of words to our attempts to craft fiction, and thus fall into the first and deepest pit awaiting new writers: overwriting. Purple writing. Too many adjectives. Writing that clutters things up. Pretty writing that doesn’t tell a great story. The thing is, editors know they can fix mediocre writing. But they don’t have the patience to fix a broken story. You can sell a great story that’s poorly written in terms of its prose, but you can’t sell a lousy story no matter how well the words sing. Read the bestsellers and you’ll see that the longer and more profitably someone publishes stories, the less flowery and elegant their prose. This is a seductive trap for amateur critics, including newer writers, because when the see the efficiency and clarity of, say, John Grisham’s writing, they label it vanilla and begin to think they can do just as well. If that’s you, then this is one of the best tips in this book. Pretty words are like a gorgeous actress who can’t utter a line. No work for her. Pretty words don’t count in New York. Great stories do. Writing is like the air. The best air is fresh, completely void of odor. Sometimes a hint of scent works, sometimes it doesn’t. But almost always, an overwhelming stench – one person’s perfume is another person’s need to fumigate – will get you rejected. Clear the air in your writing. Write with refreshingly efficient and easy prose. Like a clean breeze. Words that go down easy. And then tell your story with ferocity and complete mastery of the storytelling craft.

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31.

Read book and movie reviews. As many as you can. Not because you’re shopping for your next read. But to begin to sense what catches the eye of a reviewer, what they notice, both positive and negative. Elsewhere I’ve suggested that you actually write a review of your work as an exercise in objectivity. Reading published book and movie reviews, however, is a different experience, one designed to teach more than to evaluate your work. Reviewers, if they’re any good, tear into a book or movie with an insider’s understanding of story architecture, characterization and narrative power, and you can learn a lot if you listen for these insights. If you’ve read the book or seen the movie in question, so much the better. So once you’ve finished reading a book or a seeing a movie, really study the reviews and see what there is to learn. Trust me, there’s plenty.

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32.

Think of yourself as an insider, a professional in the writing business. Imagine yourself sitting at an editor’s desk in a publishing house or in a movie production office. The former has a view of Central Park, the latter a parking lot and a Dairy Queen. You’ve read three manuscripts already that morning – you can do this because if you aren’t hooked by page 10 you stop reading, and this is usually what happens – and then your beloved manuscript surfaces as the next victim. What are you, the acquisitions editor, looking for? What’s hot in the market now? Or better, what is anticipated to be hot down the road (see Tip #72)? What genre does this fit into? What is the audience for this, and what will they think? Been there, read that? Same ol’ same ol’? Recycled Grisham? Wannabe Mamet? Derivative? Boring? Trite? Sophomoric? Pretentious? What will your boss, the senior editor or studio head, say when you come to them with this project and bet your job on it? Have you given this industry insider, this cynical, underpaid, hardto-please, burned out, high-standards agent or editor, perhaps a writer in her or his own right, something to get excited about? Is your work good enough for this person? You already know you’re too close to your work to be objective. And you know that your friends, who aren’t close to the work, are too close to you to be honest. So if you can get outside yourself – and perhaps, over yourself – just a little, for just a moment, you may sense something in your manuscript that you suspect might be a yellow flag. And when that happens, it’s time to head for the pit and do a tuneup.

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33. Ask yourself if you’re writing for the right reasons. Stop focusing on the outcome and immerse yourself in the process. (See Tip #101.) Understand why you write. Maybe it’s for the wrong reasons. If you’re writing to get rich, that’s the wrong reason. Because chances are you’re emulating a bestselling author or an A-list screenwriter, and that never works. If you’re writing to invent a new literary genre or format, then set your sites on an obscure publisher from a third world country, or more likely, a self-published marketing strategy. If you’re writing to get something off your chest, you risk infusing your work with propaganda at the expense of dramatic exposition. Leave the preaching for Sunday morning. If you’re writing because there’s a story inside you that won’t go away, pay attention, that’s the universe calling your name. If you’re writing because you’ve read a published book and you think you can do just as well, make sure you’ve studied the craft of storytelling before you dive in. Professionals make it look easy, and it’s anything but. If you’re writing because you find bliss in the process, an escape otherwise impossible to know, then you’re home. Kick off your shoes and stay a while. If you’re writing because you came close last time and you just know this next one will hit, good for you. But make sure you understand why your last one didn’t quite break through, and apply that learning. Writing requires forward motion at all times. There is something to learn with every literary experience, both from a reading and a writing perspective. At the end of the day there are no right or wrong reasons, because it’s just not that simple. It’s when there is one driving rationale and motivation, you need to take pause and examine it. 43


It’s not wrong to dream of money and fame, but without some inner drive to tell a story and a sense of ecstasy and release as you do, it’ll never happen. The only people who should write for money are already published.

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34. Stuck? Write something terrible. So you’re stuck. Writer’s block. You have no new ideas, no clue where to go next with your project, not a single notion how to fix the hole you’ve written yourself into. You have two choices: do nothing, or do something. The mistake is to do nothing in anticipation of the arrival of some inspiring Epiphany that will propel you back into your story. Beneath all the excuses for not writing there are two primary explanations: you have fallen out of love with your story, or your story is, in fact, broken. Both can freeze you stiffer than Nicole Kidman’s forehead. Paradoxically, the reason you fall out of love with your story is the great likelihood that it is broken. Subconsciously you may have realized that the story just isn’t working, even given its best execution. You’ve executed your outline as planned, and you were sure the outline was solid, but here you are at the mid-point and nothing about the story is buzzing with energy. Shakespeare himself couldn’t save this thing. Or maybe you just started writing before you did due diligence to story architecture – a common and often fatal mistake – and here you are, stuck in the middle with no exit strategy. If your story is broken, if you are stuck the trick is to fix what’s wrong with it (see Tip #6), as opposed to rationalizing your creative draught as something springing from the rest of your life. The more you understand about story architecture and the criteria for conceptualization, characterization, theme and scene writing – all of which, by the way, do have a list of criteria for excellence - the greater your chances of diagnosing what’s wrong and then saving the patient with a little creative story surgery. The best fix is to go back to basic story training. Bone up on storytelling fundamentals to discover where you went of track. Trust me, minutes after checking your story against the known criteria for storytelling excellence – and if you don’t know them, 45


there’s your problem – you’ll trip over your blockage and be able to toss it aside. Baring that, if you are still in love with your story and are sure it is structurally sound, and you’re still stuck, there remains one thing to do: Something. Write anything. Literally sit down and try to write your way out of the corner you’ve written yourself into. Force it. The reason you haven’t been writing is that you don’t have anything worthy to write. So there you sit, waiting to be sure your time isn’t wasted writing something that doesn’t fit. Well, sitting there wasting time waiting for that Epiphany doesn’t fit, either. Proactive is always better than waiting where writing is concerned. Here’s the miracle of this tip: you won’t write crap for long. This is like loosening up a stiff muscle – after a short time the creative juices will begin to flow and you’ll either realize what you need to f ix after all, or like someone who has veered off the path and wanders aimlessly until they stumble back to it, you’ll find yourself back in the groove. Maybe that’s the Epiphany you’ve been waiting for.

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35.

Proofread everything. Twice. Or more. Clean writing is like your word. It defines you. It is the gauge of your credibility. I don’t think I’ve ever not found a typo or a way to improve on what I’ve written when I go back through it. I’m talking about emails, blogs, social media posts, twitters, grocery lists, whatever… in addition to the obvious need to proof your manuscripts. Especially emails. We dash them off in a hurry, and when they’re destined for agents or publishers or other writers, either in the form of queries (which are still better rendered as hard copy sent via U.S. Mail) or quick notes, they’re all the recipient has to identify us. A typo is like something hanging out of your nose. And you wouldn’t go to a job interview with something hanging out of your nose. And if it almost always results in a quality upgrade, it’s always worth the time and effort. I’ve heard writers dispute this. They say they expend all their energies on their work, and they don’t have any left for their other, less important writing. There is no less important writing. This is like a little kid who whines about having to make the bed before school Proofing is part of the deal. Because it’s part of professionalism. And if you want to turn pro, you better step up to that bar. (Having said that, I feel compelled to insert this self-serving caveat: I’ve proofread this manuscript at least six times. I’ve had three other sets of eyes on it. And I’d be willing to bet serious money that somewhere in here there remains a typo or two. If so, my apologies, I’m embarrassed. Email me if you want, feel free to gloat.)

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36. Obey the ground rules of genre. There are mysteries, and there are thrillers. And then there are mystery/thrillers. All three are different animals in a zoo full of species. A mystery is the unraveling of a crime that has already happened, usually an effort to identify the guilty party. A whodunit . Or, it can be an effort to uncover the truth about something that exists now but is not known or visible. A what-really-happened story. A thriller is the anticipation and experience of a harrowing event about to occur or already unfolding around the hero. A mystery/thriller is when someone is at risk of harm or dire consequences in connection with the investigation of past events, or of the truth about current events. Something may happen to someone as the hero investigates what happened before. Knowing the difference isn’t just important as you write your story, it’s critical when you try to sell it. Because how you pitch your story (or query it in written form; see Tip #89) calls for genreidentification up front, and if you don’t label it right you’ll create the wrong context and expectation for the reader. Romance novels have specific guidelines about character, plot and sex. Break them and you’ll never see your work in a bookstore. Same with spy novels, fantasy, science fiction (be careful with time travel, its always paradoxical), historical fiction, political stories and alleged non-fiction novels. Each of these issues is a breakout session at a writing conference, and the rules of genre are far too extensive to delve into here. The real issue is, are you comfortable with your command of your chosen genre? If this makes you squirm, then stop writing and brush up on the basics of the niche you’re aiming for. And if you’re trying to invent your own niche… well, good luck with that.

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37. Ask for feedback. Filter it when it arrives. Here’s the thing about asking for feedback: you’ll get it. Every time. Its human psychology 101: if you ask someone for feedback and they can’t think of anything to say, they think they’ll look stupid. They’ll assume you feel the work isn’t perfect and that you need their help in identifying what’s missing or off the mark, and when they can’t find it, when they have nothing to say, they’ll have failed. So they’ll land on anything and everything they can. Sometimes valid, sometimes completely out of left field. When you ask for feedback, you are coming from one of two places: -- you suspect something is weak, and you’ll usually have a solid sense of precisely what it is; you’re testing your instincts by seeing if anyone else feels the same way; -- or, you’re simply looking for affirmation. And there’s the trap. If you are looking for affirmation, this means you think the book is ready, it’s nearly perfect, and you want the reader to be blown away. You need to hear it to be sure. But you disguise the request as an earnest desire for feedback, which means that’s precisely what you’ll get, and for the reasons cited above. Ask a critique group for feedback and you’ll get criticized every time. Even if there’s little to criticize. Human nature. The best protection here is to pick your critics carefully, and in context to which of the two objectives apply. If they’re a writer themselves, so much the better. If it’s about affirmation, give the manuscript to someone who reads books for pleasure and is unlikely to begin their editorial career with this project. Like your mother. Rule of thumb: the more specific you are with your need, the more careful you need to be about whom you ask for input.

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38. Double filter criticism of your ideas and outlines, versus your finished manuscripts. Nobody will understand your story from an outline as well as you do. Nobody. You know that old saying, opinions are like assholes and elbows, everybody has ‘em? Well, that was written by an author who showed his outline to someone, and then went out and did it again. The thing about criticism is that eventually you’ll know in the deepest part of your intellect (commonly known as your gut) if the feedback is on the mark or not. Subconsciously you may have already been aware of a potential flaw when you handed over the manuscript, and hearing it validates that instinct. When that happens, or even if it doesn’t – just as often the feedback comes as a complete surprise – get a second opinion. Never make a change to your story based on one opinion. Unless it’s a typo. Or unless it’s something you already knew was broken. The best reason to get a second opinion, though, is also one of human nature – yours, as the author. Because there’s a high probability that you’ll try to fight off negative input that violates your preconceptions and hopes. You’ll make it wrong, you’ll rationalize. And then, a few days later – days you can buy simply by asking someone else to look at the work in the meantime – you may find yourself begrudgingly realizing that the input you rejected or even resented has a kernel of truth in it. When that happens, then you can no longer doubt that you’re a real writer. Real writers know that the truth, or at least the best creative option, doesn’t always have to come from within. The universe speaks to us, sometimes through the mouths of others. Where outlines and concepts are concerned, this goes double. Because outlines and concepts are virtually impossible to critique by anyone who isn’t a seasoned writer. And even then, it’s risky.

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Asking for feedback on an outline or an idea is like evaluating the life’s work of an infant or teenage. The page is still blank. Analyze what you hear, but know that the critic can’t possibly understand the true nature of your story at this stage. Heck, chances are you don’t, either.

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39. Walk away for a while. A universal truth of writing: you won’t get it perfect the first time. Which is why I advocate outlining the complete architecture of the story. But that’s just me again. Writers are tinkerers. And some of us are blind to typos and other stupid mistakes that, when viewed with fresh eyes, leap off the page and punch us in the nose. This applies to manuscripts, emails, letters, chapters… anything you write. If you re-read it immediately upon finishing, you’ll almost always catch something. And if you walk away for a while – not convenient for emails, but it should be a golden rule for your fiction – you’ll find even more ways to improve and fix and tinker upon your return. The longer you stay away, the greater the value of the changes you’ll make when you again set your eyes on what you’ve written. Sometimes you’ll not believe how lame you were the first time.

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40. Know when to say goodbye to your story. I’m not talking about finally getting up the courage to stuff your manuscript manuscript into an envelope and and mail it off. That’s a goodbye goodbye of an entirely different nature than what I’m going for here. I’m talking about abandoning your story. Completely. As in: quitting, tossing it in the fireplace, admitting failure, moving on to greener story pastures. Because a killer idea does not always a good story make. One of the great risks, not mention common mistakes, is to begin with what seemed like a great story concept and then writing it to death without ever finding the spine and the spirit of the story you envisioned. Instead of forcing elements and compromising story architecture and character, and after much soul searching and multiple attempts, there comes a time when you should consider just calling it quits. Mastering the concepts of story architecture goes a long way – almost all the way – toward preventing this disaster… more on that later. In my workshops I use an exercise involving a specific diagram to illustrate this. I don’t reveal that the exercise is impossible to complete successfully successfully in accordance accordance with the instructions, and yet it looks so simple. A no-brainer. I ask people to raise their hand once I say go say go.. Usually a hand goes up within fifteen seconds. seconds. That’s the writer writer who doesn’t think his his story through, who just blasts something onto the page and thinks about the rules later, when he’s rewriting. Sometimes these people don’t accept it when I show them how they failed to achieve achieve the stated objective. objective. They try to make the instructions wrong or unclear, or come up with some geometric theory of alien science science to justify their effort. These are the writers who do it their way, then can’t understand why an editor won’t f ork over a seven figure advance.

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But the real kicker is when I finally reveal that the problem is unsolvable. Some laugh, some get angry, and others – the writers who won’t just walk away from a story that isn’t working – keep their head down trying to solve the unsolvable as the workshop moves on without them. The central concept of concept of your story, often described in what if? terms, if? terms, is only one of the Six the Six Core Competencies Competencies of Successful Storytelling (using caps here because that’s the name of my story development model, as well as the the title of the book I’m writing writing about it). There are five others, and all of them are equally important. Omit or be weak in any one of the six and the story will tank. Concept is no exception. exception. It’s just the beginning of the process, process, and sometimes it’s not even that, it can come later. How do you know when to walk away? That’s easy. When you begin to fall out of love with a story you can’t make work. (Email me if you’d like to see the exercise, or if you think you’ll be the first person in history to get it right.)

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41. Allow new story ideas to percolate before expanding on them. Unless you’re on The Bachelor , you wouldn’t marry someone after just meeting them, no matter how exciting they seem at the time. You probably wouldn’t marry them after only a few dates, either, even if you’ve verified that they’re more exciting than you thought. Because what you see on the surface isn’t always a good indicator of what you find on the inside. inside. The same is true of your story story ideas. And if the idea came to you in a dream, which it often of ten does with writers, the need for caution and gestation time is even more applicable. Dreams come from a place that rarely makes sense, other than metaphoric metaphoric sense, in the real world. Don’t try to put the dream on the page unless your genre is fantasy.

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42. Can’t think of a story? Make up some titles instead. Some people have a knack for titles. They come easy, even before coming up with a story that goes with it. Natural born copywriters, these. Looking for story ideas and can’t get excited? Try this exercise: take out a piece of paper and come up with as many book/movie titles as you can. Alliterate, be ironic, be clever, be edgy. Look at existing titles and improvise. For example: Four Weddings and a Funeral might lead you to Six Tax Audits and a Divorce. And so on. This works well in group settings, especially after a few cocktails. There’s an outside chance that some of these titles will intrigue you and quickly lead you to add the next element of an emerging story. And a story is nothing if not a bunch of ideas strung together. If that happens, play what if? with it and see where it leads. In the end you may not keep the title that got you started, but the exercise will have done its job if it did, in fact, help send you down a creative path.

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43. Can’t cook up a worthy story? Cruise a bookstore. It’s been said there are only seven stories out there. Everything you read and everything you write is just a derivation, adaptation, mutation or mutilation of one of them. They are man or woman versus: nature, man, the environment, machines and technology, the supernatural, the self, and God. It’s kind of fun to try to bust this truism, and you’ll find that you can’t. Not really. All stories pretty much boil down to these seven ideas. Unless they’re true stories. With them, all bets are off. Interesting to note that the word versus is part of each iconic type of story. Because versus implies confrontation and conflict, and that’s the very essence of any story. But I digress. If you can’t come up with a story idea, or if you can’t develop your idea into a story spine with the depth and criteria required to make it work, there is a place you can go for wealth of ideas. Go where the stories are. Go to the bookstore. When you go into idea acquisition mode your brain reacts much like an internet search engine. You enter key words and the software spits back millions of mutations and connections. Somewhere in that database is what you were looking for. Same thing happens when you read dust jackets and the back of paperbacks. Go to the genre section of your choice and just read. Open your mind, because your mind already knows what it is you’re seeking. Sparks will fly. Ideas will bounce off the walls of your cranium. Guaranteed. The only downside is that you may find so many ideas you’ll have to prioritize, or perhaps make a list of brand new story ideas for down the road.

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Bring a notepad and pen. And don’t worry about borrowing someone else’s creativity – with only seven stories available, every book in the place is borrowed to some degree.

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44. Write a list of everything you resent in your life. Really. Maybe set yourself a time limit for this one, it could take days. This has to do with creating character backstories and resultant preferences, patterns, decisions and actions that connect to them. And nothing drives decisions and behaviors quite like a juicy piece of resentment. Here’s the deal with resentment. The next step is resistance. And then, revenge. It’s a deadly three-step process that underpins how we interact with others. And, it makes for great dramatic fiction. The closer the person is to us, the more we likely resent them – if we do at all – because of things from the past. But this can also apply to larger groups – think race, creed and color, not to mention political affiliation, and economic class. If you didn’t resent that Bernie Madoff clown, even just a little, then check for a pulse. If you know what your character resents in her or his life, you can then make the leap to what they resist. For example, if you resent your spouse leaving all the housework to you, you may resist joining him for an evening of exciting television and popcorn, instead retiring to your office to work on your novel (which is about a woman who murders her husband because he took her for granted). From that resistance comes revenge – your husband may accuse you of being cold and find himself seeking an affair. Or, that could be you. When resistance enters the picture, revenge becomes a two way street. Try this on yourself. Be honest, and notice how your resentments just might be influencing your life or a specific relationship. Reflect this vicious cycle with your characters and you’ll have a dynamic that rings true for your readers. 59


45.

Break some rules. Selectively. Carefully. Such as, using the word schnazzy in your opening line. In fact, if you can’t find just the word you need, and if the contextual tone of your narrative permits it, just make one up. The best place to break rules is when writing dialogue. Nobody speaks according to the rules, nor should your characters. Slang, cursing, incomplete sentences, random chaos, dangling participles… it’s all fair game when coming out of the mouths of your characters. But there is a long list of writing rules that you should not break, because when you do you put your story at risk. No mystery here, you know what they are, and if you don’t you’re not in a position to be considering deliberate rule breaking in the first place. That’s the criteria for breaking a rule, and it’s a paradox: breaking rules deliberately can be a good thing, but breaking them without a clue is always a bad thing. It’s true for athletes and hedge fund managers, and it’s just as true for writers.

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46. Don’t listen to any absolutes about writing. There are no absolutes in the writing game other than avoiding typos and misspellings at all costs. In the past I’ve written negatively about the way Stephen King approaches storytelling ( just get an idea and begin writing…), because it sounds like he’s saying this is The Way to go about it . It is if you’re a prodigy or a veteran of six dozen novels, like he is. And in voicing a contrary opinion – death threats and all – I’ve been accused of sounding the same way: absolute. The people who don’t agree with my views on story architecture and outlining take an absolute stance themselves. We are both significantly short of absolutely right. Find what works for you, then see if agents and editors agree. If they do, chances are your readers will, also.

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47.

Be open to changing your approach. While I’m on that particular issue… In my travels as a workshop facilitator who strongly, even evangelistically, advocates outlining stories before you write them, I regularly run into angry writers who, after a litany of disgusted commiseration among equally outraged peers, announce to me that they just don’t outline. Never have, never will. Well, that’s fine if your career is going like you want it to. My usual response – good for you… how’s that working for you these days? – doesn’t win me a lot of friends, but it does clarify the issue. Never have, never will . There’s a lot of backstory behind such a position. And a lot of rejection slips. To clarify, I’m not saying that people who refuse to outline are wrong. Whatever process leads you to the discovery of your story and the fulfillment of solid architecture is a good thing, and if a bunch of drafts is your approach and it works for you, you are one of the lucky ones. The problem here is that if you set off down that drafting road without first knowing what you’re shooting for in terms of elements, sequence, placement and tension, then drafting is a much more difficult way to navigate the storytelling landscape than outlining. Now, back to my point. If you’re tired of rejection, if your stories don’t work as well as they should, if you’re blaming it all on someone else, then I submit to you that it’s time to think differently. There a million ways to write a novel in the big city. Mine is just one of them. So is yours. And if yours isn’t working, consider a different approach. Definition of insanity: doing the same old thing over and over again while expecting different results. Writing has enough ways to drive us insane without stubbornness being one of them.

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48. Understand that all successful stories share certain characteristics and criteria. Writers tend to reject the notion that there is, or should be, a formula for the writing of a novel. But there absolutely is. You need a hero, someone to root for. You need to put that hero into the middle of a quest, journey, need or desire. You need to create opposition to that goal. You need to have the hero battling some inner demon along the way, as well as an antagonistic force from the outside world. You need to have the hero be the catalyst that brings about the ending of the story. You don’t need a happy ending. You need a satisfying ending. If your reader came for the creeps, then by all means creep them out. You need a beginning, middle and an ending. If you don’t, you have a short story – no matter how long it is – and not a novel. If this sounds too basic to be considered a tip, consider this: one or more of these missing or broken elements is often the rationale behind a rejection slip. And as you know, there are more rejection slips floating through the U.S. postal system than there are book contracts.

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49. Understand why your previous work didn’t sell. Getting rejected hurts. You probably remember that from high school. If you didn’t think your story works and that the writing is spectacular, you wouldn’t have submitted it in the first place. Which is why, when we do get rejected, we tend to write it off as the agent or editor being completely and utterly clueless. But there’s a reason behind every rejection. And it’s rare when they tell you. So you need to dig in and understand what it is, because the answer might make your next book better, and if not that, it might very well make you feel better. Books and screenplays get rejected for all sorts of reasons that have nothing at all to do with the quality of the work: there was a similar book or story recently acquired … they’ve reached their quota of first time writers… the editor hates stories that have the word Jesus in them… the editor’s last acquisition tanked and she’s afraid for her job… the publishing house is being acquired… there’s a new senior editor in town… it’s good but not commercial… it’s too commercial… it’s too Grisham… it’s not enough Grisham… and so on. Of course, it’s possible the agent or editor read something they didn’t like. Which means, the story or the writing is less than stellar or even broken. If that’s the case, you don’t have to be Harry Bosch to figure it out. Your friends, if they’re really friends, should tell you (your non writer friends will always tell you it was wonderful… don’t listen to them). Don’t stop asking until someone assures you one way or the other. But here’s another thing you need to understand, and it’s a bitter pill. Perfectly fine work gets rejected all the time for one elusive reason that has nothing at to do with any of the above: the manuscript had nothing spectacular to offer. It was good, but it just wasn’t good enough. Another project in the pile was better.

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That hurts more than a broken story because it’s almost impossible to fix. Agents and editors are looking for home runs. Almost exclusively. Yep, you need to be better than good, more compelling than solid, more professional than the pros. To get published in today’s market, your story needs to have one or two of the following: -

a conceptual hook so outrageous or original that the editor forgets to breath;

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a protagonist so compellingly fresh that they remember why they majored in literature;

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a thematic tapestry so rich and textured that the reader finds themselves questioning what they thought was true;

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a writing voice touched by God herself.

While you must be solid in all of the elements of storytelling, you only need one or two of these to be off-the-charts amazing to land a contract, and it is the rare book indeed that delivers them all. Even The DaVinci Code only had two out of these four, and look what happened to it. (And if you’re about to point out that The DaVinci Code wasn’t Dan Brown’s first book, you’re right… but here’s what’s interesting: the same criteria applies to writing a breakout book as it does to publishing a first novel… and The DaVinci Code is nothing if not the poster child for breakout novels everywhere.) Again, a high bar. To break into the business you need to go way above the standard – good, solid, entertaining – set for previously published name-brand authors. To get published, you need to be better than they are. If your perfectly good book was rejected and you finally conclude that your story and your writing really are perfectly okay, this might very well be the reason. Okay just doesn’t cut it.

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50. Bad dialogue can and will kill you. It will also kill your readers. It will bore them to death. Sadly, if you wrote your dialogue badly in the first place, chances are you have no idea that it pretty much sucks. So how do you improve an element of your story that you don’t even know is weak? Rejection slips are one clue. Feedback is another, but strangely, people seem hesitant to criticize dialogue. Not sure why, but that’s been my experience. Probably because there’s no solution to offer, other than don’t make your characters sound like empty-headed idiots. Good dialogue is a cultural issue, a window into the lives and social norms of the specific plane and time of the story. What is funny here gets blank stares in England. What is hip for generation-X isn’t even understood by most baby boomers. (I wrote the term “my bad” into a line of dialogue once, and couldn’t convince my agent that this was street-wise and current.) There is a helpful concept for nailing what your characters say, and that is to avoid on-the-nose dialogue. If a line of dialogue is some combination of obvious and vanilla, chances are it’s on-the-nose and flags a writer who needs some dialogue coaching. Of course there are the obvious issues of dialogue reflecting character and situation-relevant tensions, and in this vein the unspoken or the inferred can be more powerful than the spoken word. One way to begin to improve your dialogue is to actually try to imbue it with slang, street, dialect, attitude and wit. Make it hip. All this, rather than simply letting it flow. That old myth about the characters taking over and starting to talk for themselves can kill you, because they’ll do it through your world view, and that may not be remotely street, witty or hip. Once again, the best teaching tool for writing becomes reading – immerse yourself in the masters of dialogue and go to school on them. Chances are you’ve never really noticed their dialogue

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before… and that’s because they’ve written it so naturally and believably. Short and snappy exchanges are always good. People don’t speak in soliloquies unless they’re in a Mamet play or a Tarantino flick. The real key to crackling dialogue is to listen to real people talk to each other. “I’m just sayin’.”

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51.

Don’t model your work after bestsellers or their authors. Different rules apply. I’m not saying don’t read them. By all means, do read them, and have a good time. Even better, use them to school yourself. But if you’re assuming that these stories – and especially hit movies -- are bestsellers in the first place because of some qualitative issue, that they are better written than books that aren’t bestsellers or movies that are hits – then you’re buying into a carefully constructed façade. Because it just ain’t so. Bestsellers are as often ordained as they are validly worthy of the term. Most bestseller lists are not based on sales to readers, but rather on wholesale orders from major distributors, chains and the collective whole of independent booksellers. Which means that a book that bears the name of a superstar writer, or one at which the publisher has thrown seven digits worth of promotional hype, will arrive on the shelves with a bestseller tag already in place. That’s why the occasional mediocre book hits the list. And why they don’t stay there long if retail sales don’t materialize. The best indicator of a true bestseller is a book that stays on the list for weeks. That means it’s being reordered, and that only happens when the stores sell out their stock. It means reviews and word-ofmouth (the tipping point ) have kicked in to validate the original hype. But even then, you should never try to model a story or your writing style after a bestseller as a strategy to get it published. When The DaVinci Code broke out, publishers were besieged with religious conspiracy stories. All of them went down in flames. Any book that came out on the heels of The DaVinci Code craze was either already in the pipeline or there was a relationship already in place somewhere along the line. Go to school on that .

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52.

The rules of first person narrative have changed. Once again, your last-generation writing teacher is wrong, by today’s standards, about this myth: once you’ve started a story using first person, you’re stuck with it. Nelson Demille and I respectfully disagree. Both of us wrote novels that alternated between the first person perspective of the hero and a third person narrative coming from an omniscient point of view. Demille’s book (The Lion’s Game), like everything he writes, was a New York Times bestseller. Mine ( Bait and Switch) was only the lead entry on Publishers Weekly’s “Best Books of 2004 – Mass Market” list after a starred review. (It also appeared on their “Best Overlooked Books of 2004” list, the only paperback so named, and to this day I’m not sure how to feel about that one.) My point: times have changed. Your high school creative writing teacher has long retired. That said, the rules of how to handle first person within your scenes remain very much in disciplined tact. The most important rule is that you stick with one voice – first or third; second person is awkward and rarely seen, use at your own risk – in any given chapter. The whole chapter needs to be one or the other. And when in first person, you can’t tell us what someone else is thinking or, if they’re not present, what they’re seeing or doing. Unless it’s your first person narrator making personal assumptions to that effect. The best way to learn first person is to read it. The more you experience it as a reader, the more you’ll understand how to implement it as a writer.

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53.

Switch voices. Now that you know that it’s perfectly okay, that the ghost of your old high school writing teacher really won’t torment your nights at the keyboard, this is a great way to inject some life into a story that might otherwise feel flat to you. I’m not talking about playing with first person (see Tip #52) as a creative lark. I’m talking about completely changing voice to resurrect a story that isn’t popping off the page. If your story is told in third person, play around with the notion of having your hero tell us the story in first person, or that of another character who might better narrate it. Notice how things come easier, expression and quick asides feel smoother, and humor isn’t something you have to force. If first person isn’t what’s working for you in the first place, it may be because of shifting points of view are burdening you with limitations. Consider switching to third person omniscient narrative, or as suggested earlier, even mixing the two formats.

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54.

Present tense is for screenplays. Only. This is one of those writerly rules-of-thumb that gets trumped by the occasional novel written in present tense that actually does get published and finds an audience. But they’re few and far between. And in my opinion, really challenging to read. What’s even rarer is the instance of such a novel being written by a first-timer. Why? Because present tense is awkward and risky. It takes a deft ear and a clever hand to pull off. And even then, it reads like an experiment. Agents and editors are looking for reasons to reject you. Cynical, but true. The moment they realize they’re reading present tense they’ll have that reason. Even if you’re good at it. Even if it works. Just because someone, somewhere, actually wins the lottery doesn’t make the purchase of a ticket a sound investment. It’s always gambling, and for the most part a waste of your money. You should never gamble with your writing career, because the odds are already stacked. Don’t make them worse by writing in present tense.

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55.

Understand the potential of an arena story. Which begs the question, what’s an arena story? Something about a hockey game? Answer: yeah, that could work. Arena is the embodiment of the old cliché: write what you know. If what you know is fascinating and unusual, then simply by taking the reader into that culture or environment you’re creating inherent fascination and voyeuristic juice. That’s called an arena, and your expertise receives top billing there. An arena story is drama that unfolds in a place, culture or profession that is inherently, even without a story unfolding upon it, interesting and complex. John Grisham’s novels are all arena stories, taking place within the legal profession and throwing back the curtain that proves every lawyer joke ever told. John Nance’s novels are always about aviation. Patricia Cornwell’s stories take us into the minty-scented world of forensic pathology. Dan Brown’s home run novels are nothing if not arena stories. Top Gun was an arena story. The Wrestler was an arena story. Star Trek is an arena franchise. When you begin to notice, you’ll see arena stories are everywhere, and always have been. And – pay attention here – always will be. Think about it. The interpersonal dramas that unfold in those stories really could have happened anywhere. But without the jets, Tom Cruise would have been just another taxi driver in Top Gun. (Note to self: Scorsese’s Taxi Driver was also an arena story.) More common professions and situations – working in an office, marriage, a bar, etc. – aren’t really arenas in this context, since we’ve all been there and nothing about those environments can really surprise us, nor is it remotely interesting outside of some of the whack-jobs that work there. They make good tapestries, just not inherently attractive in their own right. A story about a marriage needs to rely on the characters and plot exposition to work, whereas a story about F-16s and the pilots trained to fly them off carriers doesn’t really need all that much story to work, which, if you saw Top Gun, history proves to be true. 72


If you know an arena well – a profession, a place, a culture, etc. – consider setting your story within the context of what you know, and then give the reader some steamy inside stuff that they’ll find interesting, both separate from and also connected to the story in clever little ways that surprise and entertain. If the arena is strong enough, your story can skate by on simply being good instead of great. Shoot for great. But when you can’t, arena makes a terrific backup strategy.

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56.

Don’t put limits or expectations on where your story idea will come from. That miraculous little germ of an idea, the one that you will ultimately build into a multidimensional novel or screenplay, can come from any realm of the creative process. It can be conceptual, an exciting “what if…?” question that intrigues you. It can be the need to explore an intriguing character (my first novel began exactly this way). It can be an issue or a theme that you feel you must address. It can be a sequence of events that, upon examination, seems like a worthy story to tell. The journey of your story from initial idea to executed story can come from any these four realms: concept, character, theme or the skeleton of a plot. Where you begin is far less important than where you end up, because all four will be there when that happens. Nobody knows how or where or when that seed of an idea – seed, germ, flicker, whatever – will descend upon you. It usually just shows up unannounced. In fact, those are the best ideas, because if you are frantically looking for an idea to turn into a novel you are more prone to forcing something unworthy into existence. It’s the ideas that grab you by the throat that have the best shot at story survival. If the first idea, no matter which of the four labels it wears, is sufficiently energized, you’ll find yourself easily landing on one of the others. Maybe two. The rest you’ll have to grind out yourself. But know this. Nobody gets all four from the clouds. The real work of storytelling is taking that initial seed and adding the other remaining three elements to it in a magnificent way. The biggest mistake you can make is to think you can write a novel or screenplay by leveraging the power of your initial idea alone. Put 74


your creative energy into concocting the remaining three, whichever three they are, and then melding them into something that, when you look back at it upon completion, seems as if was meant to be. This is why beginning the drafting process with only one of the elements solidly developed is risky. Because each draft becomes an expedition to find and develop the others. And once you do, you’ll have to rewrite and rewrite and rewrite to flesh them all out. Or, you could just do all that development work ahead of time, before you write. Your call. Nobody will know -- in fact, nobody should know – which of the four you started with. Doesn’t matter. At the end of the writing day, all four must be actively in play.

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57.

Just because it’s been done before doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be done again. By you. We all know that George Lucas wanted to write a western set in outer space. He did, and it was a little ditty called Star Wars. In fact, recasting a beloved story in another time, place and genre can be a great creative idea. The acid test on this issue involves how and when your story idea was born. If you read The DaVinci Code and said to yourself, hey, this is fun, think I’ll whip up some mythology about Jesus and get back at my priest in the process, then maybe set that idea aside for a few years. But if you had your idea separately, or prior to, your awareness of another story that’s out there making money, stick to your guns and develop your story your way. It makes sense to investigate the proximity of the existing story to yours, and make changes accordingly. Storytelling is like singing: Sinatra and Perry Como sounded like the same guy, and they both had big careers. Sometimes they even sang the same classics. Put your stamp on your work, write your ideas, and let the rest take care of itself. You have no control over the rest, anyhow.

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58. Understand the difference between an idea, a concept, a premise, and a story. This is a tough one, because sometimes the people you are talking to – agents, publishers, other writers and workshop leaders – don’t care about the differences. Sometimes they don’t even understand the difference. But you should. To make it more complicated, these terms sometimes actually can refer to the same thing: sometimes an idea is a concept, sometimes a concept is a premise. It all depends on how it’s presented. You need to master the differences, because each term contributes something unique to the creative identity of the underlying story. An idea is the starting point of a story. It requires nothing other than a spark of compulsion that leads somewhere. Idea: a story about the Titanic. Idea: wedding receptions are chaos. Idea: a story about religious mythology. A concept adds possibility to the idea: what if you could raise the Titanic from the bottom of the sea? What if two guys crashed weddings for the food and the girls? What if Jesus didn’t die on the cross after all and married Mary Magdalene, and while we’re at it let’s add about twelve other compelling what ifs and break every record known to publishing? See the difference? A concept is an extension of an idea. A premise adds character to concept, and uses a different format: -

A story about an undersea explorer asked to help raise the Titanic from the ocean and finds himself the pawn in a battle for corporate power and riches.

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A story about two guys who crash a wedding but get more than they bargain for when one of them falls for the blushing bride.

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-

A story about a symbologist called in to decipher clues at the scene of a priest’s murder and finds himself running for his life as ancient factions from the Catholic Church scramble to cover up a twomillennia old conspiracy.

I don’t need to ask if you see the differences now, they are huge. It may not help you sell your work, but it will clarify the steps required to evolve your creative baby from an idea to a concept to a premise, and from there to a featured spot on the New Release rack at Borders.

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59. You may not have to have a strong theme in mind when you begin creating your story. But you will have one in place when you’re done. Whether that happens by chance or by design is up to you. When we talk about the “art” of writing a great novel or screenplay, the centerpiece of that discussion is theme. Other factors, when rendered with high levels of originality and style – such as characterization, writing voice and structural excellence – are often referred to as art , but they’re really examples of craft . Art and craft are different, yet the same. When craft is delivered in such a way as to make a story powerful, it becomes art. Like a car that becomes a classic – it’s all craft, it only becomes art when it touches the hearts of people. When they remember it. Great thematic stories always embody both art and craft. And great stories are always thematic to some extent. There is no such thing as craft when it comes to theme. Theme is all art. Because like a painting or a statue that moves you to tears (and if you don’t think that happens, try standing before Michelangelo’s David and see what happens)… like a photograph you just can’t get out of your head… like an actor who inhabits roles to such a degree that you forget who they are in real life… theme is more than craft. Theme is emotional power. Theme is how a story touches you, moves you, makes you feel, makes you think, makes you remember. Theme can also be nothing more than the cultural setting of your story. A love story, a war story, a political story, a legal story… it is virtually impossible to tell any of them without theme coming to bear on the characters, moving them in directions that have consequences. Theme is what makes those settings so juicy. The degree to which theme becomes art in these cases is the degree to which the story moves the reader. Simply exploring an issue makes it thematic.

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The tip here is to at once adopt two seemingly contradictory approaches to theme. First, if you know what your story is about thematically before you begin to write it, then themes become part of the tapestry as a matter of intention. You’ll need to decide how to handle the theme, whether to sell it or soft-peddle it, if you’re going to objectively illuminate both sides of an issue, or tell the story from one dominant thematic point of view. Then you need to let it go. If you can put those thematic intentions in place, the best approach now is to just tell the stories through your characters. Let them tell the story, let them live it, and let the reader experience it through their own thematic lens. To handle it any other way is to risk propagandizing your story, making your story a thinly veiled platform for an issue. Or, to have no thematic resonance at all.

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60. Understand the true definition of character . Creating great characters in our fiction is the toughest thing we writers face. And one of the best ways to wrap your head around doing it is to understand what great characterization isn’t . It isn’t giving your characters interesting quirks and foibles. Habits, yes, they certainly can contribute to character because they may link to deeper and darker backstory and motivation. But the tendency to crush a can of beer on the bar after finishing, not so much. It isn’t an accent or the way they dress or the kind of food they like or the car they drive. These are affectations and façade, not characterization. Only when you demonstrate that these choices are compensating for something deeper do they move into the realm of character. The best way to understand character is to assign it to the arena of decision and action, and the qualities and motivations that underpin them. Is the character heroic or cowardly? Generous or selfish? Needy or confident? Full of hot air or quietly wise? A giver or a taker? Will they say anything to get their way? Are they desperate for approval? Are they manipulative or sincere? Are they brutally honest or constructively sweet? What is their world view, their politics, their prejudices and biases? What makes them tick? What is their deep dark secret, and where did that come from? None of these have anything at to do with the tendency to dangle a toothpick from one’s mouth. Use quirks carefully, and never in an effort to fully characterize. It’s issues of integrity and values that define character. Bill Clinton, for example, had both, but which direction do they point on the character map?

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61. Avoid, at all costs, the dreaded deus ex machina. Deus ex machina is Latin for god in the machine. In fiction it refers to the too-convenient interjection of an unrelated factor – an accident, an occurrence, a coincidence – that influences the story without actually connecting to it. It simply, and literally, comes out of nowhere, and yet it changes the story materially. To wit: space shuttle debris falls from the sky and kills an assassin as he is driving to the scene of an attempt on the life of a big shot. Case closed, novel over. And, novel unpublished. Too convenient is not a sufficient term to describe such a literary travesty. Deus ex machina says it just fine. In his much puffed and sorely disappointing debut novel Derailed , author James Siegel gave writing instructors everywhere the classic example of how deus ex machina works. Or doesn’t, to be clearer. In Siegel’s novel the bad guys were thwarted at the eleventh hour because they were staying next to a hotel that was conveniently bombed by completely unrelated and irrelevant terrorists (who had nothing at all to do with the story) before they could carry out their evil plan. Classic deus ex machina. Good thing the writer was a buddy of the publisher (he ran the ad agency that served the publishing company), else that half million dollar promotional budget might have not made this quite so embarrassing. The folks who made the movie adaptation didn’t make the same mistake, and we’ve never heard from James Siegel since.

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62. Implement an essence of heroism in your protagonist. Even if she or he is a complete boob. Your main character has to be more than just interesting. She, he or it needs to be positively heroic. Not necessary as who they are, but in terms of how they behave and influence your story. They don’t necessarily have to be heroic from the get go, or over the course of the story. They can – and often should – grow into it (that’s character arc) and apply it to the way the story concludes. An age-old belief is that your hero has to be likeable. Not so much any more. But they do have to be, in some way, heroic. If you’ve seen Bruce Willis in a lot of his movies, you know this isn’t a guy you’d want dating your daughter. Likeable? Depends on your taste. But is he heroic? Absolutely. (Unless he’s the bad guy; Willis does a great bad guy.) Heroism is the new likeability. We need to root for today’s heroes… wanting to hang with them is optional.

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63. You won’t break in to the business by imitating published authors. One of the great frustrations among unpublished authors is the certainty, in their own mind, that they’re every bit as good as the people on the bestseller lists. Or even on the shelf next to it. In fact, many authors find themselves mirroring the style of their favorite authors in the hope that they, too, can be as successful. But here’s the deal. Big time writers didn’t get there because of writing style. They got there because of their storytelling prowess. If their writing voice contributes to the reading experience and thus the power of the story, this is a material factor in their success. But that’s actually a minority; most of the big names write just fine, but there isn’t a John Updike or a Joyce Carol Oates among them. With all due respect to Michael Crichton, he’s a good example of this. And with many, many others who are household names. A lot of readers, especially those who prefer “literary novels,” like to diss guys like James Patterson for their elementary-level prose style. But make no mistake, the level of their writing is absolutely a calculated intention – Patterson used to run the largest ad agency in the world, and he’s a master at calibrating his message to the reading level of the target audience. Over 30 bestsellers later, one has to agree. Here’s another cynical little truth. The famous names don’t need to be as good to remain on the shelves as you need to be to break in and join them there. Publishers aren’t looking for another John Grisham, they’re looking for the next John Grisham. And while subtle, there’s a significant difference. Notice that they’re not looking for the next John Updike, either. They’re looking for an incredible storyteller . Writing voice is optional, and if it’s too stylized it may actually limit your commercial appeal. My favorite commercial author is a fellow named Colin Harrison. Long before I found him reviewers had dubbed him the poet laureate of American thriller writers. If God wrote thrillers he’d sound just like Harrison. 84


He’s a world class storyteller by any measure, too… but have you heard of him? My point exactly. He’s actually too good in the writing voice department. It limits his market niche. The trouble with hanging your hat on the fact that you write like someone famous, much less that you write as well, is that it spits in the face of what the publishing world says they want: a fresh new voice. Alice Sebold, for example, with her breakout novel The Lovely Bones. You’ll be a lot better off shooting to be a fresh new storyteller .

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64. Short chapters rule. Speaking of James Patterson, have you read him lately? While I admit the brevity of his chapters is more marvel than marvelous – my opinion – the best selling mystery author of our era does pave the way toward what has become an industry expectation: keep it short. Writers have been delivering short chunks of narrative since the arrival of digital printing, but not long ago it was more intrachapter segments separated by a skipped line or two. Now, often as not, each of those little buckets of exposition gets their own chapter number. Patterson, for example, has had as many as 128 chapters in a single book, some of them less than a page in length. The rule of segmentation, be it separate chapters or chunks of narrative separated by a skipped line, is much like a cut to a new location or time in a movie. Unless you bridge your transition using a phrase – such as “Meanwhile, back at the ranch…” – this allows you to keep the reader in the moment without confusion, and without boredom. Shorter chapters give the illusion of pace. How often have you been reading in bed and wanted to hang on until the chapter concludes, only to thumb forward and realize you’ll never make another 12 pages. But two more, yes. Literary effectiveness aside, that’s what editors are looking for these days. Enough said.

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65.

Be careful about “wrong notes.” A major pothole along the road to freshness and originality is the attempt to add something quirky or interesting, and it backfires. This is especially true with characterization – give your hero a “wrong note” – something that just doesn’t fit, isn’t logical or is just plain a bad creative call – and you’ve potentially ruined something wonderful. Earlier (see Tip #60) I talked about giving your characters quirks (or not). A weird quirk can easily become a wrong note when it doesn’t fit and distracts in a negative way. A bad call may not doom your manuscript to rejection. But then again, it just might. Editors are easily and quickly influenced, and if the wrong note precedes the point at which they’re hooked by the story, it’ll be the thing that makes them put the manuscript down. Which they’ll do in a heartbeat. A wrong note is a dash of mustard in your hot chocolate. A cigarette butt left in the offering plate. A tattoo on a blushing bride’s forehead. A showroom car with a swastika on the fender. A speech at the National Convention that begins with the words, “Hey, what’s up dudes?” One writer’s quirk is another reader’s eye roll. This happens all the time in unpublished manuscripts. It’s partly why they’re unpublished. If this sounds like obvious or pedestrian news that nobody ever talks about, it’s because wrong notes are the first things edited out of a manuscript, provided it’s otherwise good enough to land a contract. You don’t often see them in published work. But you do see them in produced movies. All the time, in fact. It’s the proverbial case of the family who remains inside the haunted house instead of running out the door screaming when they can. Everybody notices when it happens. Especially reviewers.

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Because wrong notes are born from the unique creative sensibilities of the author – and let’s face it, many writers aiming for a mainstream audience are anything but mainstream -- they’re hard for writers to spot in their own work without outside help (if they sensed it was a wrong note in the first place it wouldn’t be there). So when you ask others to read your work – and you should – ask them to be on the lookout for wrong notes, something that doesn’t click or just strikes them as a little weird, contrary and distracting. Something that’s intended to be cute, funny, hip or ironic… but isn’t. And when they point one out, hit the delete key.

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66. Participate in writing communities. But be careful of addiction. Writing is, and always has been, a solitary pursuit. For many this is contrary to their nature, so we gravitate toward conferences and writing groups to listen, learn, share and, for far too many, avoid writing altogether. I’ve seen writers who do nothing other than attend workshops. Their novel or screenplay is always an intention rather than a project, something they’ll get to one day. Writing groups provide immediate social gratification. Writing doesn’t. The less joy you receive from it on that level, the more you’ll get out of writing groups. But alas, the more you’ll become to using the writing group as an excuse not to write. This tip doesn’t apply to critique groups (see Tip #82), though they do come with certain risks (see Tips #37 and #38). Definition of a writer: one who writes. That’s it.

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67.

Use dialogue to make boring exposition palatable. This is one of those against-conventional-rules tips that you should absolutely consider. Sometimes you need to feed the reader a bit of background or explanation to allow them to fully understand the dramatic moment, or even a loaded piece of dialogue. For example, you may reference a bit backstory with a character saying something like, “ After what happened last year I’m a little anxious about seeing her .” The traditional way to inform the reader would be to engage in a quick narrative aside that brings the context of that comment up to date. Boring, and perhaps risky if it stops the momentum of the scene cold. Or, you could have the characters themselves do it. Little asides happen all the time in real-life conversations, and they can happen in your story, too. For example, after a comment full of implication and context, the other guy could interrupt by saying, “Wait, refresh my memory on that .” And then, totally within the context of their exchange, the ensuing dialogue does just that, complete with attitude and nuance. Much more interesting to read, and it accomplishes the goal without hitting the pause button on story pacing.

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68. Master the concept of stakes in your fiction. This is huge. An entire textbook. When someone asks “how do I add tension and meaning to my story?” the answer is stakes. Stakes are what is gained or lost when the main characters either achieve their goal, or when they don’t. Everything else can be solidly crafted within a story, but if the stakes are not compelling the story will tank. The more the reader can relate to what’s at stake, the more they feel it – the safety of a child, the chance at a career, the survival of a disease, the chance at a fortune, the opportunity to save the world, love itself – the more powerful the story. Antagonists without stakes are cartoonish. Bad guys with something huge at stake are terrifying. In the movie The Island , the bad guy (brilliantly played by a terrific character actor named Sean Bean) is diabolically cloning humans for the purposes of trafficking in spare body parts. He shows little compassion and a hair-trigger willingness to dispose of uncooperative clones with his bare hands. But… when he explains himself, he talks about ridding the world of disease, of curing childhood epilepsy, of gifting the world with a chance at a long and healthy life. By any means, at any cost. We hate him, but we understand him. He, too, has high stakes that motivate his decisions and actions. And because of that he’s anything but a moustache-twirling cartoon of a villain. In The DaVinci Code and Angels and Demons, Dan Brown gave us a clinic in using high stakes to suck the reader into the story. He’s often criticized for vanilla prose or thin characterizations, and in the movie versions, trite Hollywood contrivances and conveniences. Opinions all, and not the least diminishing of his mastery of stakes within his storytelling. In these stories the stakes include the credibility and viability of nothing short of the Catholic Church in particular and the entire landscape of Christianity in general. Lives were at stake. History was at stake. Money was at stake. Humanity itself was at stake.

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The stakes existed on multiple levels – those that applied to Langdon himself, and those that would affect the entirety of civilization and the veracity of history and religion. As thematic as they are, Brown pounds those themes at us not through propaganda and preaching, but with the emotional and empathetic weight of the stakes as experienced vicariously through his characters. Nelson Demille blurbed The DaVinci Code as “pure genius.” This, in part, is why. Stakes are at the top of the list of the things your story must deliver in order to succeed. Without significant stakes, stories do not work well enough to sell.

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69. Nothing you write is ever wasted. Ever. There’s one writing tip that haunts me, and has for the last three decades (yeah, I’m that old). It was a milestone and a perspective that changed everything, and a reminder that sometimes the little things we offer to others can make a profound difference in their lives. And isn’t that the real reason we write in the first place? If it isn’t, then pause and ponder yours. Before my “overnight” success with my first novel ( Darkness Bound ) in 2000, I had written six novels that failed to find a publisher. Because they sucked. All were based on what I thought were killer concepts, and as I figuratively wandered the New York publishing jungle, getting the bejezzus beat out of me at every turn, I discovered that an idea does not a novel make. I submitted those manuscripts all over town, and thanks to one very generous and personal rejection letter the first time out, I continued to submit the next five to that same kindly editor. He turned down all six submissions, but in each case he wrote no less than a six page single-spaced letter offering both encouragement and constructive criticism, this in an age of manual typewriters and White Out (remember White Out? If you’re under 30, probably not; it has nothing to do with blizzard conditions). In a time when everyone else was sending out photocopied rejection letters with all the warmth of a tax audit. His name was Dan Wickenden, a senior editor at what was then known as Harcourt Brace Jovanovich (today’s Jove paperback imprint is a descendant of that organization). I remember several things he told me over the course of those six letters, including that he believed I would never win the Nobel Prize for literature, and that he also believed I had the chops to make it as a thriller writer, if — and only if — I continued to evolve my writing. Considering how badly I truly did suck at that time, this was an amazing gift of hope. But that’s not the tip that changed my life, encouraging as it was.

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This one did: “ In the life of a real writer, nothing is ever lost, no word you write is a waste of your time or energy.” The implications of this are stunning, not only for writing, but for living. Which to me are synonymous, by the way. It means everything you write moves you closer to your goal, including everything that results in yet another rejection slip. It means that writing, like life itself, is a cumulative experience, a whole in excess of its parts, a vehicle with momentum that must be maintained and fortified with energy, and that without noticing you will become the writer you hoped you’d become. That challenge to evolve my skills has defined my writing journey. It is why I teach workshops, because I learn more with every class before which I stand. It is why this book exists. In his letters Mr. Wickenden made veiled references to his declining health. After my sixth unpublished novel I took a 20-year break to write screenplays and make a living writing corporate media, and I thought of him often during that time. But not as often as his kindness deserved. When I finally did publish in 2000, I tried to contact him and thank him for his gift of hope. But Harcourt Brace Jovanovich was gone, and I feared, so was Dan Wickenden. I still wonder how many naive, wide-eyed writers he saved from the junk heap of abandon, and if he knew how much his kindness and wisdom really mattered. I hope he did. I hope someone with more sense than me got to tell him that. Our heroes come unexpectedly, and often long after the moment they touch our lives. Dan Wickenden, wherever you are now, you remain in my heart, and I thank you from the bottom of it. If I can pay it forward with only a fraction of the impact you have made, I will die a successful writer.

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70.

Infuse your story with sub-text. None of us in real life live in a vacuum. There is context all around us, pressures and standards and expectations that push and pull, that influence how we act and even define who we are. Those pressures are the sub-text of our existence. So it is with our stories. Our characters need to live in a real world, or a world that is real in accordance with whatever boundaries we create for them and it. The richer that contextual existence, the richer and clearer the sub-text of your story. Sub-text is often the theme we are exploring in our stories: racial prejudice, police corruption, family dynamics, love, sex, careers, politics, evolution, pollution, religion, the paranormal. Sub-text is the social or environmental stage upon which our stories unfold. Republicans often act differently than Democrats. Generation X lives differently than their baby boomer parents. People of color often have a different mindset about some things than white people. Ex-addicts view the world differently than children. Believers have a different outlook than non-believers. The difference is nothing other than sub-text. The richer you make it, the more visceral and real your characters, and the more relevant and compelling your story becomes.

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71.

Make your sub-plot about character arc. Character arc is fundamental to story success. It is not only how the character learns and grows as a result of their experiences within the story, but how they apply that learning toward their role as the primary catalyst in bringing about the conclusion of the story. If they have something to learn at the beginning, if they have shortcomings or faults to overcome, chances are those are the consequences of having some inner demon that influences their decisions and actions. Where that inner demon comes from is backstory. How the character overcomes it is character arc. Creating a storyline that is subordinate but related to the main plotline that centers on the character’s inner demon is great fodder for a sub-plot. If the story is a thriller, for example, the sub-plot can concern the character’s ability to commit to something or someone in the face of the pressures of impending life or death. A love angle. If the story is already a love story, the sub-plot might concern one of the families, perhaps who bring class prejudice to bear upon the relationships. Sub-plot follows the same basic story architecture and flow as the primary plot. But it’s much simpler and less obvious, and when it manifests in the form of limiting the character’s choices and influencing behaviors, it successfully links to the main storyline. Sometimes the sub-plot can be completely separate. And, it should not be confused with sub-text , with which sub-plot can easily coexist. In fact, sub-text can become sub-plot with great ease and effect. In the hit (and hip) television show Burn Notice, for example, Michael Weston is constantly working to uncover who burned him – basically making him persona-non-grata within his profession as

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a spy – while addressing the plot-of-the-day, save-the-innocent scenario that gets wrapped up after 58 minutes. The main plot is how Michael solves the day’s problem. The subplot is his love relationship with Fee, his trigger-happy sidekick, and/or whether the local police will stop him first. The sub-text is his on-going status as having been burned as a spy for some unnamed government agency. Sub-plot is a dramatic question that is answered over the course of the story: will they fall in love, will she get the job, will they be disinherited, will they live or die, etc. Sub-text is the existence of some social or economic or other situational pressure that defines and influences the characters, such as social class, political pressures, career factors, etc. The sub-plot of The Cider House Rules is Toby Maguire’s ability to connect to Charlize Theron romantically. Will they or won’t they? Stay tuned as the main plotline unfolds. The sub-text of the story is the ever-present issue of right to life and abortion, and the pressures it puts on the characters. In Top Gun, the sub-plot was Tom Cruise’s budding relationship with flight instructor Kelly McGillis. Again, stay tuned as the main plotline unfolds. That main plot – admittedly weak – was some conglomeration of whether Cruise would wash out (this being the link between the main plot and the sub-text) before he could save the day before the impending attack by bad guys (which is the main plotline… sort of). The sub-text, however, wasn’t really a question at all, but an influencing pressure: Cruise lived under the dark shadow of a father who had failed, and it had pushed him toward irresponsibility and bravado. The tip here is to understand the difference, and master both.

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72.

Hit it while it’s hot. Or not. Both Hollywood and the book publishing worlds operate on a timeline that’s two years out from today. Which means, if a book comes out about, say, whether Leonard DaVinci was sending us cryptic messages in his paintings, and if that book catches fire and basically outsells everything from Harry Potter to the Bible, then you might be tempted to jump on that bandwagon with your own religious conspiracy story. Except, two years from now when your story hits the streets the DaVinci phenomenon will have cooled off. Hollywood and New York will have moved on to the next money maker. And your manuscript will find its way back to your mailbox. The trick – and the tip – is to try to anticipate what’s next. What’s around the social, political and environmental corner that will be in the headlines and have the attention of the people who buy books and screenplays. Placing your bet on timely themes is always risky, and for just these reasons. There are plenty of eternal themes and stories out there, ones that will be just has relevant and commercial two years from now as they were thousands of years ago when they were first written about. Unless you have a crystal ball, go there instead.

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73.

Be computer literate. First reason: research. Master the use of search engines and you can accomplish in four minutes what it would take four hours in a library. Second reason: editing and revision efficiency. Never again need you touch a little jar of White Out . What used to take a half hour can now be accomplished in two or three seconds. But not if you’re still pounding on that old Underwood. And if you’re doing so to be cool and retro-hip (Joe Eszterhas, pay attention), nice try. You look like an idiot. Especially when you brag about it. That’s like bragging that you still use an outhouse in the backyard. Leave the curmudgeon-stubborn stuff to episodic television and get with the program. I mean, really. When was the last time you saw a document that wasn’t from your grandparents that had White Out on it? Turning on a PC is simple. Learning how it works is simple. Microsoft Word is easy, and it’s the best invention since ketchup and the wheel. There’s nothing cool about unproductive nostalgia. Get with the program.

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74.

Research is overrated. It’s always good to try to get things right. If you can’t, just make it up. The paradox of this serves writers well. Because if it’s difficult to research and prove, then it’ll be obscure to most readers, and therefore less likely to be challenged and discredited. In my first novel I wrote something specific about a minor medical procedure undergone by my main character. No big deal, either to me or the reader. It was, however, to the doctor who showed up at a book signing, not for an autograph, but to demonstrate to me and whoever else was listening that I got it wrong. I was sorry. I really was. But it didn’t matter. Not in the least. The tip here is to pick your spots for extensive sweat. If the story depends on veracity, go for it. When veracity is accessible, go for it. Otherwise, make something up that sounds believable and adds to the reading experience. One of the risks of too much research is the tendency to jam too much of what you’ve learned into your story. The days of James Michener providing the geological details of the ancient volcanic land-mass formation that would one day provide the terra firma upon which his story would unfold – totally irrelevant to the story, by the way – are long gone. Don’t go there. If it isn’t on a web page near you, and if it doesn’t matter to anyone but your history or science teacher, don’t sweat the details.

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75.

Start reading writing books and blogs. See Tip #14. Because if you spend more time reading about writing than doing it, this isn’t a good idea at all. However, if you’re new to writing, or if you’re blocked, then books and blogs might be your ticket out of that dumpster. The same goes for writing workshops. Use them for good, not for the evil of avoiding the actual work of writing. You can never learn too much about writing. Books and blogs can serve you if, and only if, they are about technique and art and not about commiseration.

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76.

Give the reader something to think about. We’ve already discussed the necessity to infuse your work with theme. Virtually anything can be thematic, and should be. This tip begins where that one left off. Because now we’re talking not so much about how to make your story thematic, but to lead with theme as the primary differentiator of your story, using it to really explore and nail an issue to an extent that reviews will see that this is what the story is primarily about. Titanic was about a ship, and it had several themes. But themes didn’t make the story, the ship and the special effects did. Indecent Proposal was all about the theme of fidelity in a marriage. Big difference. It could have been made with any other actors and any other specific plot device (you’ll recall Robert Redford offered to pay Demi Moore and Woody Harrelson a badly needed one million dollars if he could sleep with Moore… let the debate begin). The theme made that story more than any other element. Themes are all over the map in terms of the writer’s intentions. You can’t write a story about love or race relations or politics or, some would say, the human experience in any form without bringing theme into the dynamics. But you can move theme into the forefront of your reason to write it. Some writers begin with theme in mind – in all likelihood John Irving had a bug in his ear about right to life issues before he started writing The Cider House Rules, as opposed to an inexplicable yearning to write a story about an orphanage (can’t be sure, John and I haven’t spoken lately). Other writers set their story in a thematic cultural landscape and, simply by crafting characters with brains and feelings, they are by default exploring theme. Ramming theme at a reader – also known as propaganda – is always risky. Exploring themes with the reader is the way to go. Even when theme gets top billing.

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77.

The great killer of stories: coincidence. Back at Tip #61 we met the dreaded deus ex machina, something to be avoided at all costs. But that little monster has a cousin, and it can kill your story, too, albeit a bit more insidiously. Coincidence happens all the time in real life. But it should never happen in your novel or screenplay, especially if it provides convenient and unexpected assistance to a character or to the revelation of story points. When coincidence turns the story on its ear, that’s deus ex machina. When it just greases things along, that’s coincidence. In the recent remake of The Taking of Pelham 123 (spoiler alert here), hero Denzel Washington has escaped the clutches of villain John Travolta during a harrowing chase through the subway tunnels of Manhattan. Good stuff, fun to watch. Travolta decides to head up to the street, clutching a few million dollars of ransom money and a significant bomb in his hands, the latter destined for ignition somewhere in the crowded city. Denzel has no idea where he is within a maze of dark tunnels, or that he’s gone topside, and they’ve been separated long enough for the distance between them to be discouraging. So what happens? Denzel decides to climb up a ladder and emerge onto the street, guessing (correctly – that’s a coincidence) that this is what Travolta is up to. This happens somewhere in midtown at rush hour. And just as he does… guess what? Denzel looks up to see – a mere fifteen feet away – Travolta climbing into a taxi. Wow, what a coincidence. That’s what everybody in the theater is thinking at that moment. The critics panned the movie. Not because it sucked – it didn’t – but because there were a handful of eye-rollers just like that used to engineer the supposedly exciting end chase sequence. Don’t go there. Or it won’t be a coincidence that your story gets rejected. 103


78.

Pepper your story with pearls. Readers love pearls. Reviewers love them more. And book jacket blurb writers go absolutely apoplectic about them. A pearl is part wisdom, part wit, and a large part timing and placement. It is a short statement of truth and wisdom, presented and worded in ways that smack the reader right between the lenses of their reading glasses at the precise moment they need to hear it. A pearl can be a statement of the obvious, made artful by the moment it appears. A pearl can be an insight into something that broadens and illuminates. Something that makes the complex simple and memorable. A pearl, in this context, is a narrative gift to the reader, rather than an exchange between characters. An example: “love means never having to say you’re sorry.” From Love Story by Erich Segal. “Love hurts,” from the song by the J. Geils Band. Pearls are poetry. Pearls are perfect literary moments. And they make great chapter sign-offs or even the final line of a story. Perfectly placed pearls can separate an ordinary manuscript from a great – and publishable – one. Be careful, though, that you don’t confuse pearls with clever moments between characters. Pearls are always aimed at the reader or viewer and offer a little piece of life-wisdom, while wonderful iconic lines – I’ll be back… Go ahead make my day… Frankly Scarlett, I don’t give a damn… Here’s looking at you, kid… -- are more perfect moments than quotable gifts of wisdom. The art of the pearl is indefinable, so I’ll stop here. You know them when you read them… the trick now is to create them. And that, for better or worse, is a little pearl in its own right. 104


79.

There are five moments in your story that you absolutely need to understand before you can finish your book. And in my opinion, you should know all about them before you start writing it . Once again, that’s just me. Frankly, my opinion on this tends to piss some writers off. They are for the most part organic writers who prefer to use the drafting process as a means of discovery, as a story development exercise (see Tip #98). Or, who harbor a serious distaste for outlining, claiming it stifles creativity and spontaneity. Whatever. If it works it’s from God, more power to ‘ya. But this much is true: organic writers, too, need to know all about these same five scenes before they can finish a final draft that works. A draft that might actually sell. They use the drafting process to discover and explore them, while others, like me, do it pre-draft, including the use of an outline to get it down on paper. The process is entirely your call. Potato, pototo, whatever. The end product is the same either way. The five scenes are: opening, closing, first plot point, midpoint scene, second plot point. If this is greek to you, then you don’t really understand story architecture – an affliction as common to outliners as it is to organic writers – and the best tip in the world for you (think of it as Tip #102) is to stop writing and go back to square one for some form of writing bootcamp. And if that strikes you harsh, see Tip #47. There are certainly other scenes you’ll have to discover before you can finish your story successfully, but once you nail the five critical scenes mentioned above, these are more easily developed during the drafting phase, at least if that’s your modus operandi. As for me, the more you know about your story beforehand – specifically your key scenes – the better you’ll write them the first time you try.

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Which means outlining is, for those so inclined, a very powerful development strategy. These five scenes define your story. The most important of them is the first and second plot points, because these introduce and launch the conflicting element that opposes the character’s primary quest and need within the context of the story, and then trigger the concluding sequence based on everything you know about the inherent stakes related to that conflict. Spaced equally across a linear roadmap of the story, these scenes become the pillars upon which you build. They are the foundations that hold the weight of your structure. And most importantly, they separate and connect the scenes that unfold between them – a total of four discrete sections of the story – each of which has a succinct and different context and mission. Imagine having four shorter segments, each with its own mission, context and criteria, and each developed in context to the ones next to it. Sort of clarifies the nature of the journey, doesn’t it. Welcome to story architecture, the most powerful thing in the writer’s bag of storytelling tools. No matter what process you employ.

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80. Never insult the intelligence of the reader. Basic law of writing fiction: if you’re not hip, and you try to be hip in your work, you’ll insult your reader. Because you assume, very incorrectly, that if you don’t get it, they won’t either. That if you require an explanation, so will they. And that’s a fatal flaw. One of the little unexpected perks of being published, and of having done a handful of book reviews, is that publishers send you ARCs (advanced reading copies) of soon-to-be released novels. One of the stories that landed on my desk struck me as workmanlike in its craft, but one thing stood out as quite irritating: the narrative frequently spoke down to the lowly reader. Me. For example, in revealing that a character was “a piece of work,” the writer went on to explain: “… or, someone who was unusual in a distracting way.” Here we have a hip colloquialism followed by an in-your-face insult. Like wrong notes (see Tip #65) – it actually is a wrong note – this is something you should ask trusted readers to sniff out for you. The tip here is to simply not do it. If you get it, if you require no explanation – unless you’re an engineer explaining a point of quantum physics in a love story – then assume your reader gets it, too.

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81.

Master the art of the chapter cut and thrust . See Tip #96, one of the biggies. Every efficiently written scene is designed, or should be, to deliver a single piece of expository information to the reader. Scenes that try to do too much are weakened, while those that reside within the parameters of narrative efficiency contribute toward great pacing. Which is to say, when you make your point in a scene, get out of it quickly. But do so with an understanding of the scene that follows, and use a glimpse of foreshadowing or anticipation as your exit line. Imagine a scene where the hero arrives at the home of his fiancé, knowing that his lover is inside, wrapped in the arms of another man. If your set-up scene is there to show him arriving, undecided as to whether or not he’ll go inside (he has a key), unsure of how he’ll react when he sees his worst nightmare unfolding… if the mission of that scene is to show us his hesitance and set up him for what follows (and within the context of character arc, this would be important if the character had always, until now, backed away from danger)… then that’s all the scene should be. The next scene is for the showdown itself. Here’s where the cut and thrust comes in. It’s all about how to phrase the transition between the two scenes. It might look like this: He lightly touched the door handle, his fingers trembling. He could feel the pressure of the gun, his father’s gun, tight under his belt. Calling to him, like his father did. He took a deep breath. Wanting desperately to just drive away. He got out of the car, leaving the door open behind him. Boom… stop right there. On to the next chapter. If the reader was planning on putting the book down for the night, you’ve just made it harder to do that. That’s the cut and thrust .

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82. Join a critique group. Unless you belong to critique group, chances are the only novels and screenplays you read have already been published or produced. Which means, multiple drafts went into what you’re reading and several professional editors with New York or Los Angeles zip codes sweated bullets to make it as good as it can possibly be. Not so much with most works in progress. Even if the author thinks it’s ready. In fact, especially if the author thinks it’s ready. Sometimes reading unpublished stuff is sort of like listening to someone describe their health problems. But if you’re a doctor, listening to a litany of aches and pains becomes not only diagnostic, but also fascinating, something to which you can add value. Once you understand the infrastructure of storytelling — the architecture of structure, the poetry of theme, the engineered arc of character, the symmetry of elegantly rendered prose — then reading an unpublished manuscript becomes a learning experience. You instantly recognize why the story isn’t working as well as it should. Do this enough and you return to your own work with an elevated learning curve and a reinforced standard of storytelling excellence. So how do you benefit from participating in a critique group for this purpose? First, you need to acknowledge that your motivation is to witness the miracle of story architecture in the making, as much as hearing others tell you what’s wrong with your story. Next, and concurrently, you need to immerse yourself in learning the craft of storytelling to an extent that you completely understand the criteria for excellence across all of the requisite core competencies. That’s a tall order, by the way, usually a lifetime quest. But when you get your mind around the basics you’ll be able to see it at work within the stories of others. Armed with that, join critique groups and solicit readings of works in progress from other writers. You’ll be amazed at what you see that you’d never notice before, and equally amazed at your own depth of recognition. When you go back to your own work, you’ll be

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that much further along on the learning curve and able to avoid the pitfalls you just witnessed. Of course, that same grounding in the fundamentals will also enhance your reading of published work, at least from an analytical point of view. There you’ll see the basics of storytelling excellence in play — or not, it’s always subjective, even in New York — and, along with your reading pleasure, you’ll have been schooled in how it’s done.

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83. Remembering is not heroic. Learning from experience is. Even if you understand that your hero wears that badge for a reason – they do heroic things – it’s easy to create a plot point simply by having your hero, or even another character, change the course of the story because they suddenly remember something. Lives may change in the real world for that reason, but if you do it in your fiction, the only thing that will change is your dream to publish it. Remembering is a cheat. Action is heroism. If what they remember causes them to act, then you have a shot at making the memory a viable plot point. The best course is to forget memory as a plot device and replace it with discovery. Quick note to sci-fi and fantasy writers: using your hero’s psychic abilities to uncover hidden truths and bring about story-changing rationale is also a cheat. Sherlock Holmes was brilliant not because he could read someone’s mind, and that’s just as true in the paranormal genre. Genre never provides a way around the basics of good storytelling. (Will you look at that… another pearl…)

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84. Deliver a richly layered and intense vicarious experience to the reader. I know this is as obvious as it is difficult to pull off. But like parents pounding core values into their kids, we writers can never hear this enough. It’s like saying a singer must carry a tune. But then, staying with that metaphor, how many successful singers can you name who really can’t? Who compel us with the passion and unique inflection of their voice rather than melodic perfection? Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, Axel Rose, Janice Joplin… these singers move us. But, not a Josh Groban in the bunch. That’s the idea here. You can make it on style or you can make it on raw talent, but if you make it at all it’ll be because you’ve given the reader/viewer an experience imbued with emotion and vicarious thrills. The lack of a compelling reader experience is, along with technical lameness, perhaps the primary reason manuscripts get rejected. That and a feeling that the editor/producer has seen it all before. Sometimes a great story or movie is described as a great ride. That’s what you, as a novelist and/or screenwriter, are shooting for. Strap your reader into the seat of your story and take them somewhere. Make it intense, compelling and memorable. Take them to places they’ll never go. Introduce them to people they’ll never meet. Make them feel . Thrill them. Frighten them. Anger them. Entertain them. Make them laugh and cry. Make them fall in love. Break their hearts. Have them live the dream. Give them hope. Hope is the most compelling of all human emotions. It is the root of love, the very seed of fear. And it is the great greaser of storytelling engines. I’ve read many manuscripts over the years that were technically sound, in which every story element was fully fleshed-out and was found in the right place. But the story itself, the reading experience, 112


was flat and unmoving. Like reading the biography of a perfectly nice but overwhelmingly boring person. How do you pull off a story that delivers a ride? By giving us characters that we care about, that we can root for. By putting them in situations to which readers can relate and will empathize with. By taking us to places and cultures and worlds we’d never experience on our own, and find fascinating when we get there. Even if it’s fantasy, even if its in the distant past. Put us through a roller coaster of emotions. And then, take us home with an ending that we can’t forget. That we feel. The level of reader satisfaction as they close the cover is the key to selling your work. A high bar, for sure. But if you want to know what separates the masters from the mundane, the published from the unpublished, this is it. It’s what separates the karaoke bar from Carnegie Hall. Carrying a tune isn’t the issue. Emotional power is. It’s easy to focus on structure and character to an extent that you forget about the emotional juice of your story. Keep that goal front and center at all times as you craft your story.

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85. Take care of the writer. Non-writers will rarely understand you when you say that writing is hard work. Both emotionally and physically. Pouring a new sidewalk… now that’s hard work. But writing? Too many hours at the keyboard makes your back sore and your wrists numb. It wearies the eyes, gives you headaches and makes your neck feel like a worn shock absorber. When your story isn’t working it’s like living with someone who you know no longer loves you. Or who drives you crazy even if they do. It is the very definition of anxiety. You can’t sleep. You can’t focus on the real world. You need to care for yourself as you write. On the physical side, there are volumes of information to be found about workstation ergonomics on the internet. Get the right chair, position yourself in relation to the keyboard and the screen in such a manner that your body doesn’t distract you from the work. Get up often. Stretch. Take walks. Don’t forget to eat. Keep water next to your workstation. Put an aquarium in your line of site. Flowers help. Cut the harsh lighting. On the emotional side, the key to anxiety management resides in continuing to understand the basics of storytelling. Without that knowledge you are wandering the mean streets of a cruel city without a map or a friend. Survival is possible, but it’s pretty scary until you reach where you’re going, and chances are you’ll get lost along the way. With that understanding, you are armed and confident. You have direction and hope. And the writer’s soul, more than most, is nourished by hope.

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86. Leave truth to the journalists. What they say is accurate – truth really is stranger than fiction, often to an extent that when presented as fiction it becomes a ridiculous stretch. Novels are fiction. Unless they’re not. Same with movies. There’s a category for documentaries, know the difference. In real life there are things like coincidence and deus ex machina and all sorts of left field, inexplicable twists that keep us on our toes. But as an author you should leave them to journalists and real life documentarians and write your story using dramatic elements that make sense to readers, that they can accept. Often we’ll see a movie that was inspired by real events, or based on a true story. Notice they don’t say this is what really happened. The key words are inspired and based on, which means they have just licensed themselves to tell the story any darn way they choose in the name of dramatic effectiveness. You should do the same with your stories. Tell the truth about the way people think and act and why, and about how systems and things work in the real world. But beyond that, your job isn’t to stick to the dramatic facts – which are often boring anyhow – but rather to infuse tension and meaning and emotion into the telling.

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87.

The ending of your story needs to be all about the reader’s emotions. At the end of the day the game is all about manipulating the reader’s emotions. Satisfying endings sell books. If the ending is moving, shocking, profound or memorable enough, editors will consider a book that they can otherwise edit into an acceptable form. The reverse, however, is not true. A great story with a lousy ending will get rejected. Editors don’t want to coach you through a rewrite (though they may suggest just that in their rejection, asking you to send it back when you’ve fixed the ending; but they won’t buy it until you do). Endings don’t have to be happy. They do need to be emotionally moving. They need to satisfy. And if that means shock, upset and otherwise defy belief, that can work, too. That’s why they call it art. There are no rules for endings other than the above. Some writers who develop their stories organically are at great risk of settling for an ending that simply ties up all the loose ends. This approach may compromise the delivery of a bombshell ending, something so satisfying that the editor will do whatever it takes to make the rest of the story work. The best endings are planned , or discovered early in the story development process. Even if you stumble upon it organically, you’ll need to retrofit it to optimize a fresh set-up for your new killer ending. A better approach, in my view, is to engineer your story so that it drives toward that ending from the get-go, allowing you to seed the journey like a diabolical puppet master along the way. Whatever your ending, the key question you must ask – and answer – is this: what is my reader feeling as they experience this conclusion? The deeper those feelings, the greater your story. Don’t settle for logical or neat. Shoot for earth-shattering. 116


88. Less really is more. Elsewhere in this book you’ll read that visual descriptions should be offered economically and sparsely. The same is true for experiential moments and actions in your stories. The classic example for this is sex scenes. In screenplays the stage direction for a sex scene can be as brief as “they make love.” If something kinkier is called for, it might read “they make love using neckties and clothes pins.” Whatever. The interpretation is left to the director and the actors. And the result is inevitably more vivid and powerful than anything the writer could have described. And that’s precisely how the novelist should approach the description of experiential moments the reader is likely to understand. Maybe not with the economy of words demanded of screenwriters, but close. Let the reader compose the scene and direct the movie in their heads. For example, if you’re writing a scene in which one character shoots another, after setting up the moment and the tension just say “and then she pulled the trigger.” Don’t go into forensic detail about the tissue damage rendered as the bullet enters and exits, leaving a hole the size of a salad plate, or the anguished scream of its recipient. Let the reader fill in those ghastly blanks. Let them hear the pop of the gun and the thud of the body hitting the pavement. This is an artistic call. Just remember, less is more.

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89. Know how to pitch your story. You’ve finished your masterpiece and it’s time to sell it. Good for you. Now what? Before you consider all the typical answers – agent queries, unsolicited submissions (not a good call), publisher queries, workshop face-to-faces, contests, whatever… you need to know how to package an optimally-effective pitch. The goal of any pitch isn’t to accurately tell the story – that’s important, but not the highest goal – but to motivate the recipient to want to read the complete story. Or at least hear more about it. Toward that end you need three levels of pitch: -- an “elevator pitch” of about thirty seconds; -- a two-minute synopsis; -- a longer treatment of the story that goes into sequential detail. The elevator pitch needs to toss out an intriguing conceptual proposition, best framed as a “what if ?” question: my story is about what could happen if the President of the United States was having an affair with the wife of the leader of the opposition party. You may or may not have time to add a comment or two, but that’s basically it. The listener is either motivated to hear more, or they’ll get out of the elevator quickly and thankfully. If they do want more, you now move on to the next stage. The two-minute pitch marries the “what if” with a statement of premise, thus creating the stage upon which your story will unfold. To wit: My story is about a President who has successfully hidden a dark secret from his wife and everyone else, that he’s been having an affair with the wife of his most vocal enemy. The story opens when that wife, his mistress, confesses the affair to her husband for reasons that have to do with her own 118


ambition to become the next first lady, and because of her deep-seeded resentment of her lover’s insistence they keep their relationship in the closet. The day after she confesses her intentions to both men she is found murdered, and the story goes on to expose a number of motivated suspects and a surprise ending that seemingly comes out of nowhere and exposes the lengths some will go to for power. Concept, character, theme and structure – they’re all there. Notice how this pitch doesn’t give much away. Yet it deepens the intrinsic appeal of the premise while introducing potentially fascinating characters. The listener should be moved to want to hear more. By the way, you should be able and willing to deliver all three of these versions either verbally or in written form. If you can’t spit it out, then consider that you can’t write it well, either. The last format, the longer pitch, is really a treatment that tells the story in abbreviated sequence, including the ending. It’s interesting to note here that the same rules used to write the story apply to the telling of it in treatment form: you need… -- a set-up; -- a compelling plot point; -- a response to that; -- a mid-story contextual turning point; -- a pro-active plan of attack by the hero; -- a huge final twist; -- and a killer ending that demonstrates character arc and delivers a high level of reader satisfaction. Fair warning, though: you’ll never be able to imbue this longer pitch with the same level of storytelling power and magic that the actual manuscript will deliver. It’s all compression and summary, with leaps of faith and bridged sequencing essential. Which means, the reader may not completely get it. Even if they’re an agent, publisher or producer. Sometimes those nametags don’t come with a high level of story comprehension, and this is doublytrue of treatments and story summaries. 119


That is why it’s critical to understand that all three pitches are sales tools, with a primary goal of getting the reader/listener to want more. One more tip here: conclude the pitch with a summary of the themes of the story (see the two-minute pitch above). Do that, and if your manuscript delivers the goods, you’re golden.

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90. Understand how and why your story is a gift to the world. Here’s a novel thought (no pun intended). Ask yourself why you’re writing your story. I ask this at the beginning of every workshop – not to mention at the beginning of my own storytelling process – and the answers are illuminating. Sometimes the answer is that the writer has always wanted to write a novel, or that they’ve just finished one story and are ready to begin the next. Their need to write trumps their need to tell a specific story… in essence, any story will do. Some say they just love to write, to create, to live in an imaginary world with characters of their own creation. Same deal. A better answer is that their story haunts them and intrigues them and won’t let them sleep. That it demands to be told. All well and good. But here’s the next question in either case: what’s in it for the reader ? All of those answers point inward, toward some return to be gained by the writer. Sure they want to deliver entertainment, maybe even enlightenment. But what’s the primary goal? Who are you writing your story for? Your reader, or yourself? The answer, once you own it, can be the catalyst for a subtle but empowering shift in your work. Because the best books, the most enduring stories, the beloved classics, are all gifts to the world. Is your story a gift to the world? To anyone but yourself? And if so, can you articulate how and why? When you can, you’re on to something magical. Then it really is a gift to yourself, because the greatest gift you can bestow on yourself is that of being a giver to others. Even if the objective is just to scare the living shit out of them.

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The Top 11 most powerful writing tips… ever.

91.

Enter your scenes at the last possible moment. We have Mr. William Goldman (he of the two screenwriting Oscars and one of the best writing books ever, Adventures ever, Adventures in the Screen Trade) Trade) to thank for this one. one. Not sure if he said it first first but it was the first place it seems to have appeared in print. You can’t do this unless unless you understand understand Tip #96. Once you do, it makes this easy and effective. The further into your story you are, the less time you should take to set up your scenes with non-related non-related business. business. When we first meet a character we may need to get to know them, watch them operate for a moment before getting getting down to business. Notice in the next movie you see that the first few scenes will show the protagonist just going about their business as if nothing strange is afoot. Scene descriptions – what ancient writing teachers once referred to as “place” – are the enemy. Use them judiciously. judicio usly. And again, less is more. This tip focuses on the purpose of the scene itself, on jumping in at a place that optimizes the dramatic effect. The thing that distracts most from that purpose is the subject of the next tip.

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92. Don’t go overboard describing how things look or how they function. Remember earlier when I said to forget most (I think I said everything; everything; everything is optional) of what your high school writing teacher told you? This is an example. Opening a scene with paragraph after paragraph of “place” virtually stops the pacing of the story. Cold, in its tracks. Most seasoned readers skip it anyway, skimming until they sense something is actually happening actually happening.. Never describe how someone is dressed, the appearance of a room (beyond a simple adjective, like messy or trashed ), ), or any other place or visual in great detail unless it’s: a) critical to plot and/or character exposition, exposition, or… b) it’s something unusual enough that the reader won’t understand what what it looks like unless unless you tell them. them. Like an alien. Or the inside of Angelina Jolie’s bedroom. Give the reader credit for knowing what a business suit looks like, even an Armani, how a nice restaurant appears, or how a sunset on Maui makes you feel (sleepy, after a day of climbing Mt. Haleakala). We’ve all been there.

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93. An oldie but still a goodie: show, don’t tell. Unless… … unless it’s connective tissue. tissue. Then tell, tell, don’t show. Plot exposition is defined as the next bit of plot-critical plot-critical information that moves the story forward along a spine. The collective sequence of these pieces of information becomes the plot itself. The best way to get those informational points down on paper is to work through your characters to spool them out as little one-act plays. Pretend you’re writing writing a stage play – one without an omniscient omniscient narrator or characters who turn to speak directly to the audience. This forces your hand into show-don’t-tell , which will always keep you safe. There are exceptions, and they are best left to experienced hands. The primary exception is what I refer to as connective tissue, tissue, or the need to deliver information that informs the expository information of the plot. For example, you may show show a character’s nature by having them refuse to get on an airplane because there are people of middle eastern eastern culture in line line ahead of them. Says a lot, right? right? Well, showing this says a lot to your readers, certainly, because in the context of plot exposition it keeps the character in the airport, where something else might happen to them. But if you feel the need to explain why they feel so strongly about this that they’d miss their flight and make a scene, don’t show it . Show the what , not the why. Don’t give us a flashback scene in which the character gets the news that their friend was among the dead in the World Trade Center towers, thus fueling their sense of distrust of people wearing headgear. No, for this you simply tell that snippet snippet briefly within the context of third person omniscient narrative, or that of a first person narrator. narrator. It’s quick, and its there simply to inform inform the very thing that you’re showing. This is another instance of art trumping strict rules, so take this as a guideline. 124


94. Understand the difference between outlining and story architecture. I know that’s trying to mix a verb with a noun in way that feels like chewing on cut glass. Sorry, but it’s necessary here. This little can of worms has nearly gotten me lynched on more than one occasion. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in over two decades as a writing teacher, its that some writers just won’t consider outlining, ever. Even if that’s precisely the thing that would get them published. So allow me to clarify: story architecture needs to be solidly in place within any successful story, no matter how the development process began or unfolded. Non-negotiable. If you know story architecture to an extent that you really can just start writing your story, and it’ll unfold onto the page with all the requisite elements in just right place – which will eventually happen somewhere in the drafting process if you see it through – more power to you. You and Stephen King and a very few others are in select company. The reason the two terms – outlining versus story architecture – are improperly regarded as synonymous is that outlining is a very powerful way to employ the very essential concepts of story architecture, especially for newer writers. (In fact, the most vocal of outline-haters are published authors who absolutely do, after writing multiple drafts instead of outlining, end up adhering to story architecture.) Again, you don’t need to use an outline to write a story that is in complete alignment with the principles of solid story architecture. Not if you have the model memorized. Not if you own it. And that’s the problem. Most writers don’t. At this point it is appropriate to ask: do you? If you don’t, this becomes the most important and vital tip in this book. Don’t write another word until you learn story architecture.

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Story architecture can be quite intuitive. The more you know about it the more intuitive it gets. Once you wrap your head around the concept you may or may not need to use an outline to weave your story over the infrastructure it provides. You just will as you write it. The term “story architecture” refers to the sequence of an unfolding story according to an accepted – and expected – sequence, complete with certain milestones, timing and criteria. In effect, a blueprint . Mess with it and your story will suffer. As will your readers. Music has architecture. Sculpting and painting have architecture, even the most obscure pieces. All art is based on some form of structure, even if the lack of structure is what defines the art. Just as airplanes are designed according to basic aeronautical principles – they all have wings, they all require power, and they all must adhere to the principles of Bernoulli’s law of aerodynamics – even if they don’t look quite the same as other airplanes. Cessnas and Boeings, fighters and tankers, crop dusters and aerobatic aircraft… they all look different, yet they are all built from the same basic blueprint. So it is with story telling. Violate the basic laws and the story will never get off the ground. Not sure who’s law it is, but it is enforced every time an agent, editor or producer turns down a project. Learning story architecture is like learning to play the piano. Some people – many in fact – learn to play by ear. By instinct. They never learn to read music, they just listen and then they play. It sucks at first, but if they do it long enough they may turn themselves into a competent pianist. If they compose, they do so with a reliance upon that same instinct. Again, so it is with storytelling. Some writers pick it up through reading and not much else, and it becomes second nature. Stephen King writes this way. But when he recommends that everyone should just begin writing when a story idea descends upon them – which he does in his book On Writing – he’s pitching a dangerous

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and wrong approach to the vast majority of new writers. Because hardly anyone – especially newer writers – knows what he knows. Whether you outline your story or just begin writing it without a plan, either way you are engaging in a process of exploring and developing an architecture – a sequence of narrative, dramatic events – that makes the story as solid and effective as it can be. If you do it through writing drafts, each draft takes you closer to that goal. If you do it through outlining, you are applying the principles of story architecture before you write the story itself. If you don’t accept that there is a templated expectation for how stories unfold, then a) you’re kidding yourself, b) neither Hollywood nor New York will buy your manuscript, and c) you are destined for frustration until you do. The tip here isn’t to outline. The tip is to write your stories from a solid understanding of story architecture. It’s more than a tip. It’s the ante-in.

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95. At any point in the story you need to be able to answer this question: what is the reader rooting for and caring about ? The central question in drama concerns what’s at stake. And with stakes comes reader and viewer positions – are they rooting for or against a particular outcome? Stakes are the consequences that may or may occur, depending on what decisions and actions your characters take. On the level of their courage, resourcefulness and strength of will. When stakes are something readers can relate to, when we can feel them in our bones, then we’ll find ourselves rooting for certain outcomes. That’s the writer’s ultimate goal. To get the reader emotionally invested to the point where they are rooting for and/or against certain outcomes in the story. The tip here is to make sure those stakes are clear and always visible, not only to you, but to the characters that will be affected by them. Too often they are not. Too often the story comes of as episodic and experiential, rather than dramatic. The other thing that must be abundantly clear at all times is the state and nature of the story’s dramatic tension. This again is a question of stakes – when they are clear, the dramatic tension surrounding those stakes is fully in play. Ask yourself this question before and after every scene you write: what are the stakes, are they clear, how am I advancing them, and what is the reader rooting for or against in this scene? If you know the answer, your reader will, too.

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96. Every scene should have a succinct mission. I love this tip. It’s the most empowering thing I’ve ever learned about writing novels and screenplays. Read it again. The key word is succinct . If a scene tries to do too much, it’s weak because it rambles. The lines between the issues aren’t defined. The dramatic tension isn’t clear, and therefore isn’t optimized. If you can understand not only the nature of the scene you’re about to write, but the narrative thing it needs to accomplish – the single piece of plot exposition to be delivered – then you can build a scene around it that seizes the dramatic potential at hand. In the movie True Romance, written by Quentin Tarantino, there’s a terrific scene in which Christopher Walken is trying to pry the location of Dennis Hopper’s son out of him. The mission of the scene is simple: Hopper won’t talk, but in the end Walken gets what he wants. It could have been one page, one minute of screen time. But it takes eleven minutes. All of it perfect and spectacular. And all of it driving toward that one moment of plot exposition required to thrust the story onward. Everything about the scene – the dialogue, the unspoken silence, the stories told, the way it ends (not good for Hopper), and the way Walken actually comes into possession of the information, is a thrill ride for the viewer. Which illustrates that mission-driven scene writing does not mean doing it as quickly as you can. But rather, as dramatically as you can. I’m not saying you should blow out your scenes to an eleven minute experience every time. I am saying that once you truly know what the scene needs to accomplish, and you discipline your narrative approach to drive toward that one thing only, you are free to explore the inherent creative potential of it all. To make it a ride, an experience, a colorful and character-driven piece of exposition. This is how great scenes are written. The more succinct the scene’s mission, the better it reads.

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97.

Never rescue your hero. Your hero should always be the rescuer . (Note: before you send me an email on this one… the term hero here is without gender, just as in the movie business the term actor refers to one who acts; the only time you hear the word actress these days is during Oscar season.) Put another way, the hero of your story needs to be architect of the story’s resolution. Even if you kill your hero off, what transpires to bring about the ending in a satisfactory way needs to stem from the decisions and actions – the more heroic the better – of your protagonist. You may be saying to yourself, well duh. And the reason is this is precisely what you get, in one form or another, in almost every published book or produced movie. What you don’t see, however, are the piles of rejected manuscripts in which the hero is rescued by someone else. It’s one of the most common story-killers out there. And if you’re saying to yourself, what if my story has a dark and shocking ending, one in which the hero dies? Well, fair enough, go for it. But… you still need to deliver something emotionally satisfying to the reader, and you still need to deliver character arc to your protagonist, meaning he or she needs to do something heroic that is a catalyst for whatever that reader satisfaction might be. (A great example of this is the ending of the movie Gran Torino, in which Clint Eastwood’s heroic sacrifice is what brings justice and satisfaction to all.) Be clear, this pertains to the conclusion of the story first and foremost. Exceptions are permitted, but only earlier in the story, resulting in a lesson learned by the protagonist.

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98. Don’t use your draft as an exploratory exercise. Use it as an executional one. Welcome to a controversial issue, one in which neither side of advocates can prove conclusively. So take this in the spirit in which it’s offered: if you’ve ever started a novel you couldn’t finish… if you’ve ever finished a novel that sucked… if you’ve finished a novel that you didn’t think sucked but didn’t land you an agent or a publisher… or worse, if you’ve invested years of your life writing draft after draft after insufficient draft before you settle for something worthy of being called final … then you need to pay attention to this tip. It can change your writing life forever. There are two extremes when it comes to the writing of a novel: -

at one end of the spectrum… you get an idea and simply sit down and start writing. No idea where it will lead, where you’re going, or what happens along the way. You’re trusting the process to lead you to the answers you’ll need to eventually uncover. Writers who use this method accept and assume it will take multiple drafts to get there. And perhaps years off your life.

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at the other end of the spectrum… you start with your idea and, armed with the knowledge of what elements need to be developed and where they need to appear in the story, you actually plan your story out in great detail, scene by scene, testing and evolving it as you go, until you have a completed blueprint for the story that has no holes. And then you being writing your first draft.

Which, by the way, if you really know your stuff, can quite possibly be the one you submit. After all, if you’ve really explored and made the right creative choices in your planning, and if you’ve solved every conceivable story problem along the way – problems that would come up anyway even if you used the aforementioned organic drafting method – then your draft won’t require a rewrite. It’ll always require a polish, but that’s not a new draft at all. It’s not even a revision.

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Many writers advocate the former approach – drafting – and they vehemently defend it as the only gratifying and effective process there is. “I can’t outline” is their battle cry. Too bad, because the blueprinting process defined above is much more involved than simple outlining, and chances are they’ve never tried it. It requires patience and the mindset of an engineer, not something a lot of writers possess on either count. Other writers – including me – advocate and practice the latter. I’ve sold three first drafts doing it, so I know it works. (Unless you define a “draft” as any new keystrokes applied to the manuscript; of course I tweak and polish my manuscripts daily – who doesn’t; by a “draft” I’m referring to substantive changes to the infrastructure of the plot and the characters. Things that require a rewrite.) The fact is, successful writers using the first method are actually applying their innate knowledge of storytelling as they go, so it’s irresponsible to advocate this for a newer writer who doesn’t have that same learning curve. Stephen King can do it – and he does – the rest of us could use a little planning first. Every novel, no matter how it’s written, begins with the search for ideas, elements, angles, and answers. Only when those answers are discovered, explored and implemented will the novel be successful. Or put more clearly, will it stand a chance at publication. How you do it is entirely up to you. But like I said… if you write organically (approach #1 above) and you’ve found yourself unable to finish, or worse, unable to sell your work, then consider a more left-brained, engineering approach next time. I promise you, the creative process will be every bit as wonderful, rewarding, effective and excruciating. I also promise you it will take you to the finish line in orders of magnitude less time. But fair warning: don’t try this – in fact, stop writing right now – if you don’t have complete command over the criteria for… - conceptualization - building character - theme 132


- story architecture - scene construction - writing voice If you don’t, neither approach will get you to the promised land.

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99. As you strive to master the basics, strive also to grow your U.S.P. – Unique Selling Proposition – as a writer. When Simon Cowell – he of the obnoxious feedback from American Idol – evaluates an unknown singer, he says he is looking for the “it factor .” So are publishers. In any avocation, especially the arts and athletics, there are two dimensions of performance. One is technical proficiency, the other is art. Both rely on a complete mastery of the basic mechanics of the craft – in our case, conceptualization (killer ideas leading to killer stories), character, theme, story structure, scene construction (narrative skill) and writing voice. That’s it. There is nothing else. Virtually anything you can identify about writing can be put into one of these six buckets. I call them The Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling. They cover the technical side of things. Art is what separates the mundane from the immortal. It is something that defies description and explanation. It is Simon Cowell’s it factor . Stephen King has it. Dennis Lehane has it. Michael Connelly has it. In fact, a lot of the names you recognize from the bookstores – and many that you don’t – have it in spades. In sports, they say you can’t coach speed. With writing, you can’t coach the it factor . You can’t bleed art from a tech manual. Art cannot be taught. It must be discovered . It must be cultivated and evolved. Only you can make that happen, somehow summoning it from somewhere within. And it will only happen after you master the technical side – The Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling, or however you prefer to break them down and define them. What is it ? It’s what makes a writer a delight to read. It’s what sets that writer apart from a sea of generic storytellers (many of whom, 134


we must acknowledge, have successful careers… I won’t name names, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know who they are). Is “it” referencing their linguistic prowess or their storytelling skill? Well, those folks I just mentioned, the ones who have successful careers without any apparent earth-shattering stylistic skills, are writers who have mastered the craft of storytelling. Others who are blessed with the opposite gifts – great style, not so great stories – might be headed for an academic literary house, but you’ll be hard pressed to find them in Barnes & Noble. And then, like King and Lehane and Demille and Connelly, some get it all. How do you find the it factor in you? Especially when it can’t be taught? I have only two recommendations in that regard: -

first, you have to find your natural writing voice. How you do that remains a mystery, but you won’t have a shot at it unless you play with different styles and allow yourself to evolve. If you’re lucky, you may click into a mode that just soars and imbues your work with, well… it .

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and, you can study writers you admire, those with a definite it factor , and try to get your head around what makes their work so fascinating and gratifying. It’s a personal thing, an aesthetic, but if you can begin to notice it , then perhaps you can begin to, if not emulate, then shoot for your own version of it in terms of quality and uniqueness.

The it factor is rare, so don’t set yourself up for disappointment if the publishing community doesn’t validate your suspicion that it’s you. Superstars in writing, as in other arts, are few and far between. But you can seek greatness as a storyteller who brings solid style and aesthetics to your work, and when you do, you’ll find yourself in the hunt for an agent, a publisher and an audience.

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100. Make sure you understand the definition of story. Versus, for example, an idea, a concept, a vignette, or a theme. A review of your day isn’t a story. A review of your day in which your boss tried to strangle you and you killed him in self defense and the prosecuting attorney is your ex-wife… now that’s a story. Can you define story? Can you do it in one word? Well, nobody can… but you can come close if you select the right word. It’s not character . It’s not theme. And it’s not plot (but close). It’s conflict . There is no story without conflict. You would be shocked at the legion of writers who, even after decades of practice and tens of thousands of dollars thrown at books and workshops – which lend almost no attention to this basic premise – who don’t really understand story in its most elemental form. Writers who think anything with a character in it is a story. It’s not. Not without conflict. None of them, by the way, are published. Nor will they be until they truly grasp and master the essence of what a story really is. There are many ways to render a proper definition of story, but here’s a succinct and accurate one: A story is about a character who needs something, with stakes attached to achieving what they need, and who must face and overcome obstacles in the pursuit of and fulfillment of that need. That character is usually your protagonist, often referred to as the story’s hero. And yet, many writers create what they believe to be stories with a protagonist positioned as a hero, but without a need or quest, just a sequential journey with no opposition or stakes. You never read them (unless you’re in a critique group) because they never get published.

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We take the basic tenets of story for granted because everything we read, good and otherwise, at least meets this definition. Other criteria kick in beyond the definition without becoming the definition itself. Most of them are qualitative, the things that make a story effective and publishable. Like a hook, a theme, character arc and backstory, structure and pacing (story architecture), setting, subplot, a satisfying and credible ending. But none of these elements define story. Rather, they empower a story. Within the above definition, then, what does the hero need? That’s your call as the author: truth, survival, love, money, revenge, enlightenment, validation, vindication, redemption, forgiveness, a home, a family, a career, to find something that has been lost, to help someone else… the list is ancient and endless. Notice, though, that each of these needs have stakes attached to them. For a story to work, it must have stakes. You can have character and plot without stakes – stakes are what makes the reader care – but if you do, what you won’t have is a book contract or a movie deal. So… do you truly understand, at its most basic, elemental and essential level, the definition of story? If not, then this is the most important “tip” you’ll ever hear about writing novels and screenplays. Except, perhaps, the next one.

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And finally, the most powerful and universal writing tip I have ever heard (assuming #100 is covered): 101. It really is about the journey. There is only one thing you have complete control over in the business of writing for publication or sale: the work itself. Sanity and peace depends on your acceptance of that truth. You have little to no control over whether or not your work will actually sell. You do control how much effort you put into the selling process, but if your priority and validation centers on the selling and not the writing, you may find yourself frustrated. Writers have been known to kill themselves for this reason alone. It is perhaps why so many writers are drunks. You have little or no control over what agents and editors and producers will do with your project once they accept it. Whether it becomes a hard cover or a paperback, an art film or a tent pole picture, how it’s marketed (or not), how the cover looks or what the dust cover or back copy or preview says. None of this will be your business. Of course, you can say no at any time. But then, that’s a bit counter-productive to the goal of selling, isn’t it. And if you do, the agent or publisher is likely to throw you under the bus. And there you’ll be, alone again with your manuscript. Once your book is on the shelves or your screenplay is in the hands of a producer, your job is done. Little you say or do will make the slightest bit of difference as to what happens to it from there. Let me say it again: the only thing you have complete control over is the work itself. So focus your energies and your hopes there. Work hard for, and dream about, creating the best work that’s in you. The best story that can possibly be told. Hopefully, if you’ve been paying attention, a story that must be told. 138


Published writers and produced screenwriters all pretty much agree on one thing: what seemed like a dream come true – book signings, openings, interviews, talking to readers and fans – quickly becomes something less than advertised. For some, a nightmare. Very soon in the process the writer realizes that the best part of the journey was the writing itself. Our work is our offspring. And like children, we sent them out into the world with great hope and little control over their destiny. Oh, we do try, and as we find ourselves unheard and useless we often regret that we didn’t try harder back when we were raising them. Back when what we said and did really mattered. So it is with our writing. Nurture it. Shape it. Discipline it. Give it your dreams and your highest hopes. Give it wings and a compass heading. Love it. Finish it. Then let it go. If you’ve done your work well while it resided in your hands – which is all that you can do – trust that what happens when it leaves you will be something wonderful. And if it doesn’t, at least you had those moments when it was. And that’s more than folks who don’t write will ever know.

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About the Author… … Larry Brooks Larry Brooks’ most recent novel, “ Bait And Switch,” was named by Publishers Weekly to their “Best Books of 2004” list, who gave it a starred review and named it their July 2004 Editor’s Choice. Larry is the author of four critically-praised psychological thrillers about the dark and dangerous games men and women play with each other, including the USA Today bestseller, “ Darkness Bound ” (Onyx 2000). Larry’s novels reflect his life experience in the art and science of relationship survival and in the business jungle, having only recently gotten a handle on the former with the help of his wife, Laura. He’s still working on the latter. Larry is an honorary Mentor for the Oregon Writers Colony, with whom he has been developing and leading workshops for over two decades. He also frequently leads writing workshops and speaks at conferences around the country. Participants describe his workshops as wildly original, compellingly effective and startlingly passionate. Larry likes to describe them as “mildly disturbing.” He also reviews books for The Oregonian newspaper, in addition to serving clients around the world with writing for marketing and training applications. Before teaching and writing novels full time he was a former Executive Creative Director and partner at CMD Agency in Portland, one of the largest integrated marketing firms in the western United States. He and his wife, Laura, have homes in Portland, Oregon and Scottsdale, Arizona. His son, Nelson, attends the University of Southern California. Visit the author’s website at www.STORYFIX.com, an instructional and motivational resource for writers in any creative genre. Contact Larry at [email protected]. 140

101 Slightly Unpredictable Tips for Novelists and Screenwriters

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