More about the early scene that might establish the Ordinary World.
BTW, it doesn't have to be the first scene! Especially in a mystery or action thriller, you might first want to get the action moving-- have the butler discover that dead body :). But then think about the sleuth going home to that old ordinary world so we can see what's going to change for
her because she's involved in this mystery.
Think of the three aspects here that you're establishing as you sketch the Ordinary World:
The character of the protagonist.
The setting or world.
The situation that will create conflict somehow.
I'll deal with the character here.
The character (and I mean the protagonist-- at least one of them :) is on a journey, from somewhere to somewhere else... but not a geographical somewhere, rather a psychological or emotional or life somewhere. So, for example, the character might be moving from affiliation to
independence (or vice versa).
The beginning of the journey is usually going to be shown somehow in the beginning of the book. Popular fiction is the art of making the internal manifest externally, or at least that's what we should strive for-- to show important life journeys through the concreteness of life.
Okay, so... say the journey is from affiliation (over-affiliation maybe) to independence. How do the early scenes show the "start-point?"
One way to do that is to show the character in her ordinary world exhibiting that starting point somehow. After all, if it takes a book to chronicle this journey, then it's important, if only to her own life. And if that's her start point, it will show up in her life-- in the way she chooses to act, in the world she lives in, in how she lives in that world.
So let's start with a character who is "over-affiliated". What does she
do to affiliate? What does she do too much? How would someone with this
start point live?
Maybe she'd live in some smallish world (because it's hard to affiliate to a million people). If she lives in a large city, for example, her "world" might be her office-- she's the one who always remembers veryone's birthday and brings a cake. Or it might be her neighborhood, and she's the one who organizes the Neighborhood Watch program, and the meetings are at her apartment. Or she might live in a small town and she has a job like running the local gas station so she sees about everyone every day. Or she might be a teacher at a boarding school, after having gone to that boarding school as a student. I am planning a heroine, actually, who goes to college in a small dying town, and stays there even after the college goes out of business, and she's gotten so attached to the town she refuses to let it die, or to take her considerable talents
elsewhere, and she ends upthe mayor (when the story actually opens). She is affiliated with this town to an almost risky extent-- she could probably make more money elsewhere, and not be so tense and anxious. But she's stuck on this town. She thinks if she gives up on it, it will die.
So... think of where your protagonist starts out... what sort of psychological, emotional, or life embarkation point she's at-- what about her life or self the plot events are going to change. Now imagine that person, with that start point... what sort of life situation would she be
in?
What's important is that it's got to SHOW. That is, the reader can figure it out if you show it. Let's say the heroine in the dying town is lobbying to get a new business to locate there. That's fine... but how do you show that she's TOO affiliated? (Not like she's crazy or anything, but maybe slightly over-loaded in the "yay, town!" element.) Maybe she's negotiating with this company CEO, and he laughs and says, "I've given you everything but the kitchen sink! I don't think anyone's gotten around me like you have! You know, I like your style. I think you should work for me. Maybe vice president? Company car? Stock options?"
And she is tempted because it's such a good prospect, and then she reluctantly says no. Then we know .... that this is a trait that is already causing CONFLICT.
You know what conflict is? It's the opportunity for growth. If you show that the protagonist is perfectly, honestly content in every particularly early on, the reader isn't going to see much opportunity for growth there. So usually you do one of two things-- either you come in and
snatch away perfect contentitude right away (a hurricane comes and flattens her little town :), or you show that she's just a tiny bit not so perfectly content, that there's this little chink in the wall of contentment, and that's... where she's going. Towards the fulfillment or change or growth that, were she to continue with contentment, she wouldn't get.
So my mayor heroine... where's the non-contentment? Maybe she works so hard and does so much, and yeah, everyone votes for her, but that's because no one else will take the job. She might be affiliated, but she's not so sure they're affiliated back. Maybe she feels unappreciated.
How do you show that? Well, maybe she arrives at her office, proud of some accomplishment, and there are three people waiting to complain about something, and not one of them mentions her accomplishment. And maybe when they leave she starts an email to her college roommate, trying not boastfully to tell SOMEONE at least that she accomplished something.
But... the point is to take that first scene and show where the protagonist starts out. It might be in the Ordinary World, or it might be a reaction to the Ordinary World (like on the bus leaving the small town :). But that first scene shows us something about who this person is, and how she's needing to change.
Just keep in mind-- to some extent, she has -chosen- this life, this world, this place in life. Of course a lot of life happens without our planning, but something about where we are is what we made it. But also, we come -out- of this world, this life. We don't just shape, we are
shaped. So you might want to ask "why"? Why is she here? How did she get here?
Like my mayor heroine grew up in New York City, and spent her childhood on subways and elevators, and never felt right, but the first moment she stepped off the bus into that mountain town and the bus station lady welcomed her with a big smile... she felt at home. And she gets a bit nervous and antsy when she leaves the mountains now.
So your first scene is going to reveal something about the protagonist. You're in control. What do you want to reveal? (And, I suppose, what do you want to conceal? :)
Friday, January 11, 2008
Ordinary World and Openings
I think the concept of Ordinary World is one of the hardest structural concepts to grasp. Alicia's done a good job of explaining that ordinary is not a synonym for dull, and she's given lots of examples of books with strong ordinary world openings.
Because there are problems in the ordinary world -- after all, no life is trouble-free -- and because fiction shows characters in motion via scenes, it can sometimes be difficult to understand exactly when we've left the ordinary world behind and entered the rising action. We start the story with problems, arguments, disasters and events. And the rising action is composed of problems, arguments, disasters and events. So how do we know when we've left the ordinary world behind?
Here's a simple rule: when the conflict is defined, you are out of the ordinary world.
It's not a new ordinary world. It may bear a strong resemblance to the ordinary world. It may even be an identical setting with identical characters. But something crucial will have changed, and that something crucial is the initiation of the conflict.
Think of Gregor Samsa in Kafka's Metamorphosis. He wakes up in his own bed, in his own home, surrounded by the same family members. This is his ordinary world, and none of it changes through the course of the story. Same bed. Same house. Same family members.
Except one morning when he wakes up, something crucial has changed. Gregor has turned into a cockroach. This change defines the conflict, and from the moment of that change, we're out of the ordinary world and into the rising action as the protagonist struggles to resolve the conflict.
You've all heard the conventional wisdom. Start with events or problems. Start your plot right away on page one, line one. Start with dialogue. Hook the reader. This is great advice. Is it inconsistent with the concept of Ordinary World?
Nope.
Whether you start with lead-in problems, or start with some other method of sketching the ordinary world, or start with conflict in the very first words, you still have to start strong. You still have to show characters in action--though perhaps I should place the emphasis in that sentence on the word show, because it's important to avoid exposition (which "tells") and rely instead on narrative elements such as dialogue and action.
Now, I'm of the opinion that the shorter the work, the less room you have for Ordinary World in proportion to the rest of the story. So a story like Kafka's can start off by defining the conflict in that famous first sentence:
As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.
You could probably argue that the ordinary world is suggested by the first part of that sentence, but for our purposes, it doesn't really matter. The story launches right into the conflict without changing the setting. It's a great hook, one of the best in the western canon.
Let's compare this to the first line from a novel with a strong Ordinary World, Gone With the Wind -- I can't lay my hands on my copy of this text right now, so I'm quoting from memory and may not have the exact syntax --
Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when captured by her charm as the Tarleton twins were.
The first sentence contains two notions in opposition -- a woman who lacks beauty, and men who are captivated. These two notions are not usually paired like this. In fact, we might call it a collision of opposites. It works precisely because opposing ideas are interesting to readers.
What follows is a somewhat lengthy physical description of Scarlett. Why does it work? Because the passage is loaded with contradictions, juxtapositions, and other uneasy bits. We're told her face contains a too-sharp blend of her mother's aristocratic features and her father's florid, blunt features. Another uneasy pairing, another collision of opposites. And so it goes on for a good 200 words or so, with contrasting pairs, with praise and criticism, with anything other than a rote list of details such as you might find on a driver's license.
In any event, it's a strong opening even though such lengthy description is no longer in favor.
So there you have two examples of strong openings, one in the ordinary world of that story and one which defines the conflict. So remember: Ordinary World is not a function of setting, and strong openings are not inconsistent with the Ordinary World.
Theresa
Because there are problems in the ordinary world -- after all, no life is trouble-free -- and because fiction shows characters in motion via scenes, it can sometimes be difficult to understand exactly when we've left the ordinary world behind and entered the rising action. We start the story with problems, arguments, disasters and events. And the rising action is composed of problems, arguments, disasters and events. So how do we know when we've left the ordinary world behind?
Here's a simple rule: when the conflict is defined, you are out of the ordinary world.
It's not a new ordinary world. It may bear a strong resemblance to the ordinary world. It may even be an identical setting with identical characters. But something crucial will have changed, and that something crucial is the initiation of the conflict.
Think of Gregor Samsa in Kafka's Metamorphosis. He wakes up in his own bed, in his own home, surrounded by the same family members. This is his ordinary world, and none of it changes through the course of the story. Same bed. Same house. Same family members.
Except one morning when he wakes up, something crucial has changed. Gregor has turned into a cockroach. This change defines the conflict, and from the moment of that change, we're out of the ordinary world and into the rising action as the protagonist struggles to resolve the conflict.
You've all heard the conventional wisdom. Start with events or problems. Start your plot right away on page one, line one. Start with dialogue. Hook the reader. This is great advice. Is it inconsistent with the concept of Ordinary World?
Nope.
Whether you start with lead-in problems, or start with some other method of sketching the ordinary world, or start with conflict in the very first words, you still have to start strong. You still have to show characters in action--though perhaps I should place the emphasis in that sentence on the word show, because it's important to avoid exposition (which "tells") and rely instead on narrative elements such as dialogue and action.
Now, I'm of the opinion that the shorter the work, the less room you have for Ordinary World in proportion to the rest of the story. So a story like Kafka's can start off by defining the conflict in that famous first sentence:
As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.
You could probably argue that the ordinary world is suggested by the first part of that sentence, but for our purposes, it doesn't really matter. The story launches right into the conflict without changing the setting. It's a great hook, one of the best in the western canon.
Let's compare this to the first line from a novel with a strong Ordinary World, Gone With the Wind -- I can't lay my hands on my copy of this text right now, so I'm quoting from memory and may not have the exact syntax --
Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when captured by her charm as the Tarleton twins were.
The first sentence contains two notions in opposition -- a woman who lacks beauty, and men who are captivated. These two notions are not usually paired like this. In fact, we might call it a collision of opposites. It works precisely because opposing ideas are interesting to readers.
What follows is a somewhat lengthy physical description of Scarlett. Why does it work? Because the passage is loaded with contradictions, juxtapositions, and other uneasy bits. We're told her face contains a too-sharp blend of her mother's aristocratic features and her father's florid, blunt features. Another uneasy pairing, another collision of opposites. And so it goes on for a good 200 words or so, with contrasting pairs, with praise and criticism, with anything other than a rote list of details such as you might find on a driver's license.
In any event, it's a strong opening even though such lengthy description is no longer in favor.
So there you have two examples of strong openings, one in the ordinary world of that story and one which defines the conflict. So remember: Ordinary World is not a function of setting, and strong openings are not inconsistent with the Ordinary World.
Theresa
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Ordinary World-- what I really meant
Best explain that, huh? Because it sort of sounds like I was calling for boring openings in boring places with boring people. No, really, I was suggesting opening with the main character in his/her ordinary world.
If you've read Chris Vogler's book, you're probably familiar with his 12 Heroic Steps. I think this journey tends to be more useful for certain types of books (quest novels, especially) than others, but some of the steps are very helpful in plotting. Here's my take on the first one--
Think about where your character is coming from.... literally. What is the world she lives in when the story opens? Can you show that in the first scene? That's her ordinary world, the one she is going to leave behind in this story.
This doesn't mean a boring scene of the heroine going through an ordinary day. (No scene should be boring-- but you know that. :) It doesn't mean the world of her childhood or her parents' home-- but where she is when your story opens. It means a "before picture" of this world and this character before the events of the plot change everything. But show this in a way that shows something about the character.
And it doesn't have to be a complete scene. In fact, usually the inciting incident happens during this first scene-- the change to the world and the character starts early. Sometimes it's just a paragraph or two, but it serves as an "establishing shot," as the filmmakers call it.
(And yes, this is not true with every type of book and every story. I know that, and you know that. But it is not "a matter of taste," commenters. It's a matter of what's right for this sub-genre and this story-- and most stories really will benefit from a little scene setting. I have seen openings where I don't understand what's going on or who these characters are-- and those stories could have benefited from a few paragraphs showing the main character in his ordinary world. We should discuss prologues! Often those prologues show a "before-before" picture-- some event long before the story opens. I'm not one of those who say you should never use a prologue, but I do believe they're overused lately, and they're not right for a lot of books because they take the focus of the "now" of the story and put it on the "back then".)
You can do a lot with this first scene. It can establish the current situation and set up the need for change. It should be intriguing, drawing the reader in and giving her reason to keep reading. It should give a hint of the coming conflicts, and maybe a starting point for the theme. It should introduce the main character and the setting in a way that both explains and entices-- that
is, you want to give just enough information that the reader is intrigued but not confused.
But too often, first scenes are either jammed full of so many details the reader gives up.... or generic, like a dozen other opening scenes she's read.
That's probably a good reason to write the first scene to get it over with, write the rest of the book, and then go back and rewrite that first scene. :) We're probably unlikely to get it right before we completely know the characters and situation.
So... there are lots of different ways to start a book. But I'm going to riff off a popular one, the Chris Vogler idea of the Ordinary World. Now I don't always agree with Vogler-- or rather, I don't assume that what works for film will automatically translate for a novel. But he's performed a useful service by "writer-izing" Joseph Campbell's work analyzing myths over the ages and finding the common elements. (The myths used are mostly quest myths with young men as heroes. I'm not going to get into this, because it's SO not my field, but some romance fiction analysts think that romance is based on the fairy tale model, not on myth, which is more masculine.)
Anyway.... The Ordinary World is a place to start, both for us as writers and our heroes and heroines. So let's look at how we can use the notion of the Ordinary World to help us craft a good first scene.
Vogler says, " Ordinary World: "The Hero's home, the safe haven upon which the Special World and the Journey's outcome must be compared."
Now that's quite a useful definition. Only of course I'm going to mess it up a bit. The Ordinary World might or might not be home, might or might not be a "safe haven". After all, if your heroine is an undercover cop imbedded in a gang of drug dealers, her ordinary world isn't very
safe at all. But it is the world that she's living in when the story opens. It's not necessarily safe, but it's probably what the character is used to... knows how to deal with. The same cop heroine who is able to deal with murderous drug cartel lords with aplomb might that evening find herself all cleaned up and attending the police chief's dinner party in a gated community, and here she is, surrounded by cops in dress uniform, in a wealthy and crime-free area... and she's terrified, because here comes the police chief's snooty wife....
The point is that the Ordinary World (OW) is the place where this character has been spending a lot of time... and she can handle it okay. Knows how to get around. It doesn't have to be ordinary in OUR estimation. But we probably need to show it's ordinary more or less for this character.
The OW might or might not seem safe and comfortable. It is, however, what this protagonist is used to having. Think of the opening of James Bond movies, you know, where he's surfboarding down the escalator of a high-fashioned Tokyo mall, being chased by laser-shooting robots? Hey, that IS his ordinary world-- a place of danger and action. If the film started with him, you know, standing in line at the BMV to get his driver's license renewed-- you know, MY ordinary world (or at least, my nightmare world :), it wouldn't be showing what he's used to having.
But no matter what, there's something lacking with this ordinary world. Got to be. The protagonist has to leave it, after all. There's something in the Special World (what happens in the plot) that is going to change the protagonist-- a challenge which doesn't exist in the OW. The protagonist HAS to change-- it's just what fiction is about, right? (Okay, James Bond doesn't have to change... until they get a new actor to play him. :) So it would not be good just to hang there in the OW. No matter how happy she is there, no matter how well he succeeds, the OW is lacking something, something that the protagonist needs for growth.
So let's come up with some openings that show the ordinary world, so we can get clear that it's not about being boring and inactive. Keep in mind what this world says about the character, and how it/she/he is going to change.
Gone With the Wind: Scarlett's OW is her hometown, where she is a pampered princess being adored by all the young men. If we don't have a sense of this world, then the huge change that is just about to happen (the Civil War and all the young men enlisting and leaving) won't have as much effect.
The Godfather: This gangster drama starts with a family wedding, and the godfather in his study, listening to supplicants. What's going to change? Events set up in this scene are like grenades which will explode later.
The Wizard of Oz: Dorothy is bored with her prairie home, and longing to escape. This is a very good example of how the Ordinary World can include action-- you know, the tornado. :)
Harry Potter: Harry is an orphan, ignored in his "Muggles" home, unaware of his powers or parentage.
Pride and Prejudice: The village and Bennett family are contemplating another routine spring in the countryside. Lizzie is surrounded by and oppressed by her family.
Niccolo Rising: Nicholas and his two friends are looking for action in their boring Belgian town when they're given a commission, to sail a bathtub through the familiar canals and locks.
Ulysses: Stephen Dedalus is with his best friend in their tower, looking out over their town of Dublin.
The Sound and the Fury: The mentally retarded Benjy wanders around his family home and the town where he has lived all his life.
Your turn-- novel or film-- what does that opening show? And how does it start to change?
The change can happen very quickly. The character can leave this place, or someone else can come. For example, in Atonement, Briony is in her pre-WWII home with her family, sharing a room with her sister just like always-- and then her cousins arrive from the city. That sets in motion the change, and it happens early.
Alicia
If you've read Chris Vogler's book, you're probably familiar with his 12 Heroic Steps. I think this journey tends to be more useful for certain types of books (quest novels, especially) than others, but some of the steps are very helpful in plotting. Here's my take on the first one--
Think about where your character is coming from.... literally. What is the world she lives in when the story opens? Can you show that in the first scene? That's her ordinary world, the one she is going to leave behind in this story.
This doesn't mean a boring scene of the heroine going through an ordinary day. (No scene should be boring-- but you know that. :) It doesn't mean the world of her childhood or her parents' home-- but where she is when your story opens. It means a "before picture" of this world and this character before the events of the plot change everything. But show this in a way that shows something about the character.
And it doesn't have to be a complete scene. In fact, usually the inciting incident happens during this first scene-- the change to the world and the character starts early. Sometimes it's just a paragraph or two, but it serves as an "establishing shot," as the filmmakers call it.
(And yes, this is not true with every type of book and every story. I know that, and you know that. But it is not "a matter of taste," commenters. It's a matter of what's right for this sub-genre and this story-- and most stories really will benefit from a little scene setting. I have seen openings where I don't understand what's going on or who these characters are-- and those stories could have benefited from a few paragraphs showing the main character in his ordinary world. We should discuss prologues! Often those prologues show a "before-before" picture-- some event long before the story opens. I'm not one of those who say you should never use a prologue, but I do believe they're overused lately, and they're not right for a lot of books because they take the focus of the "now" of the story and put it on the "back then".)
You can do a lot with this first scene. It can establish the current situation and set up the need for change. It should be intriguing, drawing the reader in and giving her reason to keep reading. It should give a hint of the coming conflicts, and maybe a starting point for the theme. It should introduce the main character and the setting in a way that both explains and entices-- that
is, you want to give just enough information that the reader is intrigued but not confused.
But too often, first scenes are either jammed full of so many details the reader gives up.... or generic, like a dozen other opening scenes she's read.
That's probably a good reason to write the first scene to get it over with, write the rest of the book, and then go back and rewrite that first scene. :) We're probably unlikely to get it right before we completely know the characters and situation.
So... there are lots of different ways to start a book. But I'm going to riff off a popular one, the Chris Vogler idea of the Ordinary World. Now I don't always agree with Vogler-- or rather, I don't assume that what works for film will automatically translate for a novel. But he's performed a useful service by "writer-izing" Joseph Campbell's work analyzing myths over the ages and finding the common elements. (The myths used are mostly quest myths with young men as heroes. I'm not going to get into this, because it's SO not my field, but some romance fiction analysts think that romance is based on the fairy tale model, not on myth, which is more masculine.)
Anyway.... The Ordinary World is a place to start, both for us as writers and our heroes and heroines. So let's look at how we can use the notion of the Ordinary World to help us craft a good first scene.
Vogler says, " Ordinary World: "The Hero's home, the safe haven upon which the Special World and the Journey's outcome must be compared."
Now that's quite a useful definition. Only of course I'm going to mess it up a bit. The Ordinary World might or might not be home, might or might not be a "safe haven". After all, if your heroine is an undercover cop imbedded in a gang of drug dealers, her ordinary world isn't very
safe at all. But it is the world that she's living in when the story opens. It's not necessarily safe, but it's probably what the character is used to... knows how to deal with. The same cop heroine who is able to deal with murderous drug cartel lords with aplomb might that evening find herself all cleaned up and attending the police chief's dinner party in a gated community, and here she is, surrounded by cops in dress uniform, in a wealthy and crime-free area... and she's terrified, because here comes the police chief's snooty wife....
The point is that the Ordinary World (OW) is the place where this character has been spending a lot of time... and she can handle it okay. Knows how to get around. It doesn't have to be ordinary in OUR estimation. But we probably need to show it's ordinary more or less for this character.
The OW might or might not seem safe and comfortable. It is, however, what this protagonist is used to having. Think of the opening of James Bond movies, you know, where he's surfboarding down the escalator of a high-fashioned Tokyo mall, being chased by laser-shooting robots? Hey, that IS his ordinary world-- a place of danger and action. If the film started with him, you know, standing in line at the BMV to get his driver's license renewed-- you know, MY ordinary world (or at least, my nightmare world :), it wouldn't be showing what he's used to having.
But no matter what, there's something lacking with this ordinary world. Got to be. The protagonist has to leave it, after all. There's something in the Special World (what happens in the plot) that is going to change the protagonist-- a challenge which doesn't exist in the OW. The protagonist HAS to change-- it's just what fiction is about, right? (Okay, James Bond doesn't have to change... until they get a new actor to play him. :) So it would not be good just to hang there in the OW. No matter how happy she is there, no matter how well he succeeds, the OW is lacking something, something that the protagonist needs for growth.
So let's come up with some openings that show the ordinary world, so we can get clear that it's not about being boring and inactive. Keep in mind what this world says about the character, and how it/she/he is going to change.
Gone With the Wind: Scarlett's OW is her hometown, where she is a pampered princess being adored by all the young men. If we don't have a sense of this world, then the huge change that is just about to happen (the Civil War and all the young men enlisting and leaving) won't have as much effect.
The Godfather: This gangster drama starts with a family wedding, and the godfather in his study, listening to supplicants. What's going to change? Events set up in this scene are like grenades which will explode later.
The Wizard of Oz: Dorothy is bored with her prairie home, and longing to escape. This is a very good example of how the Ordinary World can include action-- you know, the tornado. :)
Harry Potter: Harry is an orphan, ignored in his "Muggles" home, unaware of his powers or parentage.
Pride and Prejudice: The village and Bennett family are contemplating another routine spring in the countryside. Lizzie is surrounded by and oppressed by her family.
Niccolo Rising: Nicholas and his two friends are looking for action in their boring Belgian town when they're given a commission, to sail a bathtub through the familiar canals and locks.
Ulysses: Stephen Dedalus is with his best friend in their tower, looking out over their town of Dublin.
The Sound and the Fury: The mentally retarded Benjy wanders around his family home and the town where he has lived all his life.
Your turn-- novel or film-- what does that opening show? And how does it start to change?
The change can happen very quickly. The character can leave this place, or someone else can come. For example, in Atonement, Briony is in her pre-WWII home with her family, sharing a room with her sister just like always-- and then her cousins arrive from the city. That sets in motion the change, and it happens early.
Alicia
Top Ten Reasons Why Editors Are So Mean
Alicia says--
I’m behind on posts, so am still working on Theresa’s post about critique groups. I want to reconstruct my incredibly brilliant post that got lost when the PC crashed. You’ll have to take my word for the brilliance, because this reconstructed one won’t be as brilliant. As you read it, just think, “I bet the original was brilliant.” J
I am going to do this in Word (thanks for the suggestion!) and in pieces. So here’s the first piece:
Top Ten Reasons Why the Editor Doesn’t Applaud What Your Crit Group Loved:
10) “This writer never heard about killing her darlings—and she sure has a lot of darlings, all very precious and twee.” Sometimes what we love is actually a bit… self-indulgent. Once I started a mystery set in a critique group, with both the murderer and the victim as members of the group, and each fictional group member was based on a member of my then-critique group, and it was screamingly funny—to us, anyway. Actually, it’s not a bad idea, but I can certainly understand why editors weren’t rolling on the floor when “Sadie” and “Mary” once again debated semicolons and “Laura” went on a diet and the other members kept bringing chocolate to meetings, you know, exactly as happened in my critique group! (It was really funny! My critique group just howled!)
9) “Huh? What’s this got to do with the story? Is it an outtake from some other book?” Scenes can be terrific each on their own, but not always fit into the tone or plot of the rest of the book. The crit group might see your story a scene at a time and love each individually… and never read the entire book and so not notice if one scene is out of place.
8) “Nicely written, but (insert trendy plot device) is so last year, or will be next year anyway.” From acceptance to publication is usually a year, so the editor has to scout ahead and imagine what will be appealing to readers not right now, but in 12 months. So you and the critique group might be right, that your wizard is better than Harry Potter… but the editor getting up-to-the-minute info from the sales force that wizards’ popularity is dropping off, and will be nil next year.
7) “Good story, but the prose is so rough—I just don’t have time to fix every sentence.” There is a minimal acceptable level of prose, and sometimes your critique group might, um, have a lower minimum than the editor does. If the overworked editor has two good stories, and one requires maybe three hours of editing, and the other twelve hours, which would you suggest she take? It’s your job, not hers, to make this story publishable. And editors are editors. We love the English language, grammar and all. When you turn in a manuscript full of errors, it’s kind of like you’re disrespecting our great love. We can’t help but take that personally!
6) “I can’t believe she submitted this manuscript in this condition. The paper reeks of smoke; there is a bloodstain, I’m pretty sure, on page 12. Who does she think she is? Stephen King delivers a clean manuscript — if this no-name wants to be a professional, let her get started on acting like one.” You think I’m kidding? I’m not. If the editor has an asthma attack opening your envelope, or goes looking for latex gloves so as not to encounter your bodily fluids, well, let’s just say, no matter how great the story is, it’s probably not going to be read. Print out a new manuscript for each submission, and keep your paper and your printer in a room where no one smokes.
5) “Great idea, well-executed, but, umm, we don’t publish short stories (or horror novels or non-fiction or…).” Your critique group might be right— you are the next Alice Munro. But if the editor doesn’t edit short story anthologies, you can’t count on her taking the manuscript across the hall to the appropriate colleague. I was sort of shocked, when I became an editor, how many submissions I received which had nothing to do with what I could acquire. Do your research, and don’t waste the editor’s time and your postage with the sort of book she doesn’t edit.
4) “Very quirky, very cutting-edge—but our audience would never buy this.” Publishers are only as innovative as their customers. They might be wrong—publishers frequently underestimate the ability of readers to adapt quickly to what might seem experimental—but editors do have to take the attitude of the higher-ups into consideration.
3) “We have another book with a similar premise coming out in three months. This is better, but that’s already paid for.” There are no unique ideas, or they’re not unique for long. I remember one editor saying she got – in one week-- three manuscripts using the premise of Jesus being cloned from the blood on the Shroud of Turin, and each of the authors arrived at that premise independently. Only one book got bought. You and the critique group might be exactly right, that you came up with this on your own, but so apparently did someone else-- earlier.
2) “In the dictionary, next to the word ‘difficult,’ is a photo of this writer. Depending on the time of day he calls (and he’s called every day since he submitted), he seems to think that I am either his enemy or his therapist. I cannot, cannot, cannot deal with him for the next year. Maybe he’s the next Dean Koontz and I’ll get fired for rejecting him… but so what? No job and no author is worth this level of increase of stomach acid.” Your critique group probably loves you no matter what. And heck, you might be a prince in F2F personal relationships. But an editor has to do more than acquire a manuscript. She has to edit it and shepherd it through, which means continued contact. How much do you want her to dread that? Think of that before you pick up that phone or hit “send”.
1) “I love it, but my boss will hate it.” No accounting for tastes. I remember an editor-in-chief refusing a book because the heroine had the name of an ex-girlfriend. The author offered to change the name… no go. Lesson—sometimes it doesn’t make any sense. Great books get rejected all the time, for good reasons and bad. The market is fickle, and so are bosses. And the trouble is, you might never know whether your book was rejected “for cause,” or if it really is as great as your critique group says, and some factor completely beyond your control interferes.
Alicia
Ordinary World-- Theresa's points
That's a great graphic, Theresa! And you and I both keep going back to Aristotle... I think the old guy really got drama. :)
I think too many writers now think they have to leap into the action -- and yeah, for action-adventure novels, that might be right. (We should talk about, at some point, how different types of openings "promise" different sorts of stories, even for the same basic plot.) But novels that are more about character should probably first establish that "ordinary world"-- because it tells a lot about the character when we see how she interacts with the world she lives in-- before that world changes with the plot.
The OW isn't just about setting-- it's a characterization opportunity too. The Ordinary World might not be what the character has chosen... but it's what the character has adapted to and accepted. So the Ordinary World tells us what she's willing to live with, what concessions she has made for the safety and routine and ordinariness, what she values, what she fears-- and why she can't grow unless she leaves.
Examples?
Alicia
I think too many writers now think they have to leap into the action -- and yeah, for action-adventure novels, that might be right. (We should talk about, at some point, how different types of openings "promise" different sorts of stories, even for the same basic plot.) But novels that are more about character should probably first establish that "ordinary world"-- because it tells a lot about the character when we see how she interacts with the world she lives in-- before that world changes with the plot.
The OW isn't just about setting-- it's a characterization opportunity too. The Ordinary World might not be what the character has chosen... but it's what the character has adapted to and accepted. So the Ordinary World tells us what she's willing to live with, what concessions she has made for the safety and routine and ordinariness, what she values, what she fears-- and why she can't grow unless she leaves.
Examples?
Alicia
A Structure Primer
What is this odd and blurry diagram? A toddler's crayon scribbles?
Nope. This is large-scale structure, one rendition of what is sometimes referred to as Aristotle's incline.
We're going to kick off our structure talks by looking at this diagram and some simple definitions. Most of you probably know this stuff already. But we want to take the time to go through it just so we all know we're on the same page.
And then, once we establish the foundation, we'll move into a discussion of the openings of books. Preview: They almost always start in the wrong place, and we end up having to do first chapter revisions on -- what would you say, Alicia? 75% of manuscripts? 80%? 90%? All I know is that it feels like a bonus when I get a manuscript with a good opening.
So. To Aristotle. Some of you may have seen a map like this in your high school English classes. Or perhaps you've seen similar diagrams that focus on the angled portion, the line between the circles. I like the above diagram because it goes into a bit more detail than other version's of the incline.
If you were to map a typical story beginning on page one and through to the last page, it might look something like that diagram. We begin in the ordinary world, usually with our protagonist, sometimes with our antagonist.
Ordinary World: In simplest terms, this is the starting point, the place and space all the characters occupy before the initiation of the conflict.
Protagonist: There are a thousand ways to define the protagonist. Someday maybe we'll talk about that in more depth. For today, we'll define the protagonist as the focus character for the story -- the character who plays an important role in most of the scenes.
Antagonist: The antagonist is the person or thing standing in direct opposition to the protagonist. Antagonists can be people, but they can also be circumstances.
In the ordinary world, the protagonist is coasting along, maintaining whatever his or her status quo might be. Then one day, something happens to disrupt the flow. This something can be positive or negative. It can be the death of a loved one, or a winning lottery ticket, or a dead body found in an alley, or the arrival of a prince charming. It can even be as simple as a decision: I'd like to walk the Appalachian Trail.
Inciting Incident: The event, positive or negative, that disrupts the status quo of the ordinary world.
Once the inciting incident occurs, you're out of the ordinary world and into the plot. (Plot is not structure -- we'll also examine that notion in another post some day.) The inciting incident, more often than not, also introduces the conflict or directly leads to the conflict.
Conflict: The opposition of the antagonist to the protagonist. (Special note to romance writers: you sometimes have a dual-protagonist structure that results in dual conflicts, external and internal.)
If your inciting incident is: death of a loved one
Your conflict might be: return of a prodigal relative intent on stealing an inheritance
If your inciting incident is: arrival of a prince charming
Your conflict might be: he's competing for the promotion the heroine wants
If your inciting incident is: a dead body found in the alley
Your conflict might be: a killer on the loose who might strike again
If your inciting incident is: a winning lottery ticket
Your conflict might be: misplacing the ticket
This little exercise takes us through the flat portion, bottom left of the diagram (ordinary world) and into the circled part (inciting incident and introduction of the conflict).
Next time, we'll look at another way to break these pieces down. For now, your homework is to look at one of your manuscripts and identify your protagonist, your antagonist, and your inciting incident. You might find this harder than expected, especially the inciting incident.
Theresa
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
More on critique---
I just spent an hour typing a post about critiquing and editors and all that. It was provocative-- it was cutting-edge. It was wise and insightful. (Trust me on this.) So of course, as I was just finishing, the computer shut down.
I am too disspirited to do it again. Maybe tomorrow I'll feel better, and maybe next time I'll remember to SAVE posts occasionally.
Alicia
I am too disspirited to do it again. Maybe tomorrow I'll feel better, and maybe next time I'll remember to SAVE posts occasionally.
Alicia
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