Quiet Scene or Boring Scene? What can make the difference

We call them “character moments” or “pacing breaks” when we write them, or “boring scenes” when somebody else tries and fails. We know the story isn’t complete if it’s all twists and suspense, but making the slower “day in the life” moments work is harder than it looks. Still, I’ve found there’s one tool that does a lot to make those slower scenes more appealing.

(The Unified Writing Field Theory — searchings and findings on what makes stories work)

The first step is to be sure why the scene needs to be there. It’s easy to say “there have to be slow moments,” but a writer–and then a reader–ought to be able to put a finger right on which fact, characterization, or lull or shift of mood a scene is contributing to the story’s sequence. That is, why this moment with the character’s family is a different and better one to show than the home scene he probably had yesterday, and how much room the overall pacing has for them.

The basics matter too. The more you know the character and the issues, and the more you’ve established about them so you can show what small ways this scene changes them–and the reader’s primed to care about those–the easier it is to pull off a quiet scene. Then again, you’ve still got full control over how much has gone by “off camera” before the moment you start the scene, how soon you can end it, and how much you can summarize or “blur forward” to cover a time faster; you’re looking for the right moments and the ideal pace(s) to cover them without wasting space. Or maybe the quiet scene does double service because it’s also the one that’s interrupted by something important, or has it developing in the background.

But most of all, I like to write quiet scenes with the same thing that makes active scenes work: focus. That is, even when the hero isn’t fighting for his life, I still focus on what he wants, right now.

To take the classic example, say the scene’s a typical morning at work. But making it interesting means putting yourself a little more into that character’s shoes.

If you enjoy your work, the scene could just be about being in your element. You’re tending your bar, flying your jet–or writing your blog–and each thing that comes up is just something you can handle, simple and satisfying. Or a variation could be, the work is ordinary or petty, but it barely matters because the people around make the day fun.

Or maybe it isn’t going so well: sometimes work’s just a grind or a case of working through sizzling heat, surly crowds, or even Murphy’s Law kicking each time you’re about to fix the last thing. This time you just want to get through the day, coping with each moment but the real fight is to keep your temper down and a few of your hopes up, and any bright spot there or moment of weakness probably means more than the facts themselves.

Or, the challenges may not be quite so minor or so implacable. If you’ve got one customer that’s hard to please or a chance to impress your boss, coping with that makes the scene develop twists and a scramble of trying one thing and then the next, the same as the major scenes the story’s really about.

Then there’s the other side to scenes like this: besides what’s going on now, what happened last night or before then that’s on your mind, or what are you worrying or planning or hoping is coming soon? A date, an injury, a visit with your family, or Something Odd that you’re so sure won’t mean anything more…

Those are some of the points a quiet scene might make. The first approach shows a happy character with something to lose, while the second’s displeasure might make him someone who needs a change or is likely to see it get even worse. The third intensifies how it could go either way, and it puts more emphasis on a win or a loss and on how the character tries to solve problems, plus anything in the mix that may be part of the larger story. The fourth pairs the one scene with other happenings (and if anything important’s been going on, it should be on his mind) and opens up all kinds of contrasts between them.

But it’s all easier to write when you take a closer look at what the character wants just then–token or specific challenges, or managing his reaction to them, and/or other thoughts. Because whatever those are, right now it’s what changes and arcs those go through that are filling the character’s world. Even if there isn’t much at stake now, doing justice to the struggle for it–by the same rules as the larger plots–is what makes the scene both fun on its own and adding that moment of comfort or stress or whatever it is to the story.

I’ll come back to something I said earlier, and put it a bit differently now: be sure the scene has something new to say. However much you like the character’s moments at work or how he is with his girl, only add scenes where you can put some twist on what you’ve already shown, and keep to that part of it. Does this date have an incident that’s really cute enough to make this the scene to show? Is his time with his father lingering on the things they haven’t quite said before, and letting the scene end at that? Use the “Tarzan Test,” that there’s something more in the mix and that the scope of that mix defines what the tale has become–it’s either large changes or seeing why the small ones are at least a little important for the moment.

Small or not, it’s those steps that make a story more interesting than just looking at random strangers. What someone’s life is, a story lays it down one piece at a time, and it’s the changes and contrasts between them that we want to see. If our hero isn’t charging across the globe saving the world right now… we just need a stronger magnifying glass to see what he is doing.

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