Worth Fighting For – choosing stakes for characters

When I’m first putting my sense of a story together, there’s one question that can turn the different pieces into a whole, sometimes faster than any other choice I make. And that is: what does a character want?

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

I don’t mean the deep study of how the world looks through his eyes, not yet. (And not the “What’s my motivation?” acting jokes—although any cliché like that was usually washed downstream from a good idea up somewhere.) No, I mean a simple decision about what part of the story keeps that person in the action, in terms of his own history.

Think about how you come up with a concept, and what ideas come to you first. You might start with a protagonist and build the world as you start to understand her; “What kind of person would try to hide her psychic powers to live an ordinary life?” Or you might begin with a sense of the conflict (“wizards at war!”) or the cause at the root of it, or just a setting you want to draw a story out of. So many ways we can go.

But to keep those pieces from pulling apart, we want at least a basic sense of which of them got our people involved. In some stories this may be less important than how the plot escalates (such as trying to stay alive), but even as a starting point it’s a good one. So I like to look for whether the character’s here for:

Family: The earliest, maybe deepest motive we all have. When Inigo Montoya says “You killed my father, prepare to die!” or a troubled teenager tries to keep her sister from following in her footsteps, we all know how much is going on. It’s especially good for bringing in the weight of the character’s past; half the story’s subtext may be her fighting for these few people to not see her as who she used to be.

Love and Friends: If family’s bound up with the past, these can start as casual and in-the-moment as Watson’s initial curiosity about Holmes—or as life-changing as Romeo catching a glimpse of his enemies’ daughter. It might be the most versatile motive of all because that other person could be anyone, with whatever bond to the character you want to build up, and they have all their own ways of changing and pulling people in deeper.

Work: The classic, if you want the story tied to how police work or ranching operates, or at least how Certain Events are complicating those. Harry Potter starts his adventure wanting to earn his place as a wizard, and the sheer weirdness of Hogwarts fills half the pages of the books. And like Harry shows, this choice can be all about the structure that job brings, but it can also be an easy string for pulling in characters you don’t want to give a separate supporting cast to—or to show off how someone like Harry doesn’t have any good people in his life, at first.

Accident and Entropy: Sometimes a killer just thinks your hairstyle is more fascinating than the others on the street—or you win a lottery, or wake up with a disease. The other stakes usually come with their own baggage, but here we can say “It had to happen to someone”… and then build the story from how that plays off the rest of the character. That random target becomes all about whether her ordinariness (and all the unique bits it came from) will help her survive; the lottery winner finds out what he really wants in life. If you want this kind of setup, you’ll usually know it.

Whatever else the story does, the better I know a character wants the right thing, the more the whole story hangs together. The High Road starts with a family secret, but making my viewpoint character Mark a friend of the Dennards keeps him a step back from their legacy to appreciate it a bit more. It spotlights his relationship to them but told me I had to show how specific his reasons for being there were, from his suspicion of the magic he’d glimpsed to his lack of a stable family himself.

Besides choosing a type of stake, here are three other things that choice can lead to:

Often the way the character sees that goal can be as distinctive as the thing itself. If you look at the Marvel movies, Thor and Iron Man both start their arcs as superstars who think they know everything about changing the world, while the future Captain America is a weakling who dreams of making a difference any way he can. One person might have lost someone and be driven by revenge or just stumbling around with a grudge against the world, but a different spin on the same concept can give you a character trying to make amends—either to the people he’s failed or to the different ones that are all he has left.

Or, the most impressive thing about stakes may be the combination of them, and how many you cover or contrast. Harry Potter comes to Hogwarts to train, but he also has his lost family to discover, and the friends he soon makes… and even touching all those bases makes any character more complete. Or look at the symmetry between Harry and the picture we form of young Voldemort: both Hogwarts students, both from nightmarish homes, but Harry’s honest friendships (and how easily he makes them) make it easy to see how different their lives will be. Just think of a classic mystery: half the story might come out of “the real killer did it for simple greed, while the red herrings have these flashy love and cover-up-the-accident motives.” Or how many stories are about changing a character from career-chasing to love or family.

Most of all, choosing someone’s goal ought to be a signpost to what to flesh out next. “For his father” is pure cliché if it just lies there pretending to be a complete answer, without detailing what that father’s like. Other characters may never mention their parents at all, but that only works for the ones that have whole different forces driving them. And the better you are at picking which of those basics each character depends on, the sooner you can fill in what they’ll mean for the story.

Besides, the heroine’s father might turn out to be the hero’s too, if you find you’re creating the next Darth Vader…

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How All Writing is Suspense

Why is my writing all about suspense? I think a better question is, is there any story that isn’t really about building uncertainty, making the reader wonder about what comes next, making them care? Suspense. And understanding that may be the perfect tool for any kind of writing.

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

But suspense is only one genre, isn’t it? One Wikipedia page (since it’s probably the quickest source to go check; I’ll wait) lists 22 genres, and umpteen variations within them. I actually class my own writing as fantasy, urban fantasy and paranormal in particular, one of several genres that many people think of for its distinctive character types and weaponry (see also Science Fiction) or conflict (Crime or Mystery).

Except, many of those genres are about choosing tools. When a writer sits down to use them, Tom Clancy doesn’t have the same aims as Ian Fleming, and my battles aren’t trying to imitate Seanan McGuire’s. (Not that anyone could…)

What the idea of suspense can do is bring all genres and styles together—and show how each of us is making our own writing choices, even line by line, but all following the same cycle.

I call it a “suspense” flow, because I think that’s the word that captures the energy we want each part of a story to have—especially how it depends on balancing different parts of the flow to get the pacing right. You might argue for “action,” “mystery,” or other words, but I think “suspense” captures more in one word. And it all builds on what all writers do know is: conflict.

If #conflict is the 'engine' of a story, the #suspense flow shows which 'gear' the engine's in. Click To Tweet

How does that help us writing?

Partly, we can use the suspense model for a larger view of what any part of a story needs, whether it’s a single passage or a five-book plan. Such as checking for:

someone to root for
tone or atmosphere
complications, and a sense that these would be what he has to deal with
choices that are hard enough to reveal the character
pacing, not rushing or bogging down on the way to—
an outcome that means something

All of these are basic elements of writing and conflict, but this fits them all together to see them as part of the same cycle—and to ask whether they’re building the right kind of momentum, involvement, suspense.

“But my writing’s barely about suspense!” –If that’s what you’ve been thinking, consider this: the suspense flow is more than a way to find common needs in the genres and styles. It’s also a way to look at any part of writing, and to pick if you have any particular priorities for it:

If you want sensory mood or detail, you can start painting the picture right from the beginning, even before things happen.
To make your story more about its subject (anything from a neighborhood-specific tale to a political tale to SF and fantasy), you might define more of it by just what complications come out of it. Be sure the reader knows why it’s those problems those people have to face, and what that means.
A sense of mystery can mean playing up the contrast between choices about the subject, and of course stretching out how long it takaes to find that answer. Was it the vampire or the best friend that dunnit? Just why was the ruined city abandoned?
Or, classic suspense in its own right means extending the whole process, whether it’s building up more mood or looking for further complications to keep things up in the air.
Pure “drama” usually is code for making characters more important than what happens—not just important (we all want that), but focused on how they resist or interpret or put their own slant on the facts. Even in a whole sprawling war, nobody’s going to have the same PTSD as this one soldier.
Or an action story needs to do justice to the effect itself, the explosions at the end of the suspense cycle before the cycle starts up again.
(For that matter, comedy has the same need to stop there and enjoy the laughter. That same moment of release might well have explosions too, as long as fewer people are getting hurt.)

Naturally each point on the suspense flow is only as good as how the rest of the flow meshes with it. Only the crudest action story gets careless about why the danger’s there, or the hero’s choices in facing it; sensory description that shuts off once the complications appear would be absurd. And again, “suspense” is a reminder that it only works when the pieces have the right balance for the pacing we want.

Even a sequence that’s all mood or description can look at this pattern. By the time that boy finishes strolling out to the lake, what state of mind should the passage have nudged him to, and the reader with him? Do the bits of detail contrast with each other in ways that stir up preferences in us (looking at the open sky, and the gritty, tiring dust his feet kick up, before he’s finally rounding the corner), or give a sense of one thing disrupting another to demand our attention?

Can you look at these and see which part of the flow you want to give a bit more justification, a few more words, or an extra scene?

It’s all there, by one name or another. And if the combination of your words catches fire, it will do it partly because of what we call suspense.

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Zero to Heroes

On February 16, I’ll be at Orccon in Los Angeles giving another of my talks on writing. Here’s what I’ll be leading people through:

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

We’ve all been there. When we just don’t know what a story should be, when there’s just this vague sense of what we’d “like to have written” and no more. The times we might as well have nothing.

–Except, it isn’t nothing, is it? Despite the title up there on the page, we do have the seed of an idea.

That’s all it takes.

Writing’s too full of myths about “inspiration” and “the concept,” that hint that if you don’t get half the story all at once you’ll never get it. Except, they’re all promulgated by–and for–people who’ve never sat down with someone who’s gotten through a story. Please.

Besides, it’s no secret what usually energizes a tale, and ties its pieces together: conflict.

In other words, who’s up against what. And odds are, whatever itch we have to get a story written is going to connect with one of those sides, either the hero or the forces he’s dealing with.

Starting with the Hero?

If you’ve got a sense of your protagonist… is it that you know what he wants? Is he struggling to become a famous wizard, or save his sister from an unnatural plague? There, you start to see what the story needs: a sister, a plague, a way to save her and all the things that can lead to it or go wrong.

Or you might have a more general sense of what he does, not really pinned down as far. A pirate raids ships; a father tries to raise children; a monster-hunter is no good without some-Thing to hunt.

From those, you can look back and see more about how many kinds of people might find themselves in your hero’s shoes. Maybe the protagonist you want is reluctant, dragged into the story by circumstances. Or he’s eager for it, or he’s the calm product of a lifetime of training. So how does that change how he faces a rival or looks for a clue? When does where he came from make him better than the people around him, and how does it trip him up–and, what could make him doubt he’s on the right path? All of those are plots.

…Or the World?

Or you might come into the story search from the outside, instead of the center: maybe you’ve got a sense of what flavor of fun is there but not who’s dealing with it yet. No picture of a Pirate Hero but just that the high seas would be a perfect place for an adventure.

So: what different forces might be in that mix? Raging storms, pirate ships one at a time, or whole navies at war? Is there a sea monster or three (and are they a normal ocean hazard, or did Something Open Up between worlds?), or are you more interested in human struggles? The humans might be marines, explorers, or a Fair Lady with Secrets.

From there you could ask: how many of each could the story have, and how are they different? Is one navy captain more of a backstabber than the one on the next ship, and how do either compare to that lady? Better yet, does one start out trustworthy and change to treacherous, and why?

And the best part? With each combination we look at, we can see different people who might be the hero in the center of it all, and how all that would give him new pressures and possibilities. Imagine focusing the story on a castaway tossed into the middle of that ship… or on the ship’s first mate that the captain hates, or on a captured pirate. Any of those angles would make a very different story from putting our Secretive Lady in the center.

That’s all it takes, just looking for which other pieces of the puzzle could help and hurt which kind of hero. (Or heroine; now I’m starting to wonder what she’s up to…) Look at how they mesh with that center, and each other–fighting, tempting, teaching, befriending or betraying. All that’s left is to pick which combination builds up the best kind of pressure, and who knocks over whose domino first.

And look! now we’re plotting, and making more detailed choices, maybe looking up guides like my Bracketology plan for organizing a storyline. Because when we thought we barely had an idea–

Suddenly the ship has sailed.

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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Dialog, Plot, and a bit of Spock — Layers brought to life

Dialogue might be the most powerful tool a writer has. It’s absolutely the easiest one to lead in any direction you want, and yet… Just by keeping track of what pieces the story’s built from and what the character’s own viewpoint is, a writer just might find a line that plays several points off each other all at once, in such a bold combination the reader’s completely hooked. Just look at these lines, from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, between Saavik and Mr. Spock after meeting Captain Kirk (okay, it was Admiral Kirk at the time):

“He’s never what I expected… He seems so human.”

“Nobody’s perfect, Saavik.”

How much work do these lines do?

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

Well, let’s say you’re a viewer who knows nothing about Star Trek (a real stretch, I know) except that the two seem to be aliens because you notice their pointed ears (hmm, maybe a bigger stretch). That and you’ve just seen Kirk sweep in as the officer who’s inspecting Spock and Saavik’s ship. Even if you somehow don’t know the rest of the Trek story, it still captures a whole range of points:

Kirk is Important, or famous, enough that Saavik has expectations about him. Enough expectations that she bothers to talk about them in the middle of an inspection, when she could have stuck to business.
Kirk isn’t what Saavik expected (laying the foundation for him surprising any number of other people too–not a bad thing to keep in mind for Kirk).
Saavik’s concerned about “humanness,” out of all the things she might predict or notice about a person–
and from Spock’s reply we see she wasn’t mentioning humanness to compliment it.
Spock isn’t so impressed with humanity either, the two aliens agree on that in theory–
but at the same time Spock is more tolerant of it, or at least of Kirk.

Six points, all leading up to how Spock’s respect for Kirk trumps all the rest. (In fact there’s a seventh point, since most viewers actually would know Spock and Kirk are longtime friends: the fact that Saavik dares to say this about her superior’s friend reminds us that even Vulcans military officers don’t let human respect keep them quiet, at least among themselves.) If this were a new universe it would be a magnificent bit of multipurpose exposition; in a franchise like Star Trek it puts the audience on notice that this writer gets the characters and the story’s only going to make better use of them from here on. Not too shabby.

In fact, this isn’t just a dialog point. It applies to any kind of characterization, and that means it can inform the whole plot of a story: how does a character really see a situation, and what’s he going to do there besides the obvious? Turn and salute the enemy he’s just viciously wiped out? Be the only person in the room who doesn’t believe the evidence, and so change the whole course of what happens next while the reader stops to think “Wait, I guess she would be the one who can’t accept it yet…”

One key to finding those openings might be to look at the story in terms of differences within its elements. What or who doesn’t fit with who, what’s grown stronger than what, who wants one thing and who wants something else, what options or tools have just stopped working–and where does a character stand on these? (“Differences,” of course, are another way to say “conflict” or at least the fun stuff that gets a reader’s attention.)

With the Saavik/Spock exchange, the gaps it points out are between Kirk’s achievements and his very human nature, comparing that with how she (as a Vulcan) sees that as odd and unsettling, all against how Spock–although he partly agrees–still has that tolerance for it. That’s a lot of bases to touch, about history and one man’s individuality, two different cultures, and Spock in turn bridging between them.

So, how many pieces is your story built from? And how many different things can you compare to each other, by finding the right character and the right moment to show a few of those differences all at once–or just the one that the reader will never forget?

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Writing Travel Scenes: What to Keep Moving

Do you ever notice how often “the hero’s journey” isn’t just a metaphor? Travel’s a huge part of many stories, sometimes long days or weeks on the road, sometimes brief hops that still get wedged so close into the characters’ real moments they seem like they deserve a place in the story. But there’s always that question: how much do you write up, or do you show it at all?

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

More than anything I’d call this a pacing question, and check that against a writer’s overall style. Some periods just need to take more time–it could almost be a paradox of:

if none of the real plot has started yet, skip forward to when it has
but when the plot’s just underway, then show more of the journey
once things are moving toward high gear, skip to the good stuff
and then when the important scene’s near, once again show the approach to it

–Not very helpful, is it? But the pacing theory is that there’s an ideal plot distance away from the more important scenes, not so far that it’s no longer worth showing and not so close the reader’s gotten too eager to rush on, and that’s the sweet spot to take some time in. That is, once you decide which are the more important scenes and what makes other moments just how far away from them. One writer’s cut-to-the-chase’s-warmup is another’s favorite time to pause and say goodbye to how things were.

Part of that’s each writer’s own style. The more you use description and mood overall, the odder it’s going to look if you skip ahead… unless part of your pattern is skipping ahead, because you writer fewer but richer scenes. It all gets mixed together to decide which side of pacing a moment is.

(Another point: one way to give a sense of time passing without showing any of it is to show something else, or rather someone else. So if the story has multiple viewpoints, momentarily shifting to a different one for gives some weight to that passing time, even without the specifics of a villain’s schemes or a mentor’s trust or whatever contrast works with what’s going on now.)

Still, there’s no lack of options for what might fill up the travel time you want to show, to just the degree you want to show it:

Description of course. A lot of travel is having so much time to take in the scenery… and also get acquainted with how hard the seat is, how welcome the meals are, and other points that might not seem as exciting but do plenty to put the reader right in the characters’ place there.

Characterization, using dialog and other tools (and thoughts) to advance our knowledge of the characters, and the characters’ connection to each other– the classic Road Movie claims to be more about bonding with the other folks in the car than anything on the way.

News and clues, any updates on anything that matters, from broadcasts about the killer on the loose to moments the gas tank seems to be a lot emptier than it was before. Even a small hint or reminder can keep a bit of suspense building.

Progressions, whatever people are doing as they go. Remember Luke getting that lightsaber lesson on the way to Alderaan, and achieving his “first step into a larger universe?” Look for anything interesting that’s underway meanwhile.

(Of course, one common progression is the growing sense that they’re on the wrong road, or need to rest or otherwise change their plans…)

and then, Events. There are always small (or not so small) complications or shifts where what the people try to go past–or who’s going past them–step in and break up the pattern. They might be using a scene to make a point that could have been through general description or other methods, or it could the start of a genuine subplot or a taste of what’s up ahead.

A travel sequence could be a few words of “By the time they cleared the forest, he never wanted to smell sap again.” Or it could be pages or chapters, about either the journey itself or the writer’s wish list of how many things could be established or worked out on the way. But those are a few of the choices.

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If your scenes look too similar… try the Tarzan Test

It’s one of the nastiest problems in writing, because it can pop up either because we’re struggling or because we’re getting in the groove: we keep using another of the same kind of similar scenes. Hero and heroine argue, or maybe hero uses his professional skill to work through the problem, or bullets fly… again. I’ve slipped into a few of them more often than I’ll admit, maybe because I’m trying to play to my strengths as a writer or because a given story does call for a lot of a thing. (For some reason gangsters in trouble like shooting people.) So I try to look at my plot through what I call the Tarzan Test, both to keep my scenes distinct and to see if those patterns can be a good thing for what the story is.

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

The test goes like this:

If Tarzan fights a lion, and then he ever fights another lion, that’s redundant
–or not

Check every scene against every other scene. Any two that start looking similar risk boring the reader… unless the writer’s good at making a distinction between them. But at the same time, if you’ve worked out a lot about what makes one lion stronger than another, or why one comedy act works and another fails, using both scenes puts real focus on what makes them each tick. The book I’m working on now, The High Road, has more a number of scenes of the heroes using their discovery to fly over the city, but in some scenes it’s to look for clues about their enemies and in others it’s to cope with the power’s side effects.

Of course, favoring action or conversation or whichever is part of what makes any story what it is, for genre and style and just because of what that tale’s key elements are. (Besides, we writers do have our preferences, and readers do open our books expecting certain things, so we ignore them at our peril.)

But it goes beyond that:

If Tarzan fights a lion, then fights a crocodile, the story’s about the jungle
If he fights a lion and then a poacher, it’s about the jungle plus who comes there
If he fights a lion and then a World War I battle, it’s Tarzan in the larger world

The variety in scenes might do more than anything else to define what the story is. Making only animals the enemy makes a different statement than giving a human a turn as villain, and so does every other choice. There are writers and readers that would love to see Tarzan in something as realistic as the WWI trenches (the period’s about right), and others who think that breaks the fantasy of what the stories should be.

If he fights a lion and then talks with Jane…
If he fights a lion and then speaks in London about ecology…

Naturally a story is more than one type of scene. But one tale could use only a few types, others could have many… and then, what’s the balance between them? One writer could use a visit to the city as a token excuse for a range of rooftop battles, while another works through dozens of different reactions to bringing him to “civilization.”

I sometimes think of scenes’ variety as dots within a circle. The shape they make might be wide and diverse or tightly clumped, but its overall breadth tells us how many things the story’s about; meanwhile within that given space, having at least some of those points evenly spread out tells a lot about how well it’s being explored.

If he fights a lion and dies saving Jane…

What each scene does for the story still means more than how it compares to the other scenes. And those effects are the biggest key for which parts are more different, and more important.

After all, even if you could kill off Tarzan, you could never do it through him saving anyone else. That’s just who he is.

(Update: for more musings on scene variety and ways to check for it, look at Been There Done That?)

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Bracketology in Story Plotting

What do sports brackets have to do with writing a story? Almost everything. A plot depends on conflict and contrast between its characters, and more than that it depends on building interest in them over time. A tournament’s system is exactly about matching opponents together and tracking how that changes–it’s one of the simplest, purest methods there is for managing the variety of a plot while keeping it in terms of what makes it powerful. At the same time, the bracketing concept needs only a few expansions to fit any kind of plotting into it.

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

Simple Brackets: Who’s after Who

So, the basics: brackets in sports are used to match up different opponents meeting and then how the winners from those matchups go on to compete in turn. And the simplest kind of story to use this pattern would involve different characters or groups that were each out to kill the others, ruin them, outdo them in a competition for a vital prize, or otherwise force them out of the plot.

For instance, the story of a cop getting free of an interfering mayor and then facing off with a serial killer might show up as

As the red markings show, each set of three lines is the elements of a scene, such as “the cop and mayor square off, and the cop wins.” (Of course for most stories, the brackets would only be tracking their most pivotal scenes, not the other events that build up between those. But we’ll get to that.)

Then again, this format shows how that the plot looks a bit incomplete compared to what classic tournaments prefer, because the killer has nothing vital to do at first. And sure enough, many stories would also give our hero a mentor, friend, or such who makes his own move on that serial killer and comes to a tragic defeat, leaving the hero to avenge him:

Just by filling out the bracket with someone for the serial killer to beat (or specifically, kill), both sides now go into that final showdown with some dramatic weight–all from just two essential scenes before that. And judging by how crowded fiction is with dead mentors, partners, and so on, it’s hard to argue that setting up a conflict with a previous conflict has fundamental power.

In fact, consider one more aspect of a sports matchup that this plot could use: instead of plotting around two good guys and two bad, what about one changing it to one hero against three villains, say our cop against a genuinely corrupt mayor, a crimelord, and a serial killer, all enemies of each other:

Each plot has its advantages. Using three villains lets you surprise everyone with how the crimelord our hero was hoping to bring in himself gets taken out by a “simple” serial killer. Still, the version that leaves the hero’s ally in the brackets (and the crosshairs) builds sympathy for the hero’s loss, though it doesn’t have the sheer unpredictability of so many competing enemies.

You can fine-tune the story in many more ways just by who goes into which bracket slot, and then playing up expectations around that. Here, since the mayor gets settled first, that probably makes him (and the whole idea of city corruption) look like lesser problems compared to the crimelord who’s probably pulling their strings… and a fun twist when that manipulator’s beaten by a more ruthless killer. Or a different version could have the crimelord outwit that killer, or swap positions so a seemingly cowardly mayor kills that killer and emerges as the greater threat; they all make different statements. (Let alone if one of the villains wins at the end, of course.)

Survivors and Allies

Of course most stories leave more than just its climactic character standing at the end. So let’s consider how (just as many tournaments allow someone more than one loss before they leave), a “story bracket” ought to allow enemies to run their testing attacks and failed schemes before they’re finally eliminated–

Or sometimes not eliminated, or not even trying to wipe someone out. For instance, suppose instead of our gangster being murdered he survives and joins forces with the cop to trap the killer:

In fact, maybe the killer has tried to attack the mayor first, and that failed attempt is what leaves him in need of the crimelord’s help, before that went bad:

By this time the killer starts to look like a wounded animal, beaten by one side and driven to try to work with another, and the blowup of that drives his ex-partner to the cop; while in contrast that cop has been able to bring down the mayor completely and now makes an alliance with the crimelord work too. Letting people interact in new ways can build up whole new kinds of interest… though allowing someone to go through more and more steps without anyone being eliminated does dilute some of the energy of a single-elimination “tournament.”

Also, let’s think again about which sides are in use, and what kind of balance they form between them. Using that mayor alongside the two out-and-out criminals gives the story a wider scope, while replacing him with a third official crook would put more focus on the underworld. Or if the mayor were replaced by a simple thief but the crimelord by a competing cop, someone just with different methods from the hero, the same pattern takes on new meaning: it’s easier to believe the second cop, after failing to nab the killer, would join up with someone who’s now only a professional rival.

Or some slots in the brackets might go to whole other issues, subplots or emotional challenges compared to the practical ones that are usually (not always) the spine of the story. If the cop’s also trying to make time for his sick sister, that’s a fine contrast with everything else–especially the times one plot interferes with (or ends up helping with) the other.

Just how different to make each point from the others is its own challenge; do you want tighter conflicts about just the things that come out in one crime, or a wider net of things coming together? But these are what open up when enemies and rivals are given enough ways to interact.

Steps on the Way

We’ve been charting the main times the major characters cross paths, and how that adds presence to those people. Between those, there will probably be smaller actions that move the story toward the next main one: working toward that goal, or failed shortcuts to it or to something else. Our cop will probably work through a series of clues and dead ends, while his enemies send throwaway thugs and attacks to get rid of him before the real move’s made. Since this is finer detail, it might be better to chart these additions with only something like:

Part of these steps might be lesser characters, or even things, that affect these only now and then. Our cop’s partners or criminal’s minions can be almost background for a number of scenes, then step out to make a difference–or just get changed by something else (killed? rescued?) to show that thing’s importance. Even someone’s car becomes important the more it’s mentioned, especially if there’s a fun scene where he first got it or he had to do without it, and the result may be that it goes off a cliff and we feel the loss.

Or some of those characters might have only a few scenes, maybe just one to establish them and another when they cross the path of something more important and make their point.

And finally there might be one-scene characters who barely count, like the shopkeeper the crimelord bullies. These don’t connect to other scenes and are barely more than tools for that one moment, except that they also cover what need the story has to get something like a bullied shopkeeper into the overall mix.

More than anything else, a story may get its basic energy from its characters and how they interact–who crosses whose path and which ends up removed, or else changed or helped, and what interactions come after that in turn. It’s all about keeping track of the momentum.

So, why not plan out a book like a bookie?

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Ten Writing Tricks from Gaming

The following are tricks I’ve learned from role-playing games, board games, and other gaming fun, that help me remember what works in writing.

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

#1: the Characters’ Viewpoint lets you write

For me at least, the best tool to help me write is getting into what it’s like to be a character– from bits of their background, signature skills or tactics, and all kinds of details, plus every plot twist that helps sweep me up in how he has to do what he does next.

Gamers can use each session to practice their sense of these, and see how other people do them too. The more in touch you are with what works for you, the more you’ll get written.

#2: Conflict

No matter what a story is, gamers know the narrative should never get far from the conflict: why the hero has to do something, why someone or something else is in the way, and anything that helps or hurts his struggle.

Games show how the story is always better with a strong villain, especially when the story lets that villain impress the readers, and then tick them off. (Or if the obstacle isn’t a villain, the situation should still be a serious challenge, and sometimes seem like it’s “out to get” people.)

And, weakening the villain weakens the whole story.

#3: the Stake or Change

Role-playing games have both routine adventures and ones that changed parts of the storyline; the changes are usually the more memorable ones.

Also, role-playing games let characters gain power and equipment, for the excitement of getting stronger. Try writing to build a sense that your characters can only do so much– and then they learn to break some of those limits.

#4: Losing

Games have the thrill of actually being able to lose, instead of the jaded “the hero always wins.” But this works in games because you can still play another game, or resurrect or replace a dead character– it’s harder in stories where the hero’s life is on the line.

Some stories provide this by playing up the times the hero fails but survives to try a different plan or fight a rematch. These are less powerful than times the reader’s come to care about someone or something besides the hero’s life, and that is permanently lost (or really could have been).

#5: Choice

Games are built around players’ choices: the next move, when to attack or retreat, how to solve a problem.

Stories can be stronger by leading the reader into a sense of why the character has to take the choice he does: why he’s so driven, how many choices he has and why all the others don’t work, at least for the kind of person the reader understands he is. (Gamers choose their action based on a clear situation; readers want to see the situation so well they’d choose the character’s action too.)

(Then, be sure those choices have good pacing, variety, and sometimes lead to real losses.)

#6: Everybody’s Choices

Role-playing gamers are used to letting other people’s characters share the spotlight; this is good practice for writing a protagonist with supporting characters.

Board games also remind us: an exciting game has to be against a skilled opponent, so villains ought to be smart enough to challenge the hero.

More than that, hero and villain should be watching each other’s moves and reacting to them– especially if there’s a sense that one side makes the other escalate. Also, let the supporting characters react as if they had the freedom other players would: who tries to join up with who because of what’s happened, or who betrays them, or tries to step in at the last minute and steal the prize.

#7: Details for Choices

Games show how eager players can be to learn any amount of game rules and details, while writers worry about giving too much detail and bogging down the story.

The difference is that gamers use that information to choose their next moves. So, a writer can make the most use of any detail that’s a factor or hint about what a character chooses– what about the forest helps an ambusher hide in it? what traditions of the royal court help him win allies?

#8: Dialog

Gamers have a chance to practice dialog by listening to other players. Of course most speech patterns at a game table aren’t right for most stories, but a writer can listen for specific patterns: getting excited makes who speak faster and makes who babble? who says “Got it” vs “Okay”?

(And watch for any interesting catchphrases someone has, to inspire what you can give your characters.)

#9: Fun Now

Games are always at risk of going off on a tangent (side-discussions of what’s going on, or general chitchat), so gamers get practice in luring other players back onto course (eg with clues or immediate challenges). Develop the sense of when you’re losing the players’ interest, and apply it to writing.

As that sense improves, it can also help in planning a story or a chapter. What’s a good starting place, a fun arc, and a satisfying ending?

#10: People

Gamers get used to sitting with fellow players. A writer needs to get comfortable asking people what in a story works and what doesn’t.

Also, gamers learn different players just prefer different parts of the game; writers should keep in mind not all writing will appeal to everyone. But at the same time, the other people are still there because they want the story to be good, just as the writer does.

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Plot and the Power of OR

“Depth” is a word people have used different ways about fiction, sometimes not being that clear what they mean–just some sense that a character winds up with more layers, a situation more reality, and so on. Personally, I think the metaphor might be incomplete– because one of the best ways to give a story realism, or complicate a moment or a plot, or just loosen up the writing mind to let more in, is something I think of more as “width.” That is, ask the question “Or what else?”

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

Yes, that’s partly what all writers do: work out a plot or moment by thinking, “what if something different happened here?” To rethink a choice that isn’t working, or to keep the next thing varied from what’s gone before, sure. Such as:

OR it’s someone else making a move (or even an object breaking or changing)
OR they focus on something else (a different plan)
OR it gets a different result.

Mixing up who takes the initiative can add a lot: a hero working through his plans while the villain never strikes back makes the story seem lazy, and a hero always defending is passive, but a sense of each retaliating against the other makes the whole story more organic and exciting. And other characters can’t be labeled so “secondary” that they never demand a scene when she tries to bargain for her husband’s life, or he needs protection after being the only crimelord to survive the villain’s purge, or they’re sure they’re the ones a troubled young man will listen to. For the second option, changing the target of that someone’s action covers going to deal with different people (or eliminate them, or whichever), gaining some other tool or pausing to develop it–using the whole world as a source of possible different tactics.

But changing up a plan’s result gets tricky–“let the villain win” can sound fun, but it’s bad news when the story’s only half over, and not much better to have the hero winning too much too soon. Worse, half the time the person and plan that fit best seem too sure to wipe out big parts of the story; what if the villain just had too good an opening to fail at? Asking that kind of “or” can put a whole story at risk.

But “or” can be more than a way to shake things up, it can be a whole perspective to work in. People often talk of stories as having “depth” when its elements have layers to reveal–a person with attitudes like masks over other masks, or a setting the story can explore within rather than acting like a 2-dimensional backdrop. But I like the idea that besides static layers, a story can reveal itself by how a character acts by asking “what else he tries,” or what his reaction is to someone else’s attempts; they “move forward but zigzag” to deal with each of those options to follow their goal. By this model, “depth” comes from those layers of zigzagging, how many different choices (of their own or others) that they deal with. All from considering “Or.”

That is, how many choices does a character really get to try out? At least half of making a story believable is in looking at those; couldn’t he just “leave the haunted house,” or Google a problem to get its basics, and doesn’t every problem have some expert or authority who’s already trying to deal with it? A story that covers more of its situations’ and people’s options comes off as more real–simple as that.

(The other half of plausibility is “what wouldn’t work” and the sad business of finding out if the hero’s glorious strategy is liable to get shut down because cars just don’t explode.)

“Or” is the viewpoint that can work all of this out, just by asking which options there are, and how far each goes:

What choices get blocked right away? Look at any situation from the view of a character trying to get through to a goal there, and it becomes a set of barriers and lost opportunities. An isolated house has distance to stop help from coming, and a fortress that’s lost its commander may have no leader strong enough to help; that’s what makes them ominous from the start.

What choices do characters realize won’t work? A fast way to explore more options is to just talk out, think out, or make quick tests to show some things as dead ends. How many scenes do we know where an Expert was called in, that began with “Did you try–“/ “Well of course!” Even a few lines of this builds realism, and suspense, in both how many choices it checks and the process of how people would go through them.

What choices do people try but fail, and which tempt them? These two might be half the structure of a scene or plot, and they may be the more important half.

After all, even though what actually happens or works is the spine of the story, so often what brings it to life is its contrast with the failed schemes, red herrings, and roads-not-taken set up next to them. A murder with one suspect, or a duel with no choice between safe and desperate maneuvers, don’t compare to stories that do make full use of these, and what they mean that a character chooses one over the other. After all, making that duelist choose between finesse and letting himself be hit creates a whole different scene–and character–from using skill vs. driving his opponent into a rage. Better still, when the story paces these to crush certain hopes at the right moment, or spring a new option just when someone’s resolved to go one way… now that’s momentum.

(Finally, what if there’s a plan or force that really does work–and something else comes down and overwhelms even that? “The cavalry comes over the hill” is annoying, unless it’s been hinted at first without ruining suspense… or it’s enemy cavalry…)

So often, “or” is the story. It sorts out the basics and then adds what else can justify them; it can take anything and define what it is by capturing what it isn’t; and then deciding how often to zigzag between choices can be the meat of designing any plot, scene, or even sentence.

Just a theory. Or…

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Plotting – Divide the Plan by Two

For some of us, writing is a constant study in planning, in looking far down the road of a half-formed story arc or into a set of possibilities and defining what it’s going to be. For others, we work through the journey one step at a time… but we may still want to sneak a glimpse ahead or get a little help making a decision. And I’ve found there’s a way to plan any part of a story in simple terms, taking the organizing just as far as I want: dividing the plan by two, or more.

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

It may be the simplest kind of plotting that there is, just taking whatever you’re working on and adding one wrinkle to it–though it could as easily be more if that’s what comes to you–then moving on to add other layers below that for as long as you want to keep going. It’s using “one thing at a time” to dodge the crazy-making of juggling too many issues, applied to defining the larger picture that going step by step can lose.

What does “dividing” mean? Well:

What do you divide? Anything you want.

You can divide the story into stages, whether it’s books of a trilogy or one moment’s description into several sensations.
You can divide the concept of a story into types–goals and obstacles, heroes and villains, triumphs and tragedies–and then decide how many of each you need.
You can break down a need for particular plot elements–again and again we find places where we need several examples of a thing to make a point, from naming the last few galactic wars to which bits of decor in a room to mention.

How many do you divide by? That’s the fun part: just see if “two” works. Turning one need into two contrasting types or stages or whatever is as simple as planning gets, but as often as not we come up with three or four right there.

Either way works. So many small things only need to be taken past a single point to reach a whole new level of life (“a tall man” is a rough image, but “a tall man with a loud voice” gains a lot more completeness from that second thought, even without making that thought much different from the first), or a more complex plan might start with picking two parts and then splitting each of them another time or two. And there will be plenty of times the mind goes straight to three or four or more examples that are more or less equal, or that all need to be there to interact… though if goes past five or six, it’s probably a sign that you’re already seeing some of the sub-parts that these should be split into next.

Just picking combinations like this can teach a lot about writing. Sometimes a thing just has two main sides that matter, and the rest are subparts within those. Or it might call for three steps, one thing that changes what went before and then how it’s resolved afterward (the famous “thesis, antithesis, synthesis,” or situation, problem, solution)–of course the mind loves thinking in threes just to appreciate that it’s more than just two things, and we writers certainly learn to think that way. Or some kind of reaction or buildup might be just as important, and “he said, she said, they agreed” doesn’t work as well as “he said, she said, he said, she said” or maybe “chitchat, he said…” Then again, it may not be the interactions that matter as much as nature of the thing; you might just know the hero’s going to deal with Doubt that he’ll win, Greed of the people in his way, and Guilt over what he does to do it.

A couple examples:

In planning my contemporary fantasy The High Road, I realized:

its first part would be my heroes Mark and Angie facing their most immediate challenge (a street gang with a vendetta tends to get your attention),
so that the second part would be a deeper understanding of the problem and how many other secrets the family magic is tied into.

That first part then had two main stages:

their first discovery of the magic and their enemies,
and then trying to deal with them.

And that beginning stage would be

the Blades’ threat,
then clashing against them with the magic,
then what else breaks loose during the immediate aftermath

–and I have my first three chapters.

Or, if I’m looking for possible images for someone leaving a building, it’s natural to think of the basic Sight Plus Hearing division. But if I’m looking for more detail I know there are five senses to consider.

Sights are easy to split up by direction:

above everything, the moon, but there’s little other light out,
in front, the empty parking lot and the pathway beyond it,
on the side, the streets heading off that he won’t take,
and behind him the town hall he’s left

–then I might further break down those directions by adding clouds against that moon, trees alongside the path, and so on.

To think of sounds I might run through the same directional check, or I might consider classes of things that make sounds:

people (back in that town hall, driving on the streets, etc.),
objects (does he pass the building’s whirring air conditioner?),
animals (birdcalls, rustlings in the brush),
and maybe the weather and so on.

Touch can also be a few position types: anything about the ground he walks on or the things he brushes past, and if the wind or cold or anything touches him, and anything about his clothes or any injuries or such he’s carrying with him. And suddenly I’ve got a sceneful of possible descriptions, just waiting to be put in place.

In fact, dividing by two-plus can lay out a whole book:

maybe four plot stages (or two halves with two to three substages each), each with
four-ish chapters (maybe two events of two chapters each), that might contain
two to four (or more) scenes.

Or a scene itself could have a certain number of points: steps people take in what they’re doing, places they move past, or subjects of a dialog. And dialog subjects can be made up of just how many lines people say, and so on.

Planning–or just glimpsing ahead–can be as simple as you want, just by taking it a step at a time and deciding how far to go before you have enough to move on.

Simple as one-two.

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More than a Scene

It’s easy to think of a story’s scene as being about the next struggle or problem, or else touching a different base that hasn’t been mentioned in a while. That sense of “what’s next” may be vital, for the logic that ties the scene to what’s just happened and what’s needed up ahead. But it can also be a trap, to think only of the immediate needs and miss our chance to build larger resonances with the whole story.

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

Classic example: we all know what a story’s first couple of scenes (or first minutes in one running scene) will probably cover, as far as the hero goes. They’ll include

something to give a sense of the character’s regular life, and
the “establishing incident,” the “call to adventure” that takes it in a different direction.

–Yes there are a lot of variations, like putting the change right in line one and then catching up with “Why shoot at me, I’m just a…”, or someone with a “regular” life that’s already thrilling but still complicated by this new twist. But these are the classic building blocks of a start.

But, how many more layers could you build with them? Everything has a past; there may still be one event that puts things on the story’s course, but how carefully could you set up the road they’d been on until then, so we really feel how sharp (or subtle) the change is?

Consider the start of the manga and anime Monster, by Naoki Urasawa. The story’s tagline is “What if the life you saved became a monster?”–but, the first scenes aren’t simply the good Dr. Tenma performing ordinary surgeries before they wheel in the dying serial killer. Instead, he realizes he’s let his boss keep him away from desperate but poor patients, and so Tenma is actually defying his hospital when he insists on saving that particular fateful life.

Now think about it: how many writers do you know that don’t consider a start or other key moment complete without that kind of ironic spin? Other authors may dislike overt twists like that, but they’ll look around for quieter hints that can make the effect they want. This is hard-hitting, ambitious writing that we can’t do if we think only of the likeliest way to get from A to B. What’s the best way to get there?

And besides the big plot twist itself, when Urasawa chooses an obstacle of human schemes (rather than, say, Tenma being in bad health, or about to go on vacation), he also shows how corrupt the story’s world can be and how Tenma will have to struggle with his naiveté and ideals. Again, it can be too easy to fill a scene with the most obvious form of problem (or solution to it) rather than find the one that adds to the bigger picture.

Think of what could be called the “penultimate, penultimate Harry Potter action scene.” That is, the second-last book’s second-last struggle–a position that of course could make it a key moment for suspense buildup. And even though it’s a movie-trailer favorite as “That Half-Blood Prince moment where a lakeful of zombies get torched,” the real center of the scene is much more specific. Namely, it’s Harry under orders to help his mentor Dumbledore put himself through ultimate agony to complete their mission.

The “fire”fight afterward is a much-appreciated release from that tension, but it only goes so far to relieve our sense of guilt, all amplified by how this is the first time in six books that Dumbledore has openly asked Harry to go into danger. Of all the things J. K. Rawling could have keyed that struggle around (and we know she can think of quite a few), she chose the one that leaves Harry with a deep need to make it up to Dumbledore… and what happens then reminds us the Potter books are so much more than Quidditch chases or good-crushes-evil.

That’s the principle, things resonating from their past or on to the future, and it shows up in many of the more powerful stories and some mediocre ones too. We all know scenes of some hero busy doing one thing while a supporting character shows off his dissent or incompetence; what makes so many of them comic relief is that those conflicts doesn’t go anywhere further, while the other stories actually are laying groundwork for future changes or showing consequences for what’s just happened.

It works for obstacles, and characters, and it works for methods or resources. (In a sense, most of the story is either a method or an obstacle, plus the lessons learned from them; characters are simply the most important things to fit onto those sides.) If the hero has one way of solving a problem, it should be only a matter of time before the story explores how many ways that can go wrong, and how which ways he’s tried build a sense of what he still needs to explore or what he needs to keep his faith in.

One caution: it’s also easy to plan scenes completely from this viewpoint, placing certain things purely as a clue or an echo. This may add a lot to the larger picture, but scenes that also feel like they’re really connected to the story right now come off a lot better than those that whisper “Hold on and take this in, it’ll matter more later.”

All of these are the building blocks of a story. And building anything means being sure one brick fits with the next, but real architecture keeps the whole shape in mind. A scene can be the next thing, but are you choosing it to mesh with what came just before or some larger point?

Why stop at one?