old friends

I mentioned in an earlier post that I’ve been reading the Marshall Plan for novel writing. Marshall has a methodical approach to novel writing that doesn’t quite jell with me, nevertheless it’s important to read these guides and glean from it what you can. Even if your discovery is that the method doesn’t work for you, the time and money spent reading it has still been worth it.

Early in the book Marshall discusses deciding what to write. His advice is clear: write what you love to read. I support this 100%, but recently a few questions have popped up. Chief among them is this: what if what you’re good at writing and what you love to read are different?

As a child I read and wrote adventure fiction and fantasy. As an adolescent I tried science fiction. In my early twenties it was historial fiction, including the subgenre prehistoric fantasy. These days my preference is to read and write literary fiction, and nonfiction essays and memoirs. But every now and then I get the yen to go back and write something from the old days. It’s like saying hello to the old self and I often find it flows so freely. Therefore I think it’s far more imporant to write what you love rather than to chosing a genre to read and write in.

What do you think: Cultural literature

I read an article* today about non-Aboriginal writers using Aboriginal characters and Aboriginal themes in their fiction. The article was quite severe in its criticism of non-Aboriginal writers, but I couldn’t ignore writer Melissa Lucashenko’s point: it is inappropriate to write of a culture that is not your own; that the writer’s own prejudices will leak into the pages, and many complex or sensitive issues are usually overlooked or ignored in the process. Does this mean that I can never have Aboriginal, Maori,  Tibetan, Cherokee or Incan characters in my books because I’m Anglo-Irish Australian? This seems a little unreasonable to me, after all, humanity is as diverse as it is considerable. In Australia about 70 indigenous languages are spoken with a further 60 or more non-indigenous languages. How are we to deal with Lucashenko’s  caveat? How will I write about the Northern Territory, where one in every two people is indigenous? What message am I to take away from Lucashenko’s almost hostile treatise? I can’t blame her for being protective of her culture and its laws and my own code of ethics prohibits me from “trespassing” as she puts it, onto other cultures without first doing a lot of primary research. That means seeking permission, seeking advice from Elders and leaders and being mindful of cultural laws. What do you think?

*”Muwi muwi-nyhin, binung goonji: boastful talk and broken ears” by Melissa Lucashenko, in Writing Queensland, Vol 186, Jul 2009

Writing rules: what to ignore and what to follow

Like any craft there are rules for prose writing. There are formal grammar rules, but there are also other rules for fiction, some good, some slightly ridiculous. I’ve selected a few rules to demonstrate that the rules of writing are never straight forward and there are always exceptions.

Write “authentic” dialogue

I once wrote a story for a nonfiction course I was doing. Each student was required to write a narrative of a true event and to be as accurate as possible, down to quoting individuals. I wrote about a helicopter pilot (Jack) who’d taken my family and me up to Fox Glacier in New Zealand. In the narrative, I relayed Jack’s commentary as we ascended and landed on the glacier. His words were etched in my mind so I wrote verbatim what he’d said. After posting the narrative online for group review, one student said that he didn’t believe Jack’s dialogue, telling me ‘he’d never say that’. I was very diplomatic in reminding him that this was an account of an actual event with an actual person and that my step-father could verify the events and his statements, but he was convinced people don’t talk that way – that Jack’s explanations weren’t authentic. This puzzled me until I realised that many writer’s experiences with written dialogue have been through fiction rather than nonfiction. I wanted to ask him what “authentic dialogue” meant, but I suspected he wouldn’t be able to tell me. Spoken dialogue is often unrehearsed, clipped or broken, contains redundancies or obvious statements like “nice weather”, and is often clichéd. To mimic every day speech in fiction would be to break too many other rules of fiction, so rather than try to write authentic dialogue, we should concentrate on writing effective dialogue that compliments the story. Effective dialogue

  • avoids formalities and technical language unless it is relevant to the story or character;
  • reflects character idiosyncrasies
  • reflects language and speech diversity
  • identifies speakers
  • can use body language or gestures to compliment the dialogue
  • avoids character’s indulging in self-aggrandising, since it is unnatural for most of us to do this
  • should at times be inappropriate, provocative and even irrational
  • should balance with the prose and not seem like an interruption with each new quotation mark

For more information on dialogue read On dialogue in fiction

Avoid cliches

Clichés can turn a good novel into a colourless and flat work and reflects the authors laziness. They can even reflect a writers ignorance. By clichés I mean overused phrases, cliches involving characters, clichéd scenes, even genre clichés. Some cliches are more obvious than others and are easily avoided. It’s the sneaky ones you need to look out for, so to avoid clichés:

  • write originally all the time
  • don’t use archetypal heroes and villains (Prince Charming, or the Wicked Witch) or stereotype personalities (a “nutty professor”)
  • Avoid racial or national stereotypes everywhere
  • avoid writing prosaic death scenes, love scenes, birthing scenes (I recently read a book where I felt like the same birthing scene was repeated several times throughout the book, only using slightly different words each time)
  • avoid genre-specific clichés like the murderous butler in crime fiction or alien invaders in sci-fi fiction, or damsel in distress in romantic fiction. Of course, if you can come up with an original slant on any of these overused plots there’s no reason it can’t be written.

Sometimes you might find clichés unavoidable – such as character dialogue (although one of my lecturers even said we should avoid this), but mostly cliché should be cast-off.

Exclamation points

Exclamation points are like little bee stings at the end of the line. In prose writing they’re redundant. For example,

“Don’t leave!” he shouted.

Experienced writers use language to convey mood, meaning and tone rather than punctuation marks, like exclamations, or tags for that matter. Which brings me to the next rule:

Show, don’t tell

Anton Pavlovich Chekov rather eloquently said “Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass”. Today, the show don’t tell mantra is too often quoted and has become a bit of an obsession for writers. It is true that readers don’t want to be told that a sunset is pretty, we want to experience it, but some writers have taken this to the extreme. The prose becomes overburdended with sensory words, gestures and lengthy pontificating. Showing is a skill all writers need to learn and employ, but sometimes it is enough to say that the smell was like raw sewerage rather than trying to give the reader a complete olfactory experience. The wisdom is in knowing when to show and when to tell.

The mantra should be show and tell

Sentence size

The general rule for fiction writing is to avoid lengthy sentences and never to use sentence fragments or one word sentences. Long sentences can be hard work to write, much less to read. Generally long sentences are a device employed by more formal documents (like legal notices and contracts, science and university texts). Still, some fiction writers have a preference for a slightly longer than average sentence. The rule of sentence fragments or one word sentences, on the other hand, seems to be increasingly ignored in contempary fiction, at least in the kind of fiction I read. Sometimes small sentences are more effective than lengthy ones, and some writers use this to stylise their writing. It’s up to the individual writer to decide on the shape of each sentence. The trick is to balance short sentences or sentence fragments by using them in combination with long (though not excessive) sentences.

Write everything down

It’s just after 9 pm. My husband and I are at the dam face not far from where we live. It’s cold, but not unpleasant. The she-oaks, which normally sing even with the slightest breeze, are quiet tonight. The clouds are illuminated by a waning moon. It’s like I’m in an episode of the X-Files – I half expect to see something slither out of the water. At a nearby picnic area there is a man with his tan and white staffordshire terrior he calls Princess. He’s cooking a steak on one of the gas barbeques and smoking a cigarette. His home is parked about 100 metres away – a blue VN commodore – with a tarp over the front window and an eskie resting in the boot. I feel like I’ve just walked through his bedroom. I want to ask him how he defines himself: is he homeless, a lone wolf, a nomad? Does he like living rough? I walk on, leaving him and Princess to their steak.

Tonight I struggled with the novel. Nothing was coming and I was becoming more frustrated with myself. I had to leave it alone. I often find that going for a drive clears my head so I suggested to my husband that we head out to the dam. Driving is his passion and he was quick to agree. I had not expected to see Princess and her human camping at the dam face and was initially disturbed by the site of a man living out of his car. I worried for him. My main character is a drifter, as I define him, yet Ben’s life seemed more romantic that what I observed with Princess and her boss. This feels like a case of synchronicity or is the universe educating me? Just in case I came home and wrote down all that I observed.

Unorthodox questions for your character interviews

“Starfish and coffee, maple syrup and jam, butterscotch clouds, a tangerine and the side of a ham”. This is what Cynthia had in her lunchbox in Prince’s song Starfish and coffee. Bear with me, this is going somewhere . . . You might not agree that Prince is a great musician, but you must concede he is a clever lyricist. In five minutes or less Prince can deliver organic characters from a simple sketch. He does this not by telling us who they are, but by revealing them through action and interaction. But he also does this by asking unorthodox questions of them. Recently I’ve had trouble encouraging one character in my novel to reveal herself. I was feeling restricted by conventional methods of characterisation – interviewing, for example can be tedious and I often end up with pages of dribble with no real substance. Who cares what her favourite colour is? Anyway, I decided to take a leaf out of Prince’s book; rather than ask direct questions like “Who are you?’ I decided to discover who she is through indirect questioning and by asking unconventional ones. Asking these types of questions took the seriousness out of character development and allowed my imagination to flow more freely. I found I was able to expand on the answers after half a dozen questions. Here some questions I asked:

  1. What does she have in her lunch box?
  2. What kind of bird is she? Why?
  3. Which song or songs best represent her?
  4. Which musical instrument is she?
  5. Which Rocky Horror Picture Show character is she?
  6. What does her bed look like?
  7. What is her favourite painting/artwork?
  8. Describe a time when she did something considered clumsy
  9. What does she think about when she crawls into bed at the end of the day, just before she drops off to sleep?
  10. What is her favourite fairy tale?

You could ask as many questions like this until you find your pace. It worked for me, maybe it will work for you if you’re having similar problems.

Space in novels

Not a good writing day today. The day started with an early wake-up call from my hubby, who was getting ready to come home from night shift. I am not a morning person and normally crawl out of bed well after the sun has come up, but I had an early dentist appointment to finalise a root canal treatment. For the rest of the day I slept and stumbled around the house trying to find some kind of equilibrium. Tonight I’ve been downloading music. I heard In for the kill (La Roux) today on the radio and had to have it. The song makes me feel like I’m in a 1980s blue-light disco, which might be cringe-worthy for some, but leaves me with an easy nostalgia. Many of my firsts were in the 80’s, accompanied by the rhythmic styles of “Synthpop” – first real crush, first slow dance with a boy, first kiss . . . Thinking about the 80s gives me more than just a sense of nostalgia – I remember the mood, the ambiance, that special 80s attitude, the space the 80s occupied. Anyway, all this reminiscing eventually got me thinking about how to represent mood and atmosphere in novels. A novel’s characters have to occupy space.   Leonard J Davis in Resisting Novels: Ideology and fiction says that space in novels “must be more than just simply a backdrop”. They must have

“… dimensions and depth; they must have byways and back alleys; there must be open rooms and hidden places; dining rooms and locked drawers; there mus be a thickness and interiority to the mental constructions that constitue the novel’s space.¹

Novels ask so much of us, and creating space within a novel is one of the most complex tasks a novelist will understake. I have no answers today for this one since I’m still learning the process myself and I suspect it would take a lot more than a short post on a blog to explore the concept of space in novels. Food for thought . . .

¹Davis, Leonard J, 1987, Resisting Novels: Ideology and fiction, Routledge

Free-writing exercise: Inscriptions

Take a look at these images (from the New Scientist article Decoding the past: eight scripts that still can’t be read). Choose an image and free-write for ten minutes about the object, the inscriptions and/or the people who made them. Don’t be afraid to share your results.

Writing prompt 5 – Characters

This week is all about characters. Do you develop a character to fit the theme or develop the theme to fit the character? No matter what you do you’re going to have to come up with some three dimensional characters if you want to write a novel. One technique I use, which I call layering, is a good way to get started on developing a character when you have a specific role to fill. Here’s how I developed one of my main characters, B:

  • For one crucial role in my novel I need a character who is a bit of a drifter and quite enigmatic. I thought about people I’d known as a child and remembered one fellow my family knew, Trevor. Trevor was not a drifter as such – he worked on a cargo ship and every six months or so we’d visit him on the ship at port when it came in. I loved being on the ship and loved the stories he’d tell to my siblings and me. Though this was Trevor’s full time occupation, his transient lifestyle was a source of fascination for me. I lifted this aspect of Trevor’s lifestyle and added it to the framework for B. Being a sailor seemed a perfect occupation for my drifter character. I have layer one.
  • B needs to be a good story teller. He needs to be credible but there must a folkloric, almost mythical quality to his stories. I have known and do know a few people who fit this description. I’ll take gestures from one, articulation from another, and mannerisms from yet another. I have the second layer. 
  • B has an unusual history which is important to the main plot. We live in a diverse world – there are a myriad of characters to choose from. Truth is stranger than fiction, as they say. For layer three I’m thinking about people I know with unusual histories. Layer three is shaping up
  • Character B has many layers so I continue adding to the framework until I’m satisfied with the construction. Now it’s just a matter transposing the layers, filling in the holes, decorating the finer details, and checking that he is structurally sound.

The main points for layering are:

  • define the role your character needs to fill
  • use dot points to list the key traits and mannerisms etc. Each dot point represents a layer.
  • it’s okay to base characters on people you know, or have known as long as they’re not carbon copies – unless it’s biographical
  • characters are more than just personality traits, they gesture, have accents, mannerisms, they have back-stories, lifestyles, passions, secrets, dress sense (or no dress sense) and so on. When you’re thinking about subjects think about everything they do, what they wear, how they behave
  • one disadvantage of layering is that some layers can conflict – but this can work to your advantage. There’s no such thing as a uniform human being. We’re all multi-layered and sometimes traits do conflict
  • don’t always pick the best traits. No character is perfect. 
  • sometimes a character’s behaviour deviates from what is considered natural for them. Think about people whose behaviour or deeds have surprised you 

Today’s writing exercise is to develop a character based on this layering technique. I’m interested to know if it works for anyone else, or better, how do you develop characters?

 


Getting into character – about the book

If you want to create three dimensional characters you need to read Getting into character: seven secrets a novelist can learn from actors, by Brandilyn Collins. I’ve used this book as a reference for a couple of years now and I find it invaluable. Collins has cleverly adapted seven techniques attributed to Russian actor Constantin Stanislavsky for novelists. The seven “secrets” discussed in the book are personalising, action objectives, subtexting, colouring passions, inner rhythm, restraint and control and emotion memory. Throughout the book Collins draws parallels between writers and actors, something I have often done myself. I routinely watch Inside the Actors Studio for this very reason. As Collins says writers and actors must be “ardent students of human nature”. We must observe.

Characterisation and viewpoint

This week I’ve been trying to sweet-talk my main character (S) out of her hide. She has been frustratingly coy since the conception of the book, but I’ve persisted with her because evasiveness is exactly what is required for this role. Her supporting characters have been far more chatty – one in particular, an old man (B),  is particularly vivacious and needed no encouragement to introduce himself. So equipped was he that I even considered making him the main character instead of a supporting character, but S is the one who has the most to learn and B is the one who has the most to teach. All this thinking has left me with more questions than answers like: Do you have to like your main character?

 You don’t need to adore your main character, but at the very least you need to have confidence in her/him and you must be dedicated to her/his cause. If you’re not your ambivalence will manifest in your writing, making it difficult for the reader to identify with or care about her/him. For me the main character determines the narrative mode – that is, whether the story is told in first or third person, and if third is the voice subjective, objective, omniscient etc? If you can’t identify with your main character your voice will be contrived and the character will not be credible. So, whether your character is a great guy, an egomaniac or a middling, s/he needs to be well-crafted and appropriate for the role. There are a unmber of methods to help us achieve that:

  • Bio sheets – bio sheets can be found across the Internet, or you could make your own. Use as much detail as you think necessary. Bio sheets are a good way to get you thinking about the character’s attributes
  • Character interviews – interview each character about her/himself as well as other characters. Free-write the answers to see what comes out.
  • Mind-mapping - or clustering, is my favourite method for getting to know a character. You could use a general mind-map or mind-map specific attributes. 
  • Stalk your character – as you go about your day, consider how your character would carry out the same task. What does a typical day look like for your character?
  • Go through her/his things – imagine you are in your character’s home. Open drawers, the pantry, check the laundry hamper,  do they have an office, or library? Visualising your character’s private world is a great way to get insight into who they are.
  • Use techniques employed by actors to “get into character”. There is a great book on this very thing: Getting into character: seven secrets a novelist can learn from actors, by Brandilyn Collins