Wordplay

If you’re blessed, as I am, to have some of the best critique partners (or, as we fondly refer to each other, “critters”) going, you undoubtedly realize the benefit of having a watchful pair of eyes to run over your manuscripts, a merciless tongue to point out the weak points, and a gentle (and sometimes not-so-gentle) touch to encouragingly push you back onto your feet for another go. Although writing is largely a self-taught craft, even the most determined among us can only take ourselves so far without the input of others. We all have our blind spots and our weaknesses. We can’t always see when a character is extraneous or a plot point doesn’t make sense. We don’t always realize that we’re copping out on the endings or welching in the climaxes. But critters—God bless ‘em—tend to these things with 20/20 vision.


Even the best critters, however, aren’t mind readers. They can’t know what it is we’re trying to accomplish in a story. They won’t know what scenes we’re particularly worried about. And they aren’t likely to give us a blow-by-blow recount of their reactions as they read through our stories. Most of the time, they wade into our stories just as blindly as we wade into theirs—especially if you’re as secretive a writer as I am. So I’ve developed a game plan of my own to help guide my critters through my stories.


By the time I finish writing a story, I usually have quite a few pressing questions that I need to have answered by an outside source. I need to know for certain that specific plot elements worked and particular characters were sympathetic. Some of these questions are too overt to send to a critter before he’s read the story, since the last thing I want to do is influence his original reaction. So I divide my questions into two sets: before and after.


I send the before questions in an email with my manuscript. Usually, these questions are very general in nature and apply to things I want my critter to be aware as he is reading. For instance:


1. Is anything confusing?


2. Are any scenes boring or repetitious?


3. Do you spot any general tics (repeated words, etc.)?


4. Do you spot any confusing plot points (let me know when and where I lose you and what needs to be clarified)?


5. Does the opening grab you?


6. Is there an appropriate balance of action with the other subplots?


After that, it’s just a matter of spending the next month or so keeping my mouth shut and trying not fidget while my critter reads through the manuscript. I encourage critters to keep their own questions to themselves during this time, because it’s important for me to not only avoid influencing their reading experience but also to discover if my narrative is strong enough to answer its own questions come the end.


Finally, when my critter has reached the last chapter and is ready to present his concerns and overall opinions, it’s time for me to bring out the after questions. I try to be as specific as possible in my questioning, in hopes of leading the critter to dredge up as many of his reactions and complaints as possible. Most of my after questions are general enough that I can use them on every manuscript, but, of course, I insert as many specific queries as necessary.


1. Was the setting clear? Did you feel like you had a clear idea of what things looked like in the scenes?


2. Can you give me a brief opinion of the main characters? Did you understand who was who and what their problems/goals were? Any characters that felt extraneous? Any characters you felt you were supposed to like, but didn’t? Any characters you had a hard time keeping track of?


3. Did the plot keep you engaged? Did the overall arc make sense?


4. Any problems with the dialogue?


5. Ditto for the narrative? Were there any places where you were bored with it?


6. Did the beginning grab you?


7. Did the middle keep your attention?


8. Was the ending satisfying?


9. After reading the first scene, what expectations did you have for the story? Were those expectations fulfilled?


10. Did you spot any purple prose?


11. Did the action rise appropriately? Did it move too abruptly?


12. Was it repetitive or overlong? Can you think of anything it would be good to cut? Is there anyplace I need to trim some fat and include less information?


13. Did you understand the themes, and did they become more complex and interesting as you read? Did the character arcs express the themes well?


14. Was the climax both inevitable and yet unexpected?


15. Was the story easy to follow?


16. Does the overall tone welcome you? Or is it off-putting in any way?


17. Was there any point at which your interest faded?


By guiding my critters with my questions, I’m able to receive a much more thorough response, one that is specific to my story’s needs and my own concerns. By the time my critters finish answering all my questions, they’ve usually given me enough food for thought to keep me chewing for a very long time.

I have a confession to make. It’s kind of a deep, dark secret, so brace yourself. I like movies better than books.

Shocking, I know.

Don’t get me wrong. I love books. I read voraciously, usually gobbling more than 100 books a year. I love the way words line up on a page, I love the dance they create, I love the precision and the intensity of the craft. But even more than I love words, I love stories. And, in my own personal experience, movies have always been able to offer a more rounded presentation. Before all the bibliophiles starting howling and clicking the red X in the corner of their browsers, let me repeat in my own personal experience. I realize many, maybe even most, readers and writers don’t agree with me. But whatever your own thoughts on the superiority/inferiority of books versus movies, you have to admit that movies have much from which the lowly novelist can learn.

First of all, let me note why I feel movies are superior, and why novelists would do well to mimic them in some areas. When it comes to storytelling, movies bring a sensual arsenal to the table. Viewers are bombarded with visual and audio stimuli; they are shown exactly what the characters are experiencing, in real time. Novelists may need paragraph upon paragraph of description to set a scene, but a director needs only a single shot. Writers will struggle for their entire careers to “show” instead of “tell.” Movies never have that problem.

Characters that have a real person behind them are immediately brought to life. The inflection in dialogue is obtained instantly. Facial expressions can convey in seconds what words can accomplish only by great and studied effort. In her insightful book Lights! Camera! Fiction!, Alfie Thompson points out:

Screenwriters have an advantage when it comes to bringing characters to life. Actors and actresses play the assigned roles and infuse some personality into the character. ... if the actor is wonderfully gifted, he can convey a feeling or attitude even if the writer’s words aren’t chosen carefully. Even if the script is pathetic and the actor is as wooden as a walking, talking tree, it’s hard for the audience not to see a “well-rounded” character when a living, breathing, real-life person is walking around on-screen.

None of this is to degrade the novel. The written word gives us things the movie never can, including a unique voice, deeper character introspection, and authorial commentary. All these things are wonderful and important, but they pale in light of the visual immediacy, the raw connection of a film. Of course, the truth is the vast majority of us will never see a story of ours up on the big screen. But that doesn’t mean we still can’t learn from what I call the “movie factor.”

I want my stories to play out like a movie inside the reader’s head. I want him to see the scenes progression, the characters walking around, the sweep of the landscape just as if he were watching a movie. I can’t testify to how well I’ve accomplished that, but I do know that my stories play out like movies in my own head. Whenever I’m approaching a big scene, a tricky scene, I stop, close my eyes, and try to visualize what the scene would look like in a movie. I visualize everything: angles, lighting, stage directions. I even try to conjure up a soundtrack sometimes. And the results are pretty interesting.

This technique does wonders for helping me see my work clearly. Details, colors, tiny sounds—all those wonderful telling details—are instantly highlighted. Infeasible actions or stunts are replaced. Unnecessary dialogue is trimmed. Really, all I’m suggesting is an intense visualization, with a little bit of a dramatic spin. Even if only in my personal view, it inches my stories a little closer to the vibrancy of a movie screen. And if somehow we can combine the best features of these two worlds—movies and books—we should be able to come up with a product worth the price of admission, no matter your story-telling preferences.

Fiction once began with the face, with the act of observation of the faces of others. Does it still? It’s arguable. I can imagine a skeptic wondering what difference it makes whether writers describe faces or not. Does anything of importance really hang in the balance? Who cares? Does it make any difference to the operations of the world? Who cares about the face anymore? Is reading the face still a survival skill... and if so, for whom? —Charles Baxter in The Art of Subtext: Beyond Plot

In recent years, a minimalist trend has surfaced regarding character descriptions. Common opinion these days states that physical descriptions are unnecessary, distracting, and even poor writing. “Dickens,” these minimalists claim, “might have been able to get away with a page and a half of in-depth description, but that sort of verbosity is not only intolerable in modern fiction but even retroactively ridiculous.” Having read far too many novelists who abuse and misuse the art of description, I’m in utter sympathy with whoever decided the character description was passé. But I’m not in agreement.


Most of the fuss over descriptions is primarily the result of two pitfalls:


1. Clichéd descriptions that add nothing to the characters, but rather render them as caricatures.


2. Inappropriate usage, placement, and emphasis.


Let me address these one at a time.


Clichés


The only reason any description deserves to be included in a novel is because it adds something vital to the narrative. A romantic heroine with Barbie blonde hair and a super-model figure doesn’t add much. Telling the reader that the bad guy in a western is squinty-eyed, dark-browed, and narrow-lipped does nothing to bring freshness to the story. (But, of course, this is a problem that goes much deeper than simply description and probably finds its root in a clichéd character.) But to take the other extreme and delete description entirely adds nothing either. You can’t put nothing into a story, and expect the reader to gain something.


As readers, we read in order to be told about people other than ourselves. Can our understanding of these people really be complete without some concept of their appearance— and thus how other people perceive them and how they perceive themselves?


Inappropriate usage


The length of descriptions need not be long; sometimes a single detail can anchor a character more firmly in the reader’s mind than a list of attributes two paragraphs long. Avoid “laundry lists” at all costs. Rattling off a character’s hair color, eye color, height, and weight isn’t going to bring the reader any closer to the character. Strive instead for “telling details” that highlight not only appearance but the character they represent.


As a child, I remember being fascinated with the phrase “Grecian nose,” and I felt quite sophisticated whenever I managed to work it into my stories. Never mind the fact that I had no idea what a Grecian nose looked like. I’m still not sure what it looks like, but I do know that it’s a nonstarter as a descriptive aid, not only because it is unrecognizable to most readers, but because it brings nothing to the characterization table.


Inappropriate placement


I’ve heard the arguments that suggest readers don’t like authors to describe characters because it interferes with the reader’s preconceived image of the character. But I’m here to tell you that I want to know how the writer perceives the character. It is important, however, to make sure that the description is dropped into the narrative early enough to shape the reader’s preconception. Don’t wait until Chapter 15 to tell the reader that the hero is cross-eyed and has red and green striped hair.


Inappropriate emphasis


The amount of description we give any character needs to be in direct proportion to his importance in the story. Spending two paragraphs on a throwaway character will do nothing but misdirect—and probably frustrate—the reader. Outline your minor characters with one or two modifiers, and save your most impressive descriptive powers for the protagonists.
Character descriptions are great fun to craft, and when used correctly they can’t help but hone the cutting edge of your story.

One of my favorite movies is the classic The Great Escape (1963), with Steve McQueen, James Garner, and Richard Attenborough. When you think about it, it’s really a strange war movie: hardly any violence, little “action” to speak of, and few references to the war itself. Yet every time I watch it, I’m hit by its stark reality. Not so much physical reality perhaps (why do I have a hard time believing James Garner’s hair would have stayed that perfect in a real POW camp?), but emotional honesty. It struck me the last time I watched it how much this movie is able to convey with so little histrionics. And I think that’s the key to its timelessness: the writers, the director, and the actors never overplay their emotional hand.

This is a movie teeming with characters and subplots. As the movie progresses, the viewer comes to care deeply for all of these characters and their various goals and obstacles. We care that these men escape the German prison camp, we care that Big X’s plot to foul up the German works behind the lines succeeds, we care that these soldiers not only live to fly another day but that they contribute as much as they can to winning the war.

The war is barely mentioned in this movie. The Nazis, for the most part, are shown, not as devils incarnate, but as sympathetic human beings. The viewer is never subjected to a litany of Germany’s war crimes or a recitation of the Allies’ virtues. Not once does a character stand to deliver a melodramatic “Oscar speech” about patriotism or the lofty reasons these men are fighting and dying and suffering in a prison far from home. And that, right there, is one of the greatest secrets to this movie’s success.

The Great Escape, unlike so many war movies (or maybe I should just say unlike so many movies and books period), never tries to force an agenda into its narrative. The characters are never asked to act or speak in ways that are unrealistic or less than honest. When they toast the tunnel on the Fourth of July, they make no elaborate speeches about the rightness of their cause and how they deserve to escape because they’re the good guys and the Germans are the bad guys. No, they toast, quite simply, “To getting home.” How’s that for stark, staring, bleeding honesty?

But the really wonderful thing about this honesty is that, in the end, the agenda is gotten across even more powerfully than it would have been had screenwriters James Clavell and W.R. Burnett spelled it out for us.

Emotional honesty travels in the other direction as well. It involves not only not dragging in melodramatic theatrical reactions, but also digging deep and highlighting the emotions the characters are feeling. I’ve read too many books and seen too many movies that featured solid plots, engaging characters, and excellent technique, but which missed out on greatness for the simple reason that they fell flat emotionally. They blocked me from seeing past the characters’ façades into the realness of their beings—into the why behind their actions—unlike The Great Escape, which perfectly balanced the need to demonstrate the characters’ emotions, needs, and goals and the temptation to force emotions upon the characters for the sole reason of (hopefully) wringing a sympathetic reaction from the viewer.

Go watch The Great Escape. You’ll learn lots about how to craft an emotionally resonant story, and if you read between the lines, you may also get good glimpse of what not to do.