Wordplay

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Which is scarier—writing or lion taming? At first glance, that seems to be a no-brainer, doesn’t it? After all, how can sitting at your computer in your slippers compare to putting your head into a 500-pound carnivore’s mouth? But, actually, the writing life is fraught with fears. We writers are afraid of agents stamping “REJECTED” on our manuscripts. We’re afraid of revealing too much of our true selves to the public via our writing. We’re afraid our writing will be no good (or at least not as good as our critique partner’s). We’re afraid of never being published. We’re afraid that if we are published the only people who will buy our books are our mothers and their bridge clubs. We’re afraid of the time commitment demanded by being a dedicated writer. We’re even afraid of the desk-inflicted welts on our foreheads every time we get writer’s block.

In short, we’re afraid. And being afraid isn’t much fun. So what do to about it? Let’s take a look at ten methods for cracking our whips at our fears and forcing them to respond to our shouts of “back, back, vicious beast!”

1. Identify your fear.
As kids cowering under the bed sheets, we found the monsters lurking in the shadows all the more terrifying because we couldn’t actually see them. If we’d had the courage to get out of bed and poke around in our closets, those innocent little gray dust bunnies would have proven far less hideous than our vague imaginings. Try to figure out exactly what it is that’s got you spooked.

2. Eliminate pseudo-fears.
It’s easy to blow things out of proportion. For example, we could easily chew our nails ragged worrying about what the world thinks of us as authors and people. But, so long as it doesn’t hurt book sales, the opinions of someone we’ll never meet aren’t likely to hurt us. Don’t spend your time worrying about things that might go wrong, especially when those things can only hurt you when you let them.

3. Vent.
Once you’ve figured out the things that really and truly have you scared right down to the holes in your socks, sit yourself in front of a mirror and start venting. Talk about how scared you are—and how much you hate being scared. Sometimes just blowing off steam can do wonders for making you feel better.

4. Find a sympathetic ear.
Grab a friend or family member—or, better yet, another writer who’s been in your shoes and overcome his own fears—and go over your concerns. Let them help you work through your problems and let yourself take heart from their encouragement, even if it’s just the good ol’ standby “everything’ll be okay.”

5. List the pros and cons of your fear.
Let’s say your biggest fear is being rejected by an agent. Sit down and write a list of the things that will result from this happening—good and bad. On the bad side of the list, you might write down your inevitable discouragement; but, on the good side, you can make note of the fact that you’ll grow stronger from the experience. Balancing out the pros and cons of your fear can help you see things in perspective—and perhaps even realize the pros outweigh the cons.

6. Remember why you’re writing.
Review all the things you love about writing. If those things aren’t worth the fear, there’s no reason you can’t stop and walk away right now. But, if you decide you can’t walk away from writing no matter how much it sometimes hurts, you’ll realize your fears are a small price to pay.

7. Allow yourself to make mistakes.
You can lift a lot of pressure off your shoulders by giving yourself permission to make messes. No one’s perfect. Why should you be? Make mistakes, recognize your mistakes, forgive yourself for them, maybe even laugh over them. Then move on and try again. Samuel Beckett said, “Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

8. Streamline your process.
No one’s ever said writing is easy. But don’t make matters more difficult for yourself than you need to. Find the system that works best for you—for writing, revising, and querying—and stick with it. Eliminate unnecessary work and distractions whenever possible.

9. Reward yourself.
When you do something tough—when you send out that query in spite of the last 50 rejections—give yourself a prize. The bigger the fear you’ve overcome, the bigger the prize (or should we say bribe?) should be. If you finish your book by the end of the year, buy yourself a vacation, an iPad, a new pair of Snoopy slippers—whatever floats your rubber ducky.

10. Embrace your fear.
Sometimes you can’t finesse your way through fear. Sometimes you have to hitch up your jodhpurs, grab your chair and whip, and march into that lion’s cage to confront the thing that scares you the most. But don’t stop at just confronting it. Use it. Get in the habit of moving toward your fears instead of away from them. You may find your fear is the perfect fuel to create your best bit of writing yet!


Tell me your opinion: What's the writing fear you're most proud of overcoming?


Related Posts: Why You Should Be Writing Scared


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Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Wordplay podcast in iTunes).

This week’s video cautions against neglecting to double-check your facts—even the ones you’re sure of. 




Video Transcript: Writers are generally known as pretty savvy people. We know how to string sentences together, we know how to use punctuation properly, and we can spout off lots of big words. But we can’t let this presumed savviness go to our heads, because readers are also very smart people. They know when we’re hoodwinking them with pseudo-facts—and they’re not going to think very highly of us for it. Most of us realize this and work hard to research our stories and present the facts correctly and realistically. When we don’t know something, we look it up. But there’s a pitfall here. 

Sometimes we think we know a fact, so, of course, why bother to look it up? But I’m here to tell you that’s dangerous. Case in point: Most people have a certain pile of “facts” stocked up about horses from watching movies and reading books, so they don’t always think about double-checking their equestrian scenes. I recently read a fantasy novel that featured a society that used horses as their main transportation, but—as someone who grew up around horses and working cattle ranches—I can tell you that the author didn’t check her facts. She had horses eating leaves instead of grass, riders able to mount only on the left side, and, at one point, she explained that “lope” and “canter”—two words describing essentially the same gait—were in fact different things. 


I’m certain this author had no idea she was committing these gaffes, and I’m certain of this because I’ve made similar oversights in my own first drafts. But this is why it’s so important for writers to check and double-check their facts—even the ones we’re already sure of. In the end, pleasing even the most expert among our readers ensures we’ll never be scorned for our lack of knowledge or have our books hurled across the room in frustration.


Tell me your opinion: Have you ever embarrassed yourself by neglecting to double-check a fact?


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As important as the opening line may be to convincing someone to read your book, the closing line is the one that determines how well your story works—and whether or not your reader will find your story a satisfying experience. Last month, we talked about the 5 Elements of a Riveting First Line, and today we’re going to bring the discussion full circle by exploring the five elements that will help you craft the kind of closing line that caps your entire story and leaves readers with a feeling of unforgettable resonance.

Like first lines, last lines, in themselves, aren’t all that memorable. In fact, I’ll bet you this week’s serving of carrots that you can’t remember the closing lines of the last five books you enjoyed. The memorability of the lines themselves isn’t nearly as important as the memorability of the feeling with which they leave your readers. Let’s take a look at the closing lines of five of my favorite books:

“Hooker yet upon the Rappahannock,” he said. “We must have him across the Potomac, and we must ourselves invade Pennsylvania.”—The Long Roll by Mary Johnston

Vin closed her eyes, simply feeling the warmth of being held. And realized that was all she had ever really wanted.—Mistborn: The Final Empire by Brandon Sanderson

“Why, sir,” said the hall-porter, smiling at him, “never fret yourself about haste post-haste: here is Sir Joseph himself, coming up the steps, a-leaning on Colonel Warren’s arm.”—The Reverse of the Medal by Patrick O’Brian

And after that it sometimes almost seemed as if there were fewer enemy planes in the skies.—After Dunkirk by Milena McGraw

He looked a long time.—Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card

What is it about these lines that made these stories resonate with me? How did they embed these stories in my mind and help me carry them with me long after I closed the back covers? Let’s take a look at a couple of factors.

1. Summation: The end of the book marks the end (didn’t see that coming, did you?), even if it’s part of a series—as are all the books I’ve listed except After Dunkirk. The closing line should give readers a sense of finality, a sense that the main issues of the plot have been taken care of and that he can safely leave the characters without worrying that anything more momentous is going to strike. In the examples above, we find Mistborn’s main character discovering safety and love in a relationship, the thwarting of an enemy plot by the arrival of a spymaster in Reverse of the Medal, and the beginning of the end of the Battle of Britain in After Dunkirk.

2. Theme: At its heart, story is theme. We dress it up with plot and characters, but the theme is what the story is about. So it’s only appropriate we strike a final emotional note in our last sentence. Although not necessarily evident out of context, the books above use their final lines to reinforce their themes of war, love, trust, hope, and redemption.

3. Pacing: The final line—and the lines building up to it—should provide the appropriate pacing to guide readers to an instinctual understanding of the coming end. Just as a song builds to a climax and then tapers into the subsequent notes to ease listeners back into silence, the end of a story must slow its pacing to ease readers out of the story back into their comfy La-Z-Boys. The lines listed above vary in length, but most of them are punchy sentences—which were preceded by longer, lyrical, sometimes almost dreamy paragraphs, which the authors used to ease back from the action of the story, so they could hammer home one final thought before releasing the reader.

4. Farewell: Not all closing lines will feature the main character. Sometimes authors will utilize a “pulling back” of the camera to show the reader a broad view of the story, rather than a close up of the protagonist. However, most often, the closing line is the last chance to say goodbye to the characters for both the author and the reader. The Long Roll, Mistborn, and Ender’s Game all feature the protagonist in the final sentence. After Dunkirk, which is narrated in the first person by the protagonist, offers the main character’s final thoughts to the reader. And Reverse of the Medal’s comparatively abrupt ending features a line of dialogue that the reader already knows the main character is desperately awaiting.

5. Continuation: Finally—and a bit contradictorily—the closing line should also indicate that the story isn’t over, that, in fact, the lives of the surviving main characters will continue long after the reader closes the back cover. In Worlds of Wonder, David Gerrold points out, “A great last line should leave your reader satisfied that you have said everything that needs to be said—and at the same time, it should stand as a launch pad for the reader’s imagination to leap off into its own flight of fantasy about what happens next.” The Long Roll leaves us looking into the future, toward the inevitable Battle of Gettysburg. Mistborn assures us the main character will be moving forward in a healthy relationship. Reverse of the Medal ties up its plot’s loose threads and sends us hurtling into the sequel. After Dunkirk’s weary hope promises the eventual end of war. And Ender’s Game’s nebulous (and brilliant) final line indicates both a present incompletion (and thus a sense of continuation) and an eventual finality at the end of the long search.

Your ending line will depend greatly on the story that precedes it: its tone, pacing, and the mood you want to strike with its ending. But if you can incorporate all or most of these elements into your final words, you just might be on your way to the kind of ending that grabs hold of readers and refuses to let them go.

Tell me your opinion: What's your favorite closing line and why?

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This week’s video shows how Suzanne Collins did a masterful job of providing her readers a resonant, cohesive climax in The Hunger Games.




Video Transcription: Stories are like puzzles—you know, the giant, 5,000-piece ones you spread all over your table and spend a year putting together? That’s your story. By the time you only have a handful of pieces left—by the time your climax is coming into view—the vast majority of your puzzle should be assembled in such a way that your reader has all the necessary pieces to present the big picture. The trick to providing the reader with a satisfying climax is making certain all the pieces are already there. Nothing is worse than reaching the end of a story, chewing your nails, wondering how the author is going to make all these pieces fit together—only to have him trick you by pulling out a brand spanking new piece you’ve never even heard of before.

The best books use foreshadowing to ensure the reader has all the pieces he needs going into the climax. One of those books is Suzanne Collins’s popular The Hunger Games. (If you happen to be the last person on the planet who hasn’t read this book, be warned, spoilers ahead!) Collins’s climax involves pulling her main characters out of a certain-death situation, in which they’re being forced to kill each other in a futuristic gladiatorial game. She does a beautiful job of backing the characters up to a wall and seeming to leave them no way out.

She could have utilized any number of tricks to save her characters and give readers the happy ending they wanted. But most of these tricks would have been a cheat. Fortunately, she was savvy enough to know that she could only utilize the tools the story provided her: in this instance, poisonous berries with which the characters could threaten suicide and manipulate their captors. Readers may not have seen this use of the berries coming, but because Collins had already utilized the berries in a previous scene and foreshadowed their lethal potential, the twist in the climax was a natural outflow of the plot.

Tell me your opinion: Have you appropriately foreshadowed the solution to your climax?

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We see a lot of hype these days about books that are too lengthy for agents or editors to consider. But what about books that fall short of the expected word count? In comparison to giving your overweight manuscript liposuction, fattening up an anorexic story often feels like trying to create something out of nothing. There your story is—complete. What’s left to add that won’t feel extraneous, rambling, and even pointless?

This was the dilemma I faced this spring after realizing my historical manuscript The Deepest Breath, which was supposedly “complete” at 80,000 words, contained a hefty subplot that absolutely did not work. I cut the subplot—and ended up with a puny 60,000-word featherweight of a book. What do to?

First thing I did was scream—a lot. “Finished” manuscripts with big holes in them are about as cheerful as alarm clocks at five o’clock on Sunday morning. Next thing I did was comfort myself with the usual panacea of Starbucks’ bold dark espresso roast and Belgian truffles. And then I got to work. I looked over the story and started making lists of anything I could expand.

1. Brainstorm addition plot beats.

After listing all my current plot threads, I started coming up with ways to expand upon them. One of the plot threads in my story included a character’s attempts to cover up her past. I started brainstorming ways I could expand upon this thread and came up with several scenes in which the character’s attempts are threatened or discovered, which led to further complications, more scenes, and—you got it—more words.

2. Deepen connections between characters.

Make a list of all the characters in your story and how they’re connected to the point-of-view characters. Could you add scenes to further explain or deepen these connections? In the original version of my story, I hinted at the strained relationships between one of my characters and his siblings, which left me the perfect opportunity to add an entire subplot exploring his interactions with them.

3. Add characters.

The more characters you have, the longer your word count. Never add a character just for the sake of adding him, but take a look at the needs of your story and sniff out any likely gaps where a new character could add dimension. My story’s dark realism didn’t offer much in the way of humor, so I added a character who could occasionally lighten the mood. I made sure to tie him back into the plot by making him an accomplice to another character’s secret business.

4. Emphasize important character traits.

What are some of your protagonists’ most important, salient, or appealing characteristics? Do you explicitly illustrate these traits in scenes? If not, look for places where you can insert these important bits of characterization. The friendship between two war buddies is crucial to my story, so I added an early scene that shows them watching each other’s backs while on a dangerous hunt.

5. Dramatize summaries.

Finally, once you’ve added all the feasible characters and subplots, zoom in on the nitty-gritty of your story. Are there any scenes where you’ve summarized (told) instead of dramatized (shown)? Can you expand upon your characters’ interior monologue? Can you flesh out the descriptions of your settings? Don’t go overboard with any of these insertions; remember balance is always key. But every word counts, and these little expansions add up quickly.

By the time I finished applying all these techniques, my story had transformed from a skinny novella to the optimum fighting weight of 100,000 words. Not only did I achieve my word count goal, I also ended up with a story whose characters, themes, and plot progression were deeper, chewier, and more memorable. I credit the success to the Starbucks and truffles—mostly.


Tell me your opinion: Have you ever written a story you felt was too short?


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Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Wordplay podcast in iTunes).

Image by Austin Tott

Since I was out of town this past weekend, I wasn’t able to record the usual video post. In its place, I’m pleased to present a post by up and coming historical author Elisabeth Grace Foley, who has just released her anthology The Ranch Next Door and Other Stories. Enjoy!




I’ve heard a lot of people say short stories should be written quickly, on the spur of the moment, and shouldn’t be edited or fussed over. I’m an exception to that. Occasionally, a short story will come out almost the way I want it on the first try, but usually I spend plenty of time carefully editing, re-editing and polishing each one, just as I would for a full-length novel. Which means I also become susceptible to one of the pitfalls of careful editing—overdoing it.

I’m not just talking about perfectionism—that’s another story. There’s another kind of overdoing it—if you spend a lot of time carefully editing one particular story, you can reach a point where you’re just plain tired of it, if for no other reason than that you’ve been staring at it for so long. Sometimes this can have a bad effect on your perception of the story. The writing starts to seem either flat or overblown, the dialogue ridiculous and the plot paper thin. You wonder whatever made you write the thing in the first place, and why in the world you ever imagined you could be a writer. That usually means it’s time to take a step back.

When I submitted my short story “Disturbing the Peace” to a competition last fall, I’d spent so much time working on it and getting it just right that, frankly, I couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore. I was satisfied with it, but I’d had my fill of it for the time being. Even after it placed in the contest and was published online, I couldn’t bring myself to read it all the way through again.

When it came time to get “Disturbing the Peace” out and proofread it in preparation for including it in The Ranch Next Door and Other Stories, I was reluctant. I hadn’t looked at the story in months, but remembering how I’d felt back then, I was afraid I’d only be disappointed. But I gritted my teeth and started reading…and I was amazed. Did I write that? I couldn’t believe how much better it seemed than when I finished with it months before. The story hadn’t changed, of course—I was just seeing it with a fresh perspective. The extent of my revisions for putting it in the collection was adding one single word.

I’d had good results with taking a break from projects before, but this experience brought home to me what a difference a fresh perspective can make. Pushing too hard on a project to the point of discouragement could cause you to spoil or scrap something that has promise. On the other hand, if there are problems with a story, you’re not going to be able to spot them if the whole thing looks bad to you. Take a break, work on something else for a little while or even take a short vacation from writing, and when you pick up that troublesome project again later on, you may be surprised at how things have fallen into their proper place—how you’ll be able to see more clearly which things actually need fixing and which things bothered you before simply because you were tired of them. It’s an experiment worth trying.

About the Author: Elisabeth Grace Foley is a 21-year-old author of historical fiction who is really too young to have done anything interesting enough to put into an author bio. She is busy trying to do something about that. She blogs at The Second Sentence and lives with her family and a large stack of writer’s notebooks in the northeastern U.S.

This week, I’m pleased to present a post by editor, author, and Top 10 blogger Victoria Mixon, who’s celebrating the launch of her new writing craft book The Art and Craft of Story: 2nd Practitioner’s Manual, the sequel to her fabulously funny and informative The Art and Craft of Fiction. Today, she’s sharing with us an excerpt from the new book. Enjoy!




Reading for Plot Structure

Whatever book you’re reading right this very minute, take a quick second to look in the back and see how many pages it has. Rounded, I mean.

Find a scrap of paper or a used envelope and jot this down at the bottom: total number of pages.

Now divide that into: 1/8, 1/6, 1/4, 1/3, 1/2, 2/3, 3/4, 5/6, 7/8. You can knock it right down into all the eighths and sixths if you like, but these are the main divisions. Scribble those numbers vertically above the total.

Now—as you work your way through your current read, every time you come to one of those pages, make a note of what big, important plot point is going on right there. At least within a few pages.

Depending upon the type of novel you’re reading, the climax may be shoved all the way to within spitting distance of the last page. And that’s fine! That’s an excellent way to end a novel. So when you get to the climax, go ahead and scribble that down, too.

Label it at the top with the title of the book. Then throw it on a box on your desk and start a new scrap for the next book.

Eventually, you're going to have a whole raft of these little lists.

And. They. Are. Priceless.

Take them out every now and then to study. What do you see?

Act 1
Hook (the beginning to 1/8-1/6)
Conflict #1 (1/8-1/6 to 1/4-1/3)

Act 2
Conflict #2 (1/4-1/3 to 1/2-2/3)
Conflict #3 (1/2-2/3 to 2/3-3/4)

Act 3
Faux Resolution (2/3-3/4 to 5/6-7/8)
Climax (5/6-7/8 to the end)

Some writers use a pattern based on quarters, while others prefer a pattern based on thirds. Occasionally, I stumble across someone who skews the 1/2 point to 3/5 (rare) or even 2/3 (even more rare).

That's why this isn’t formula, it’s structure. A house with many rooms is just as livable as a house with only one room, but a house with no supporting walls at all falls down.

So lick a pencil and scrabble for whatever’s handy. All those novels you’ve been reading all these years?

All structured properly.

You’re going to be amazed.

Reading for Character Development

Now I’m also going to assign you a second exercise for your current reading material. Because I don’t believe in doing things halfway.

Flip over that scrap of paper or used envelope on which you’re jotting down your plot design research and scribble the name of the protagonist of whatever you’re reading on the back. If there’s more than one protagonist, scribble the name of the main one.

Chew your pencil for a few minutes (don’t eat the paint—just destroy the little metal bit that holds the eraser) and ask yourself, “What does this character need more than anything else in the entire world?” When you’ve got it, write it down under their name. “And what do they need that conflicts with this need?” Write that down too. Put a big blocky square all over the whole thing.

Got it?

Good.

Now, every time you reach one of those milestones you outlined on the other side of this paper, I want you to jot down on this side what happens to the protagonist and their conflicting needs. I can guarantee something does.

Is one need satisfied in some partial but slightly fulfilling way? Just enough to keep them addicted to the search for total fulfillment?

Is their search for fulfillment of one need thwarted in some way? Enough to freak them out, but not enough to make them think, “This is for the birds. I’m giving up”?

Are their needs ever totally fulfilled?

Are their needs ever totally thwarted?

Scribble, scribble, scribble. Do your scribbling. You’re a scribbler.

Then—you knew I was going to say this—chuck it in that box on your desk. And start the whole thing over again with another book.

When you’re ready, take these scraps out of the box and study them. What patterns do you see? How do all these different authors lead their characters by the nose through the hoops that have been set for them, feeding their needs, denying their needs, feeding their needs again, denying their needs again? How does this rhythm build to a crescendo by the end, driving both character and reader nuts with frustration and anticipation?

How have these authors kept their reader addicted?

Do you ever watch fireworks—for Chinese New Year, Mexican Independence, a hobbit’s eleventy-first birthday?

The next time you do, be thinking how it would feel to have them go off inside your heart. Then think about how your favorite authors make the climaxes of their novels feel…

Exactly. That. Way.

About the Author: Victoria Mixon has been a professional writer and editor for over thirty years. She co-authored the nonfiction Children and the Internet, published by Prentice Hall in 1996, for which she is listed in the Who’s Who of America. Victoria’s blog, A. Victoria Mixon, Editor, was voted one of the Top Ten Blogs for Writers in 2011. Her first book on writing, The Art and Craft of Fiction, is one of the elite handful recommended by Preditors & Editors, and her second book on writing, The Art and Craft of Story: 2nd Practitioner’s Manual, was released on September 30, 2011.

This week’s video discusses two common pitfalls authors can fall into in naming their characters.





Video Transcription: Sometimes it’s the simplest things in a story that can create distance between the reader and writer. The last thing any author can afford to do is push his reader away from the story by confusing him. We want readers to think about what we’ve written, but not because they’re trying to figure out what in tarnation we’re talking about. One area in which authors often create unnecessary reader confusion is in their inconsistent usage of character names. I recently read a historical novel that left me wondering who was who, who was on stage, who was talking, and just generally who these characters were.

The problem in this particular story was double-sided. To begin with, the author often failed to name the characters at all—instead referring to them as simply “he” or “she” for pages on end. Pronouns are a wonderful tool in fiction, not only because they prevent clunky, unnecessary repetitions of names, when only one or two characters are present in a scene, but also because they allow an unprecedented amount of intimacy between the reader and the characters. Despite all their benefits, however, they should never be used at the risk of confusing readers. When in doubt, make sure readers know precisely which character is doing what.

The second problem in this book was that, even when the author bothered to refer to his characters by name, he didn’t choose just one name, but instead multiple variations. Occasionally you’ll see books—military thrillers are frequently culpable—that call their characters by their first names, last names, nicknames, code names, ranks, and the author only knows what else. Simplicity is the mark of an author who is both confident and experienced. Your character can have all the nicknames and code names in the world, but do your readers a favor and consistently refer to him by one name throughout the narrative.

Tell me your opinion: Do you refer to your character consistently by the same name?

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Help Readers Keep Your Characters Straight

Are You Benefiting From the Intimacy of Pronouns?

How many characters does it take to screw in a light bulb?

Only as many as the reader can keep track of at once.

When authors are dealing with large casts of characters—or even just scenes that require the rapid-fire introduction of more than two or three characters—readers sometimes find themselves in grave danger of “character overload.” Usually, I would tell you there’s no such thing as too many good characters. But, in this instance, too many characters can become way yonder too much of a good thing. Let’s take a look at an example:

Image by C12

Gabrielle surveyed the feast spread on her table. If this wasn’t enough for food for everyone who was coming, she was in big trouble. The doorbell rang, and she hurried to answer it. In walked her cousin Bill and his wife Tootsie, their three adorable children Annamarie, Hank, and Bill, Jr. Gabrielle barely had time to greet them before the doorbell rang again and she opened the door to welcome Ella—her cousin twice removed (or was it three times?). Then came Uncle Mutt and Aunt Kitty, her best friends Jeri and Mae and their husbands Andrew and Mike. And that was only the first half of the guests!

This paragraph has introduced us to the unlucky number of thirteen characters. How many of them of are readers likely to remember? A few paragraphs later, no one’s going to remember if Jeri is a twice-removed cousin or a best friend. And yet all these characters seem vital to the story. They must be introduced. So what’s a writer to do?

You have a couple options.

Reevaluate your characters’ necessity. Do you really need all thirteen characters? Before you write one more jot, tittle, or tilde, stop and evaluate your characters. Is there any chance you could combine two or more of these characters to tighten up your cast and streamline your story? Maybe Jeri and Mae, the two best friends, could be combined into one person, and, to further simplify matters, maybe this best friend is single, eliminating the need for a husband. Maybe cousin Bill and his wife have only one adorable child instead of three.

Spread the introductions over multiple scenes. Once you’ve got your cast stripped down to optimum fighting weight, evaluate the scene itself. Do all these characters really need to be introduced in this one scene? Could you spread them out over several different scenes to give readers a chance to process each character? Perhaps only cousins Bill and Ella attend Gabrielle’s dinner. Best friend Jeri-Mae can come over after the party to help Gabrielle clean up.

Space the introductions throughout one scene. If you’ve determined all your characters absolutely must be introduced in this one scene, at least space out their introductions over the course of the scene. Instead of an onslaught at Gabrielle’s door, let the guests trickle in throughout the evening so Gabrielle has a chance to exchange a little dialogue with each guest—thus helping to anchor the characters in the reader’s mind—before moving on to the next one.

Make each character memorable. Finally, the single most important thing you can do to make characters stick in your reader’s mind—no matter how quickly you introduce them—is to make them memorable. Instead of just rattling off the guest list as they barge into Gabrielle’s house, give each character a memorable trait, action, or line of dialogue to help him stick in the reader’s memory. Maybe Tootsie has dyed her hair crimson, maybe Ella is in tears, maybe Bill, Jr., barges in with the cat dangling by its tail, maybe Uncle Mutt is drunk. Whatever the case, keep in mind that the only characters who belong in your story are the ones worth remembering—so make their entrances unforgettable.

This is the tenth post in the Most Common Mistakes Series, inspired by the prevalent slip-ups I run across in editing other people’s work. Don’t worry: I don’t use any names or specific examples from my clients’ stories. I hope the series will prove helpful to you in nabbing these mistakes in your own work—before an agent or editor nabs them for you.

Tell me your opinion: How many characters do you introduce in your first scene?

Related Posts: Help Readers Keep Your Characters Straight

Introduce Important POVs as Soon as Possible

The Benefits of a Clueless Character
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