Why Stories Work

It's part of a writer's job to craft stories that build anticipation in readers and keep them wondering, "What's going to happen next?" That question is the brick and mortar of a bigger question, "How's it going to end?" that compels readers to actually finish the book.

But, what to do when readers already know for certain or can guess fairly accurately the story's conclusion? Epic historical fiction, disaster stories and end-of-the-world stories are some examples. For instance, the title of the blockbuster movie The Towering Inferno tells the audience the building is going to go up in flames. Yet fans flocked to see it, sparking a deluge of similar disaster films.

How do stories create anticipation and the need-to-know in readers when the ending is a foregone conclusion? When readers know from the beginning that the characters' noble efforts in the main plot to stop disaster/war/prophecy will certainly fail?

Make it personal!

The reader knows from the title Gone With the Wind that the winds of war and reconstruction will blow away Scarlett's way of life. She doesn't. She fights it tooth-and-nail for over a thousand pages. But what makes the reader keep turning those pages is the personal story in front of the main plot. That is, what's going to happen next to her relationship with Rhett? What's going to happen next to her relationship with Ashley? (Not, what's going to happen next in the war.)

Joel Rosenberg's best-seller, The Ezekiel Option, revolves around a major prophecy in the Bible's book of Ezekiel. It isn't a spoiler to suggest anyone wanting to know how the main plot ends need only read Ezekiel 38 and 39. Watching how the prophecy specifically unfolds is the "hook" making the book different from others. But it's a fast-paced and compelling read to the last page because the protagonist has personal stakes in the outcome. It's about the protagonist's love for a special woman, and his struggle with his faith. The prophecy's manifestation applies pressure, ups the stakes, and creates a deadline for the protagonist's personal goals. The reader wonders while the inevitable resolution looms as an ever-darkening threat, "Will he win or will he lose his personal goal?"

When the reader knows the end from the beginning, give them something else to worry about. Give them something personal.

Once upon a time it was unthinkable. Now the inevitable occurs. A hijacked airliner heads for Washington, DC on a suicide mission. Terrified passengers plot a desperate revolt. F-16s scramble to intercept, and the president of the United States is given no option. To save thousands of American lives on the ground, the plane must be shot down!

Meanwhile, in Moscow... senior White House advisor Jon Bennett prepares to seal the biggest deal of his life: he proposes marriage to CIA operative Erin McCoy. The couple's joy is ruthlessly numbed by news that shifts the geopolitical axis of the world...

Continue reading New Book Analysis: The Ezekiel Option

Tone is how a story feels to the reader. It may feel cool or warm, heavy or light. Literary novels may feel cool, romance novels warm. Family sagas may feel heavy, Chick Lit novels light. The effect is completely emotional, but the materials that build tone are as tangible as ink and paper: word choice.

A single well-turned metaphor or simile can color the tone of a story for half a page. For instance, the following sentence couldn't force its way at gunpoint into a literary novel, but it'd fit right into a Chick Lit:

Her mom carried an oversized pink purse that looked like it really was made out of a sow's ear--maybe the whole sow.

Another way tone appears on the printed page is through characters' dialogue. This is a tricky area for beginners overzealous to make their characters sound "sophisticated." It's important to match the tone of the dialogue with the tone of the action occurring in the scene. This is not about subtext, when a character deliberately says one thing while meaning something else. This is about disharmony between action and dialogue that fractures the tone of the story as a whole and jars the reader's enjoyment. Are the hero and heroine ducking bullets, racing for their lives from evil thugs? Then it may not be the right moment for sexy banter.

The main way tone appears on the printed page is through the characters' attitudes. No matter how grim or silly the plot, it's essential the characters keep both feet on the ground and take themselves seriously. For example, in Diary of a Mad Black Woman, some scenes are brutal, some wacky, and some sublimely romantic. This "everything but the kitchen sink" approach to tone could have jolted the audience literally beyond their suspension of disbelief. But it doesn't, because the characters' attitudes within each scene harmonize with the tone of the action. When Charles drags Helen out of their house, it's a painful exchange. The action is painful. The dialogue is painful. The characters' attitudes are all about painful emotions. If Helen suddenly displayed cocky defiance (like Medea in wackier scenes), it would ring a false tone. But she doesn't, and the tone of every scene rings with credibility, satisfying the audience.

Sometimes a story has everything working for it, yet it still feels...lacking. That's a good time to consider introducing a devil's devil. The devil's devil is a character representing the villain's worst nightmare. He's the devil's devil, not simply another villain, because he gives the bad guy a hard time instead of the protagonist. The hero may not even know the devil's devil exists, and their paths may never cross. But the devil's devil still impacts the plot.

Here's how it works--

The devil's devil drives a subplot involving the villain, steadily building pressure on the villain. Whenever the villain gets the upper hand over the protagonist in the main plot, he's faced with a defeat in the devil's devil subplot. When he finally finds some relief from the devil's devil character, he loses ground to the hero. He is trapped in an ever tightening vice no matter which way he turns. This makes him desperate and mean, influencing his behavior toward the protagonist. Eventually, the devil's devil strikes the villain with devastating force, which makes the villain take action rocking the protagonist's world and tying the subplot climatically into the main plot.

For example, in Diary of a Mad Black Woman, Helen's husband is the villain in the main plot. Unbeknown to her, he has his own villain to contend with in a subplot. Whenever Charles gets the upper hand over Helen in the main plot, his victory is tainted by danger or defeat in the subplot. Finally, the "devil's devil" takes a big action impacting Charles's life in a way that the devastating consequences extend through Charles to Helen. She never meets Charles's villain, but the subplot ties into the main plot in a way that's utterly believable because the audience has seen Charles wrestling with it for some time.

Why spend so much time populating the villain's world when it's the main character the reader is interested in and the story is about? Because the strength of the story is it's villain, and a villain is only as strong as he is believable, which means three-dimensional. Not every story needs or benefits from a "devil's devil." However, such a character can round out a story by fleshing out the part of the bad guy's life that realistically has nothing to do with the protagonist--at least, until the story's climax.

Villains and antagonists perform the Shadow function in stories. They reflect the impulses and drives within the protagonist he tries to suppress and avoid dealing with directly. For example: ambition, fear, anger, etc. Externalizing these "shadows" of the hero's psychological makeup as villains and antagonists helps focus the protagonist's character arc.

(Antagonists and villains share a ruthless opposition to the protagonist's goal, but differ in one key aspect. Antagonists recognize certain moral boundaries. Villains do not. Antagonists often rationalize their opposition in altruistic terms, whereas villains don't care if they hurt people or not and may even prefer inflicting pain. For example, in The Fugitive U.S. Marshall Sam Gerard is an antagonist and Dr. Nichols is a villain, but both function as Shadows.)

Almost any story benefits from the energy derived from the Shadow character's opposition to the protagonist's goals. This energy is multiplied when the character shares the powerful function of Mentor.

Darth Vader, one of the most famous villains in movie history, ruthlessly plagues Luke Skywalker and the heroic Rebellion forces in Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope. His role blossoms with startling new dimensions in Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back when he determines to mentor Luke in the Force's Dark Side. Though the two characters don't really meet until the end of the movie, the implied threat to Luke's character growth is relentless and severe. When Darth Vader finally reveals his and Luke's true relationship at the end, the enormous potential of Vader as a Mentor is realized. Threat becomes reality, poised over Luke's soul like the blade of a guillotine. Eventually, but only after great sacrifice, Luke is able in Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi to lead his evil Mentor to redemption.

In Sleepless in Seattle, the protagonist's young son is both Mentor and antagonist. He shoves Sam into the plot by putting him on the radio with the therapist. Then throughout Act Two he functions as a well-intentioned antagonist, actively resisting Sam's misguided dating efforts. In Act Three, his antagonist and mentor functions meld in one rebellious act, simultaneously foiling Sam's erroneous goal of a weekend getaway and thrusting his father toward the story's memorable resolution.

Stories benefit from mentor characters in at least two highly important ways. First, mentors can give reluctant protagonists a necessary push to get the plot rolling. Second, mentors often personify the core values or lesson manifested in the protagonist's character arc.

The stakes in a story are what makes the story "important" to the protagonist. They make the main character keep going when he/she would rather give up. But immediately after the Inciting Incident in Act One, stakes are also what can make the protagonist not want to get involved in the first place. Why take the risk?

This is where the Mentor comes in, to give the main character a necessary shove into Act Two. Sometimes the shove is simply a piece of advice that solidifies the protagonist's commitment. Or, it may be a gift that makes the hero sufficiently confident and empowered to engage the plot. Or, the Mentor may orchestrate events to launch the hero into Act Two, whether the protagonist feels ready and willing or not.

Mentors usually make a first appearance in Act One, then two or three times in Acts Two and Three. When the Mentor shows up again, it may be to kick a stalled story back into gear. Mentors are wise, viewing events from a higher perspective than the protagonist, so where a hero sees a dead end, the mentor may see opportunity. In The Sound of Music, Mother Superior functions as a mentor in Act 2 when she summons Maria out of seclusion and sends her back to the Von Trapp family. Maria saw her romance with the Captain as a dead end, but Mother Superior saw it as a mountain to climb on the way to Maria's God-given destiny.
The other vital function Mentors fulfill involves the protagonist's growth as a character. A mentor character can externalize the hero's conscience and internal conflict. In Diary of a Mad Black Woman, Myrtle and Medea personify the heroine's internal conflict between forgiveness and vengeance. Myrtle is like a heavenly angel sitting on Helen's shoulder, whispering of God's love and strength. Medea acts like a mischievous devil on the other shoulder, cackling advice on getting even.

The mentor character may never appear in a scene, or may even be dead before the story begins. Nevertheless, the Mentor's advice can manifest as memories or oft-repeated phrases that influence and shape the protagonist's core values and internal discipline. In the hit television series, Maverick, Bret Maverick often quoted his "Pappy's" sage advice during moments of decision.

Next, the villain as Mentor...

What is a mentor? The name "Mentor" comes from Homer's The Odyssey. Mentor was a character who guided Telemachus on the journey to find his father. But the function of a mentor dates to the earliest beginning of time. God, in the Garden of Eden, mentored Adam and Eve by teaching and training them how to live. He instructed them in wisdom and gave them gifts to help them in life--the chief role of a mentor.

A character who instructs, motivates, guides, coaches, watches over, or gives gifts to the protagonist functions at that moment as a mentor in the story. This role is always based in an emotional relationship. The power of the mentor's influence is directly proportional to the emotional strength of his/her relationship with the protagonist. So, if a character attempts to assume this role without sufficient interpersonal foundation laid in advance, the result could be rebellion on the part of the protagonist.

The role of Mentor is so powerful that whole stories can be structured around one. Shane and Goodbye, Mr. Chips are examples of stories energized by the central figure of a mentor character.

A single character can perform as a mentor throughout the story, or several characters can share this function. A character can even slide in and out of this role, or gradually grow into it over the course of the story. Age, appearance, or gender is not a limitation. A mentor doesn't even have to be a person. The mentor can take the shape of any conduit of wisdom available to the protagonist; for example, the Bible. Action is the only requirement for a character (or thing) to don the cloak of Mentor.

Next, how stories benefit from mentor characters...

To the eyes of outsiders and her own family, Helen lives the American dream. She has a huge house, expensive clothes, fine cars, and a successful husband who--publicly at least--adores her. Only Helen's diary reveals the tarnish beneath the glitter. Her gilded world finally shatters beyond repair when, on her nineteenth wedding anniversary, Charles drags her out of their house to make way for the mother of his illegitimate children.

Devastated, Helen turns to her grandmother. When Medea learns about Charles's behavior, she grabs her gun and her granddaughter and crashes the mansion's front gates...

Continue reading the New Movie Analysis: Diary of a Mad Black Woman

Turning points are the major events in a story that twist it in a totally new direction. Something surprising happens that forces a character to completely change course. That's a turning point driven by action. Or, certain information is revealed that forces a character to choose a path he or she would otherwise never have walked. That's a turning point driven by exposition. Sometimes turning points are driven by both action and exposition.

Turning points often deliver the big surprises in a story. They can also be the most challenging for the writer to create. One of the best wells to draw powerful turning points from is the background of the characters. This is the bulk of the expositional information the writer withholds from the first three chapters, holding it in jealous reserve for knock-them-for-a-loop revelations.

There are two places in a story that especially benefit from action/revelation turning points, and both are related to remedying the "sagging middle" writers dread. The first is the midpoint or halfway the story. For example, in Sara Mitchell's Shenandoah Home, the heroine harbors a dangerous secret from her childhood. The importance of the secret builds tension until it becomes imperative for the hero to convince her to reveal what happened. When she does tell him the expositional information at the midpoint, the plot spins in a new direction with renewed focus and energy. The reader's question, "What happened in her childhood?" is replaced by a new one, "What are they going to do about it?"

The second significant place for a turning point to occur is the end of the second act, approximately three-quarters way the story. This turning point sets the stage for the Big Black Moment and jolts the story toward the resolution. For example, in Mary Jo Putney's The Rake, the heroine is an English noblewoman hiding as a servant on the wealthy hero's estate. When she confesses her motivation for running away (backstory that occurred before the story began), he pieces together her true identity. The expositional revelation compels him to make a sacrificial act that dominates the final chapters of the book.

In both instances, waiting to reveal the expositional information until as late as possible tightens the tension and increases the reader's desire to know. When the exposition is finally revealed, it creates conflict. Now that they know, the characters are forced to change, and any change equals conflict. And conflict equals reader interest.

Dramatizing exposition turns it from a curse dragging a story to a dying halt into a blessing breathing lushness and life into a story's pages. It's the context that guarantees the characters don't perform in a vacuum. It's one of the primary tools the writer uses to craft a relevant past, a comprehensible present, and a fascinating future for readers to enjoy.

Flashbacks are mini-scenes or full scenes interrupting the advance of the story to reveal information to the reader about the backstory, the character, or the theme. Flashbacks can be set off from the main story in a separate chapter or even a different font. Most often they are written like any other scene in the story, except they are bracketed at the beginning and end by a couple of had verbs sliding the reader into and out of the distant past.

The scent of lilacs reminded her of her sixteenth summer. (IMMEDIATE CHARACTER MOTIVATION EVOKING THE FLASHBACK.)

(FLASHBACK BEGINS) Her father had brought home fireworks to celebrate the Fourth of July. As night fell, she had gotten into an argument with her younger brother over a string of firecrackers...

The flashback, like any other form of exposition, works best when the writer understands what it can and cannot accomplish. The flashback can reveal information to the reader. It can reveal the character's inner self to the reader. It cannot motivate the character through whose viewpoint the flashback occurs. (If it could, it would have already.)

While the expositional details conveyed in the flashback may be of importance to the writer, it's the drama in the scene that's important to the reader. It benefits the writer to adopt the same priority. That's because flashbacks stop the forward thrust of the main story. To keep the reader's attention focused on what's going to happen next, the flashback needs the dynamic tension created by a protagonist, an objective, and conflict.

That's the same reason that, when at all possible, flashbacks should be avoided in the beginning or first three chapters of a story, when it's important to raise questions. Exposition answers questions, and when presented too early via a flashback scene, answers questions the reader may not have asked yet. The exception to this occurs when the information is both--

1. vital to understanding why the character acts the way he does, and
2. wouldn't provide a surprise twist if revealed later.

Then it's better to get it over with as quickly as possible. The prologue scene in Finding Nemo is a classic example. Even without the opening flashback, it would have been readily apparent that Marlin is overprotective because of some tragedy in his past. However, the details are not of the nature to provide a turning point later in the story. By tackling the exposition efficiently and head-on, the writers secured the audience's understanding of Marlin's personality flaws. After knowing what happened, no one could dislike him for being overprotective.

Most of the time, though, flashbacks work best as short scenes (three pages or less) planted intermittently throughout Act 2 and Act 3. In the movie Secondhand Lions, a story about a young boy abandoned in the care of two eccentric uncles, there are four flashback scenes. The first occurs at the beginning of Act 2, and answers a question raised earlier in Act 1 about Uncle Hub's sleepwalking habits. At the same time, it raises new questions as it unfurls a swashbuckling subplot.

Rather than stopping an action scene with a flashback, the writer wisely reserved the flashbacks to spice up the quieter lulls in the story. For example, the second flashback happens when young Walter and his uncle Garth are sitting in a hospital waiting room with nothing else to do.

Something else that's important about the flashbacks in Secondhand Lions is that they ultimately impact and intersect with the immediate story, like a subplot. After the fourth and final flashback, Walter understands Uncle Hub's death wish. He begs his uncle to stay alive and raise him into adulthood. This impacts both characters' immediate character arcs--their internal journeys. Walter has also come to understand where his eccentric uncles got their wealth, which contributes to the external goal his mother urged upon him.

Next, using exposition to twist the plot.

(To be continued...)

The second kind of expositional dialogue is when both characters already know the information, whether it's about backstory, conflict, relationships, setting, or details about themselves/other characters. One character is not trying to get or give information to/from another character. Even so, it is information the writer wants the reader to have. More importantly, the writer has carefully determined it is information the reader wants to have. (A vital distinction.)

If both characters already know the information, then why talk about it with each other? The characters need to be strongly motivated. If they aren't, then the dialogue will feel stiff and grossly unnatural. Characters will find words in their mouths real people would never utter, like:

"Do you remember the vacation we took to Yosemite four years ago, where you slipped on a wet rock, plunged over a waterfall, and broke both your legs?"

"I sure do. You fell in love with my doctor, Jack, and had a whirlwind courtship. Now you and Jack are married, have a set of twins, and just moved into your new home."

Not only is it improbable either character has forgotten such a life-altering event, but where is the motivation for bringing up the subject? A good question to ask of any dialogue containing shared information is: "What does the speaker hope to accomplish?"

It's far better to give the characters immediate motivations for discussing things they both already know. Expositional dialogue, from the standpoint of the character, is a weapon wielded in a war of ideas and opinions. The information is used to thrust, parry, feint, and advance a particular standpoint or belief. In one word, it's about conflict--either internal or external.

In Frank Peretti's Monster, Reed and Beck are alone together in the woods, when horrifying noises shatter the night. Both are terrified, but trying not to show it in front of each other. Reed latches onto a shared memory from their past and uses it to convince Beck someone is pulling a harmless prank on them.

"It's a joke," he insisted...

She longed for him to be right.

He kept trying. "Don't you remember when we were going to United Christian and we went to that party for the young couples' group?"

"Sure."

"We all went for that hayride in the back of George Johnson's truck--"

"A-a-and the truck b-broke down, and a bear came out of the w-woods." Her nerves calmed. "And it was just what's-his-name--"

"Mr. Farmer wearing that bear rug." Reed snickered. "But you sure were scared."

"I was young! And so were you!"

In this passage, the horrible noises motivate Reed to remind Beck of this information from their shared past. Her hesitancy to share his conclusions serves as conflict. He has to convince her by recalling more and more information until she believes him and calms down, which is his goal.

Peretti breaks up the information into one or two sentences at a time, keeping the reader focused on Beck's immediate reaction rather than on the information from years ago. This way, the information accomplishes its purpose of characterizing Reed and Beck's faith (they went to church as young adults) and their relationship with their friends, without stopping the story. In the immediate situation, this short exchange also works to build the stakes, when the couple later decides their friends wouldn't betray their trust with a prank--which leaves them with a much scarier explanation of the noises.

Next, using flashbacks to reveal exposition.

(To be continued…)

Dialogue is a quick and active method of delivering expositional information to readers. Because dialogue happens in the "now" of the story, it doesn't bring everything to a dead halt; the exposition--when done well--actually keeps the story rolling forward.

There are two kinds of expositional dialogue. In the first kind, one character knows the information and the other character does not. In the second kind, both characters know the same information.

This post deals with the first kind, where a character is either trying to get information from another character, OR a character is trying to give information to another character. Notice that this is an either/or choice for the writer. A promising scene can die a quick and dreary death if a character tries to get information from another character who is all too willing to give it to him.

Sustaining reader interest is all about conflict, and this as true of expositional dialogue as any other story element. So, if a character is trying to get information from another character, it will be a lot more interesting if he has to work really, really hard for it, and the other character is motivated not to give it to him. Or, if a character is trying to give information to another character, it will be a lot more interesting if the other character is motivated not to hear it or obstacles interfere.

Motivation supercharges conflict. In fact, conflict is only as powerful as the motivation behind it. If a character enters a scene without the motivation to find out the exposition the writer needs to come out in the scene, then the character needs to find that motivation within the scene. The information should not fall in his lap without effort. Likewise, the person who gives the information should be motivated to either give or withhold it, depending upon the dynamics of the scene.

For example, in Frank Peretti's Monster, one of the first passages of expositional dialogue occurs when Cap and Sing, a couple who are friends of the hero and heroine, arrive at a rustic resort. They plan to spend the evening, and in the morning hike out to meet the main protagonists for a week of camping. While registering for their room, they chat with the proprietor, Arlen Peak, who warns them about their pre-arranged campsite: "Keep your eyes and ears open, and don't uh, don't hang around if...you know, if you think better of it."

Cap and Sing weren't motivated to find out expositional information when they entered the resort, but Peak's mysterious warning does the trick. Now they have an urgent reason to find out what he knows before heading out into the wild unknown in a few hours. They press him for a full page before he finally gives it to them. When Cap realizes Peak is talking about Bigfoot, Peak's motivation for reluctance becomes clear. He's been ridiculed before, and wasn't eager to be laughed at again. But Peak is earnest, and once committing to tell all to the young couple, recounts strange and disturbing events.

This pivots the dynamic of the scene from Cap and Sing pushing for information to pulling away from it. Cap is utterly disbelieving of Bigfoot stories and wishes Peak would drop the subject. But Peak, motivated by his own Bigfoot obsession and genuine concern for the couple, makes them hear him out.

Near the end of the scene, the motivational dynamic turns again. Sing expresses genuine interest in Peak's Bigfoot artifacts, which adds a new element of internal tension within the incredulous point-of-view character, Cap.

Peretti masterfully employs a push-pull dynamic to turn the scene, trimming the exposition in the dialogue to one-to-three sentence segments. He builds upon the characters' motivation and conflict to layer the exposition with foreshadowing. The reader comes away from the scene with more information, yes, but more importantly, with increased interest in what happens next.

Next, the second kind of expositional dialogue.

(To be continued…)

Once the writer determines what expository information the reader needs to know and in what measure, the writer can deliver it in one of three ways:

• Internal thoughts
• Dialogue
• Flashback

While using the viewpoint character's thoughts to reveal exposition is probably the simplest method, it's also easy to abuse. It's the slippery slope into "author intrusion"--the pit writers fall into when information disengages from the point-of-view (POV) character's thoughts. Every piece of information delivered this way must be unmistakably couched in the character's POV, using tone, word choice, sentence rhythm, and even grammar.

When dramatizing exposition in internal thoughts, here are a few success strategies to consider:

1. The character needs a logical reason in the present to think about the information from the past. This maintains not only the flow of the story, but also the POV.
2. Keep it short; a paragraph is probably too long.
3. Exposition explains; it doesn't motivate. If the character takes action afterwards, make sure it's triggered by something more immediate than distant memories.
4. Dramatize the exposition by using it to create internal conflict; conflict is what keeps the reader from skipping "the dull parts."

For example, in Frank Peretti's Monster, the first line of exposition--and it is only one line--appears on page 4 in the internal thoughts of the Hunter. While tracking something, he comes upon a body. Using a bulldozer, he tries to make it look like a logging accident.

It had been awhile since his college summers with the construction crew, but if this thing was anything like that track hoe he used to operate...

That one line is the only backstory/exposition in the entire scene. It tells the reader the Hunter went to college, he put himself through school, he isn't afraid of hard work, and he is probably a professional. It's backstory and characterization. But, what makes it interesting is it's plugged into the immediate story via internal conflict. The line suggests the character is slightly uncertain he has what it takes to accomplish his scene goal.

The next time exposition appears in Monster is on page 6. A different scene, a different character. This time the point of view is that of the heroine, Beck. She's listening to her husband go over the details of their planned camping trip, which motivates this passage of internal thoughts:

She'd been trying to pay attention and even scare up a little enthusiasm all during their long drive, or as Reed called it, "Insertion into the Survival Zone." They'd had a nice picnic lunch--"Preexcursion Rations"--on a log, and even now--at "The Final Briefing" on the hood of their car--she was doing her best to match Reed's excitement, but it was hard to be interested in how many miles they would hike, the hours it would take to get there, the trail grades they would encounter, and their available physical energy. This whole adventure was never their idea in the first place, but his. He was so into this stuff. He'd picked out all the gear, the boots, the backpacks, the maps, the freeze-dried apricots and trail mix, everything. He let her choose which color of backpack she wanted--blue--but he chose which kind.

Exposition takes up almost the entire paragraph, which is unusual in this book. It's worth noting that the earlier one-sentence expository example in the Hunter's viewpoint is about an event many years ago. The six-sentence expository example in Beck's viewpoint is of the near past, from a few weeks to a few hours ago. This gives it a greater sense of immediacy, which helps counterbalance the longer interruption to the story.

Even more importantly, it sustains the reader's interest because all along it's building Beck's internal conflict. While it provides context for the scene and explains what the couple is doing at the park and characterizing Reed and their relationship, it's contributing to her immediate attitude. This exposition, experienced by Beck as immediate thoughts, stir her emotions, and her emotions create a negative attitude making it even more difficult for her to achieve her scene goal.

It's important to understand that while exposition, when dramatized as thoughts, can stir up internal conflict, it doesn't serve as character motivation. After that passage, when Reed says something insensitive and Beck throws him an angry glare, her attitude has worn her down to that point--but Reed's comment (not the backstory or her attitude) is the immediate motivation for Beck's reaction.

Next, dramatizing exposition through dialogue.

(To be continued…)

Follow peace with all men, and holiness, without which no man shall see the Lord. (Hebrews 12:14 KJV)

For the longest time when I read this verse, I imagined it to mean, Seek holiness and peace, because if you don't you won't be ready for Jesus at His second coming. But then something Bachelorette contestant Jason Illian said during an interview on The 700 Club flipped a light switch on about that verse. He spoke about seeing Jesus as our Guide.

To follow someone or something suggests a road or path...

Continue reading new devotional: "Clear Vision"