Friday, October 28, 2005
A Study of Anticipation
Readers like to anticipate events. Anticipation is the element that hooks into a reader's emotions, taking them alternatively high and low. How does a writer create anticipation?
Dangle an event in front of them, something the character wants (or maybe doesn't want) to happen. It doesn't have to be anything huge, though it might be if the genre calls for it. It could be simple. The only thing it must be is important to the character. For instance, say I want a certain book, so I order it online and wait for it to arrive in the mail. Getting the book in my hands becomes the anticipated event. Anticipation is all about making the character--and the reader--wait. Instant gratification is the arch enemy of anticipation.
A subtle but highly useful method of building conflict into the anticipation is by forcing the character to face a good/good or bad/bad dilemma that actually delays gratification; make the character directly responsible in some way for having to wait. For example, maybe my dilemma was I wanted the book, but I also wanted to save money so I chose the most inexpensive shipping--which takes longer.
To draw the anticipation out while sustaining reader interest, break the anticipated event into stages. These stages build higher and higher emotions in the character (and by extension, the reader). They serve as road signs informing readers who wonder "Are we there yet?" of the story's progress. For instance, the first anticipation stage for me might be checking my email often for a shipping notice.
Tricking the character into false hope or tossing him a red herring is a neat trick, too, and often supplies the next stage. Make him think he's closer to getting what he wants than he actually is. This allows anticipation to rise, then plummet again when he discovers he misconstrued the situation. It's important that the disappointment is organic to the situation, not superimposed by an impersonal fate. It's even more significant if it sources out of a character flaw. For instance, suppose the shipping notice arrives on a Tuesday. I calculate in my head the book will be in my mailbox Thursday. So I eagerly await Thursday's mail. Then, right before the mail is delivered, I get another notice that the book was just shipped. If I'd read the earlier email closer, I'd have realized it was only a notice of intent.
Now the anticipation has to build up all over again, like a roller coaster. One consequence of the previous disappointment is the addition of a new negative risk. The character is not only hoping for something to happen, he's also hoping for something not to happen. For instance, now I'm hoping the book will arrive by Saturday. I'm also anxious that if it doesn't, then I'll have to wait all weekend and won't get it until Monday.
Of course, the payoff of the event ends the anticipation. Stories are generally a series of anticipation-payoff events strung together. As the character's anticipatory tension goes up and down, the reader's anticipation should go up and down with him. Ideally, this encourages readers to turn the pages and keep reading.
Dangle an event in front of them, something the character wants (or maybe doesn't want) to happen. It doesn't have to be anything huge, though it might be if the genre calls for it. It could be simple. The only thing it must be is important to the character. For instance, say I want a certain book, so I order it online and wait for it to arrive in the mail. Getting the book in my hands becomes the anticipated event. Anticipation is all about making the character--and the reader--wait. Instant gratification is the arch enemy of anticipation.
A subtle but highly useful method of building conflict into the anticipation is by forcing the character to face a good/good or bad/bad dilemma that actually delays gratification; make the character directly responsible in some way for having to wait. For example, maybe my dilemma was I wanted the book, but I also wanted to save money so I chose the most inexpensive shipping--which takes longer.
To draw the anticipation out while sustaining reader interest, break the anticipated event into stages. These stages build higher and higher emotions in the character (and by extension, the reader). They serve as road signs informing readers who wonder "Are we there yet?" of the story's progress. For instance, the first anticipation stage for me might be checking my email often for a shipping notice.
Tricking the character into false hope or tossing him a red herring is a neat trick, too, and often supplies the next stage. Make him think he's closer to getting what he wants than he actually is. This allows anticipation to rise, then plummet again when he discovers he misconstrued the situation. It's important that the disappointment is organic to the situation, not superimposed by an impersonal fate. It's even more significant if it sources out of a character flaw. For instance, suppose the shipping notice arrives on a Tuesday. I calculate in my head the book will be in my mailbox Thursday. So I eagerly await Thursday's mail. Then, right before the mail is delivered, I get another notice that the book was just shipped. If I'd read the earlier email closer, I'd have realized it was only a notice of intent.
Now the anticipation has to build up all over again, like a roller coaster. One consequence of the previous disappointment is the addition of a new negative risk. The character is not only hoping for something to happen, he's also hoping for something not to happen. For instance, now I'm hoping the book will arrive by Saturday. I'm also anxious that if it doesn't, then I'll have to wait all weekend and won't get it until Monday.
Of course, the payoff of the event ends the anticipation. Stories are generally a series of anticipation-payoff events strung together. As the character's anticipatory tension goes up and down, the reader's anticipation should go up and down with him. Ideally, this encourages readers to turn the pages and keep reading.
Monday, October 24, 2005
New Devotional: "A Million to One"
"Know of a surety that thy seed shall be a stranger in a land that is not theirs, and shall serve them... But in the fourth generation they shall come hither again" (Genesis 15:13, 16, KJV).
God revealed to Abram (before re-naming him Abraham) that his descendents would live for four hundred years in a foreign land. They would be in bondage and suffer hardship. But afterward they would come out with great wealth and health into the promised land.
The night God spoke those words, He made a blood covenant with Abram...
Continue reading new devotional: "A Million to One"
God revealed to Abram (before re-naming him Abraham) that his descendents would live for four hundred years in a foreign land. They would be in bondage and suffer hardship. But afterward they would come out with great wealth and health into the promised land.
The night God spoke those words, He made a blood covenant with Abram...
Continue reading new devotional: "A Million to One"
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Brainstorming with Color
Many character sheets ask, "What is your character's favorite color?"
But another question a writer may benefit from asking herself is, "What color symbolizes my character?"
Colors contain special symbolic influences. It's common knowledge that red roses send messages of love, while yellow roses signify remembrance. One successful football couch courted controversy when he painted the visiting team's locker room pink--a color associated with tranquility.
Pierre Le Rouzic in The Secret Meaning of Names assigned a primary (red, yellow, blue) or secondary color (orange, green, purple) to each group of names described in his book. These colors have nothing to do with the person's color preference--the color she'd pick for a blouse or a rug or a car. The colors are symbolic of the person's nature. He further divides the color’s influence into three subcategories: the body, soul, and spirit. For example, red corresponds with qualities like anger, passion, and domination, while green corresponds with the mind, intuition, and imagination.
If a character feels thin, elusive, or not quite real enough to satisfy, consider what color best symbolizes his or her nature. For instance, is the heroine ardent, passionate, and full of feelings? Do these traits feel warm (red, orange, yellow) or cool (green, blue, purple)? Writers who collect photographs for "character dossiers" or collages may benefit from adding a fabric swatch or square of construction paper in the character's color. Keep the color in sight while writing scenes in that character's viewpoint, and try to match the tone with the temperature of the color (warm/cool). Look for colored props a character can interact with that can subconsciously reinforce the character's personality. Below are a couple links to sites that list common color associations that could be used to help brainstorm "colorful" scenes.
"Psychology of Color"
http://www.infoplease.com/spot/colors1.html
"What Colors Mean"
http://www.factmonster.com/ipka/A0769383.html
But another question a writer may benefit from asking herself is, "What color symbolizes my character?"
Colors contain special symbolic influences. It's common knowledge that red roses send messages of love, while yellow roses signify remembrance. One successful football couch courted controversy when he painted the visiting team's locker room pink--a color associated with tranquility.
Pierre Le Rouzic in The Secret Meaning of Names assigned a primary (red, yellow, blue) or secondary color (orange, green, purple) to each group of names described in his book. These colors have nothing to do with the person's color preference--the color she'd pick for a blouse or a rug or a car. The colors are symbolic of the person's nature. He further divides the color’s influence into three subcategories: the body, soul, and spirit. For example, red corresponds with qualities like anger, passion, and domination, while green corresponds with the mind, intuition, and imagination.
If a character feels thin, elusive, or not quite real enough to satisfy, consider what color best symbolizes his or her nature. For instance, is the heroine ardent, passionate, and full of feelings? Do these traits feel warm (red, orange, yellow) or cool (green, blue, purple)? Writers who collect photographs for "character dossiers" or collages may benefit from adding a fabric swatch or square of construction paper in the character's color. Keep the color in sight while writing scenes in that character's viewpoint, and try to match the tone with the temperature of the color (warm/cool). Look for colored props a character can interact with that can subconsciously reinforce the character's personality. Below are a couple links to sites that list common color associations that could be used to help brainstorm "colorful" scenes.
"Psychology of Color"
http://www.infoplease.com/spot/colors1.html
"What Colors Mean"
http://www.factmonster.com/ipka/A0769383.html
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Simple Subplots
Part of the reason for the enduring popularity of Disney's Cinderella is its exquisite simplicity. One of the simply purrr-fect wonders of this story is the Lucifer-mice subplot.
Subplots can be very complex, or very simple. But no one should mistake simple for weak. The subplot in Cinderella is easily one of the stronger elements in the story.
First, it's introduced fairly early in the story. One of the first chores Cinderella attends to is dragging Lucifer out of bed to feed him in the kitchen. The major conflict for Cinderella hasn't started yet, so it's the job of the subplot to engage audience interest via conflict. The mice trick Lucifer in order to reach their breakfast, resulting in a dynamic cat-and-mouse chase. Overlapping goals and delayed payoffs segues this sequence brilliantly into another scene that establishes Cinderella's main problem: her Wicked Stepmother.
Serving as Cinderella's allies, the mice tangle with Lucifer on several more occasions. These scenes serve multiple functions. They keep the subplot active and alive in the audience's mind, so it doesn't feel tacked on or episodic. Thematically, the mice and Lucifer reflect the ongoing struggle between Cinderella and her stepfamily. But even more significantly, the mice-Lucifer subplot ties into and advances the main plot.
In no scene is this truer than the climax, when the mice carrying a key struggle valiantly up an impossible staircase. At what appears to be their moment of triumph, the subplot smashes into the main plot in the form of Lucifer. This is a classic structure template that makes the mice-Lucifer subplot and Cinderella's main plot resolutions interdependent. This makes the subplot feel like it mattered and that the resolution--paying off humorous elements planted in the first subplot scene--was satisfyingly inevitable.
Subplots can be very complex, or very simple. But no one should mistake simple for weak. The subplot in Cinderella is easily one of the stronger elements in the story.
First, it's introduced fairly early in the story. One of the first chores Cinderella attends to is dragging Lucifer out of bed to feed him in the kitchen. The major conflict for Cinderella hasn't started yet, so it's the job of the subplot to engage audience interest via conflict. The mice trick Lucifer in order to reach their breakfast, resulting in a dynamic cat-and-mouse chase. Overlapping goals and delayed payoffs segues this sequence brilliantly into another scene that establishes Cinderella's main problem: her Wicked Stepmother.
Serving as Cinderella's allies, the mice tangle with Lucifer on several more occasions. These scenes serve multiple functions. They keep the subplot active and alive in the audience's mind, so it doesn't feel tacked on or episodic. Thematically, the mice and Lucifer reflect the ongoing struggle between Cinderella and her stepfamily. But even more significantly, the mice-Lucifer subplot ties into and advances the main plot.
In no scene is this truer than the climax, when the mice carrying a key struggle valiantly up an impossible staircase. At what appears to be their moment of triumph, the subplot smashes into the main plot in the form of Lucifer. This is a classic structure template that makes the mice-Lucifer subplot and Cinderella's main plot resolutions interdependent. This makes the subplot feel like it mattered and that the resolution--paying off humorous elements planted in the first subplot scene--was satisfyingly inevitable.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Underdog Characters versus Victim Characters
Disney's enduringly appealing Cinderella is at heart a simple story. It's an ageless tale of the archetypal underdog, the damsel in distress, that finds appeal with anyone who's ever felt disadvantaged or unfairly treated. This ability to empathize with the title character is important in a story, but wouldn't go far unless the character rose above her condition eventually. If the fact Cinderella seems something of a victim takes the audience by the hand, then the fact she doesn't buy into victimization draws them fully into the story's embrace. Cinderella never wastes time blaming others for her situation (though one could argue she has every right). Though occasionally cast down and forsaken, she rises time and again to take action on her own behalf.
This is the difference between casting a character as an underdog and turning them into a victim. Underdogs may be cheated, abused, or otherwise mistreated--but they believe in their God-given ability to affect their own destiny. This does not mean they are macho humanists, proudly unwilling to accept help from anyone, even God. Rather, they actively take responsibility for their actions and believe they have the power to change their tomorrows by what they do today.
Victim characters, on the other hand, buy into their own victimization. These characters descend into passive-reactive modes, relinquishing control of the story to stronger characters willing to take action. Victim characters look to others to help them, instead of taking action themselves, because at heart they believe they can do nothing to change the situation. They wait for outside help to arrive, believing they've earned it through suffering. The Wicked Stepsisters could be viewed as victim characters, archetypal Shadows of the heroine.
At first, both types of characters may capture the empathy of the audience/reader. Soon, however, empathy will turn to frustration or eventually even disdain for a victim character. But an underdog character reaches beyond empathy, tapping into hope in the audience and the desire to better oneself.
This is part of the magic of Cinderella. She is the classic underdog, who at moments of intense despair wavers in her belief life can ever get better. What's the use of trying when the Wicked Stepmother keeps changing the rules? There are times in the story when her efforts are cruelly blocked and she accepts help (from the Fairy Godmother and from the mice). But these key events are engineered in such a way to bolster her faith. They appear in the story as just rewards for her effort instead of her despair. This is an important point, because it keeps Cinderella in control of the story. In the end, the mice secure her release from the tower, but it's Cinderella who secures her happy ending by producing the matching slipper.
This is the difference between casting a character as an underdog and turning them into a victim. Underdogs may be cheated, abused, or otherwise mistreated--but they believe in their God-given ability to affect their own destiny. This does not mean they are macho humanists, proudly unwilling to accept help from anyone, even God. Rather, they actively take responsibility for their actions and believe they have the power to change their tomorrows by what they do today.
Victim characters, on the other hand, buy into their own victimization. These characters descend into passive-reactive modes, relinquishing control of the story to stronger characters willing to take action. Victim characters look to others to help them, instead of taking action themselves, because at heart they believe they can do nothing to change the situation. They wait for outside help to arrive, believing they've earned it through suffering. The Wicked Stepsisters could be viewed as victim characters, archetypal Shadows of the heroine.
At first, both types of characters may capture the empathy of the audience/reader. Soon, however, empathy will turn to frustration or eventually even disdain for a victim character. But an underdog character reaches beyond empathy, tapping into hope in the audience and the desire to better oneself.
This is part of the magic of Cinderella. She is the classic underdog, who at moments of intense despair wavers in her belief life can ever get better. What's the use of trying when the Wicked Stepmother keeps changing the rules? There are times in the story when her efforts are cruelly blocked and she accepts help (from the Fairy Godmother and from the mice). But these key events are engineered in such a way to bolster her faith. They appear in the story as just rewards for her effort instead of her despair. This is an important point, because it keeps Cinderella in control of the story. In the end, the mice secure her release from the tower, but it's Cinderella who secures her happy ending by producing the matching slipper.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Book Analysis: LOVING TENDERNESS by Gail Gaymer Martin
On a dark and stormy night reformed town-prodigal Andrew Somerville picks up a brutalized woman and confused child along the roadside. He leaves Hannah Currey and little JJ at a shelter for abused women, but can't dismiss them from his thoughts. He recognizes a kindred spirit in her and a chance to redeem his shady past.
For the sake of her son, Hannah grudgingly allows Andrew into her life. She is determined to regain control of her life, and his desire to help her get on her feet again interferes with her plans. When her ex-husband continues stalking her, she finds herself longing for Andrew by her side. But one life-altering secret lingers from that terrible night, a secret she refuses to share with anyone--even the man who's rapidly becoming more than a friend...
Continue reading Book Analysis: Loving Tenderness by Gail Gaymer Martin
For the sake of her son, Hannah grudgingly allows Andrew into her life. She is determined to regain control of her life, and his desire to help her get on her feet again interferes with her plans. When her ex-husband continues stalking her, she finds herself longing for Andrew by her side. But one life-altering secret lingers from that terrible night, a secret she refuses to share with anyone--even the man who's rapidly becoming more than a friend...
Continue reading Book Analysis: Loving Tenderness by Gail Gaymer Martin
Friday, October 07, 2005
Three-Dimensional Scenes
Lots of elements go into crafting a three-dimensional scene--one that jumps out at the reader, one that comes to life in the reader's imagination. Characters, obviously, are key. So are goal, motivation, and conflict--all of which suggest or implicate plot.
The idea of three-dimensionality suggests contrast. Contrast is all about striking differences. For the action and emotion within a scene to leap out, background information needs to be layered in to provide that striking difference.
For example, the hero and heroine are driving through traffic to pick up the hero's sick nephew and take him to a hospital. Picking up the nephew is their goal. The fact that he's sick and in need of medical care is their motivation. The conflict is they need to hurry but they're trapped in rush hour traffic.
This is fine, as far as it goes. But to make the scene three-dimensional, it needs contrast, something to make it stand out as different. But different from what? The answer is to provide context to the characters, specifically their relationship. How is it different now than when they were last together in a scene? What issues were left unresolved and dangling between them last time they met? Maybe the context is found in the far past, in something one or both of them are only now ready to talk about. Find the emotional thread to what one of them is feeling now, follow it back, and have one or the other mention it in dialogue. It only takes a few lines, like highlights in a portrait, to bring the rest of the scene into sharp, three-dimensional relief for the reader.
For instance, while the hero and heroine are rushing through traffic, intent on their goal, the heroine remembers the day three years ago when she raced to catch the hero at the airport. But she was too late, and he left the country without hearing her tell him how much she cared. She always felt a little hurt that he never contacted her again, never gave her another chance. So she says something about the traffic being as bad as it was the day he left. She admits she tried to reach him before he flew away, and wondered why he never called. He explains that when they broke up he withdrew into his work. Those four or five lines of dialogue bring context to the relationship they have now, and layer contrast in what now has the potential to become a three-dimensional scene.
The idea of three-dimensionality suggests contrast. Contrast is all about striking differences. For the action and emotion within a scene to leap out, background information needs to be layered in to provide that striking difference.
For example, the hero and heroine are driving through traffic to pick up the hero's sick nephew and take him to a hospital. Picking up the nephew is their goal. The fact that he's sick and in need of medical care is their motivation. The conflict is they need to hurry but they're trapped in rush hour traffic.
This is fine, as far as it goes. But to make the scene three-dimensional, it needs contrast, something to make it stand out as different. But different from what? The answer is to provide context to the characters, specifically their relationship. How is it different now than when they were last together in a scene? What issues were left unresolved and dangling between them last time they met? Maybe the context is found in the far past, in something one or both of them are only now ready to talk about. Find the emotional thread to what one of them is feeling now, follow it back, and have one or the other mention it in dialogue. It only takes a few lines, like highlights in a portrait, to bring the rest of the scene into sharp, three-dimensional relief for the reader.
For instance, while the hero and heroine are rushing through traffic, intent on their goal, the heroine remembers the day three years ago when she raced to catch the hero at the airport. But she was too late, and he left the country without hearing her tell him how much she cared. She always felt a little hurt that he never contacted her again, never gave her another chance. So she says something about the traffic being as bad as it was the day he left. She admits she tried to reach him before he flew away, and wondered why he never called. He explains that when they broke up he withdrew into his work. Those four or five lines of dialogue bring context to the relationship they have now, and layer contrast in what now has the potential to become a three-dimensional scene.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
The Internal Three-Act Structure
There are a minimum of two threads that run through traditional Three-Act story structure. The External, which consists of plot-propelling events (Act 1 - Decision / Act 2 - Action / Act 3 - Consequences), and the Internal, which consists of character-changing events. Some authors add the Romantic and/or Spiritual threads. Ideally, these are tied or braided together in every scene.
For study purposes, it's worth examining the threads separately to better understand how they are constructed and function.
The Internal theme of Act 1 involves the character coming to a specific realization about others in her life. Her understanding is enlightened, and she recognizes a particular truth she'd been blind to when the story opened on page one. She's been wrong in her judgment, and she realizes it for the first time. For instance, if she grew up believing she needed men to protect her (because she couldn't do it herself), she may realize that the man she trusted the most is her greatest threat in the External plot. But she may not know what to do about her new knowledge. This is the first step toward character growth, and that's a scary path to follow for most characters.
The Internal theme of Act 2 prods the character further along on her journey. She begins to take personal responsibility for her earlier blindness about the relationships in her life. For instance, the heroine may realize that when it comes to men, her own sense of inadequacy made her too gullible. The character begins to adjust her behavior accordingly. It's hard to do because she's established a habit of thoughts for years, so the change is gradual and filled with mistakes and setbacks. But change happens, nonetheless.
The Internal theme of Act 3 completes the character arc with confrontation and action. The character is confronted with the same issue that defeated her consistently in the beginning, and takes instinctive action that demonstrates internal change. For instance, the heroine may step into a position of trust herself, where the safety of a man she cares about depends upon her.
For study purposes, it's worth examining the threads separately to better understand how they are constructed and function.
The Internal theme of Act 1 involves the character coming to a specific realization about others in her life. Her understanding is enlightened, and she recognizes a particular truth she'd been blind to when the story opened on page one. She's been wrong in her judgment, and she realizes it for the first time. For instance, if she grew up believing she needed men to protect her (because she couldn't do it herself), she may realize that the man she trusted the most is her greatest threat in the External plot. But she may not know what to do about her new knowledge. This is the first step toward character growth, and that's a scary path to follow for most characters.
The Internal theme of Act 2 prods the character further along on her journey. She begins to take personal responsibility for her earlier blindness about the relationships in her life. For instance, the heroine may realize that when it comes to men, her own sense of inadequacy made her too gullible. The character begins to adjust her behavior accordingly. It's hard to do because she's established a habit of thoughts for years, so the change is gradual and filled with mistakes and setbacks. But change happens, nonetheless.
The Internal theme of Act 3 completes the character arc with confrontation and action. The character is confronted with the same issue that defeated her consistently in the beginning, and takes instinctive action that demonstrates internal change. For instance, the heroine may step into a position of trust herself, where the safety of a man she cares about depends upon her.