July 25, 2013

The Coconut Radio

            I got this title from a fun little article I read the other day.  The writer was pointing out a flaw in a particular television show (not the one you’d think) and it made me think about a somewhat common issue I see pop up a lot of the time.
            A long ways back I mentioned the idea of a limited concept story.  It’s when the entire plot can be summed up as A to B.  I’m here, but I want to be there.  I want to get off the island.  I want to stop the bad guy.  I want a date with the cheerleader.  A limited concept is based around achieving a specific goal, and once I’ve reached that goal the story is over.  
            Now, sometimes, a story will be a limited concept, but for whatever reason it keeps going.  Perhaps the network renewed the show for two more seasons.  Maybe the publisher wanted more books in the series.  Could be the movie did so phenomenally at the box office that it suddenly became the first in a trilogy.  And sometimes… it’s just because the writer doesn’t have enough story to fill the space they’re trying to fill.
            Whatever the reason, artificially extending a story tends to fall flat really quick.  Especially in an A to B story.  When my characters have one overriding goal, it’s very hard for them to not achieve it.
            Alas, I see this structure again and again in books, comics, and television shows.  The name I’ve hung on it (feel free to use your own)  is “the obvious problem.”  It’s when there’s something stopping the progression from A to B that just… well, it shouldn’t be there.  Not because it doesn’t fit the world or the story, but because it’s hard to believe the characters would allow it to stop them.
            It’s kind of a silly comparison, but a limited concept is like Gilligan’s Island.  The whole point of the show—their single overriding goal—is to get off the island.  Getting shipwrecked was A, getting rescued is B.  And I can’t keep having stupid things keep them from getting off the island again and again and again or it’s going to look… well, stupid.  The professor builds a shortwave radio out of coconuts and Gilligan accidentally smashes it with an oar.  Gilligan discovers a natural superglue that could repair the Minnow, but forgets to mention it only lasts a few hours and wrecks the boat even worse.  They build a raft from bamboo and coconuts, and Gilligan lets the wild boy escape on it.
            The thing is, we can buy this sort of mistake.  Once.  Maybe, if we’re generous, twice.  But let’s face it… after two weeks on the island, the other castaways would’ve tied Gilligan to a tree so he’d stop screwing things up for the rest of them.  He’s the obvious problem in all their escape plans, and it’s tough to believe they’d keep including him.  Let’s be honest—in a darker version of the story, they might’ve even killed him for the good of their small community.
            This is why we all though Gilligan’s Island was high art when we were six, but got frustrated with it when we were older. We couldn’t buy it anymore.  There’s just no way to believe the survivors of the Minnow wouldn’t deal with the obvious problem that kept stopping their attempts to get off the island.
            If the one thing Wakko wants above all others is to date the cheerleader, there’s only so many times he can spill a drink in his lap, get stopped by her friends, or threatened by the football team.  If that’s what he wants, he has to achieve it.  That’s basic A to B storytelling. 
            If he doesn’t achieve it… well, what was the point of this story?  It’s A to nothing. That’s not a plot.  It’s a plot point. 
            And nobody reads plot points.  They read stories.
            Next time, sticking with our island theme, I’d like to talk to you about what’s in this bottle that just washed up on shore.  Don’t expect much… it’s got to fit in a bottle.

            Until then, go write.

            Ahhh, Valentine’s Day.  A day when love and romance should be the first thing on everyone’s mind.  Even when we’re not dating anyone,  we can’t help but brood over such things today.  Okay, love, romance, and maybe massacres.

            Anyway…
            I’ve got plans, so I won’t be here for long, but I wanted to take a moment to address a common issue I see with love stories, whether they’re the main thrust of the story or just a subplot. 
            The weak triangle.
            I’ve mentioned triangles here before.  They’re an easy form of conflict where a character (A) has to choose between two options (B and C).  They come in a variety of flavors, but for today’s little rant I’m going to talk about one of the most common ones—the romantic triangle.
            We’ve all seen romantic triangles before.  Wakko (A) has been lusting after the head cheerleader (B), but then comes to realize that his best friend Phoebe (C) is really the person he should be with.  Dot (A) is all set for her reliable-and-boring boyfriend (B) to propose on their trip to Europe…until she meets the bohemian artist (C) who just moved in across the hall.
            Sounds familiar, yes?
            Here’s something else that may sound familiar.  In how many versions of this story is that head cheerleader (and please pardon me for being blunt) a cruel, wretched bitch?  Not just in a “mean girls” sense, but an honestly reprehensible human being?  She isn’t just someone you wouldn’t want to date, she’s someone you wouldn’t even want to talk to.
            And yet… Wakko’s infatuated with her.  He’s totally blind to her faults, no matter how many times he’s smacked in the face with them.
            Now, granted, in this scenario Wakko’s a high school boy.  High school boys are notorious for overlooking things, especially when it comes to high school girls.  It’s a hormone thing.
            But we’ve seen this situation reversed, too, haven’t we?  Where Dot is smitten with the quarterback—an arrogant jock whose dream is to start up a Hitler Youth program at their school because he thinks it will look good on his college applications.  And we all know girls mature faster than boys soooo… what’s her excuse?
            Really, there’s a dozen versions of my B character (B referring to the point of the triangle, not the sophistication of my writing).  The Bridezilla.  The condescending executive.  The fixer.  The person who’s nice to you but rude to the waiter.  The all-too plain Jane.  The Mister-so-Right-it’s-kind-of-creepy.  Everyone reading this can probably name a dozen examples from a dozen different stories, yes?
            Now, in this particular triangle scenario (and all the variations of it), the big problem is the actual integrity of the A-B line of the triangle.  When B is such an overall undesirable person, we can’t understand why that relationship even exists in the first place.  Why would Wakko be involved with someone like her?  What does Dot possibly see in him?  Surely either of them could do better, right?
            See the problem here?  If it’s that obvious to all of you that my character is with the wrong person, then said character looks kind of stupid, don’t they?  Maybe really stupid, depending on how much of an ass I’ve made B look like.
            More to the point, going with C isn’t much of a surprise in this scenario, is it?  It’s the only sane choice.  If they don’t go with C, they look even dumber than they do for being with B.  To paraphrase Eddie Izzard, when the choice is cake or death, we’re not really surprised that most people choose the cake.
            If I’m using a triangle for conflict, especially a romantic triangle, B and C both have to be valid choices.  If they’re not, then my triangle doesn’t have any strength to it.  It’s weak, and that means my conflict is weak.  And if my plot or subplot is based on that conflict… well…
            Mind you, B doesn’t need to be perfect.  He or she should have pros and cons, like any good characters.  But there need to be enough pros—even if they’re shallow ones—that they somehow outweigh the cons.  As I mentioned above, there are times that a pretty face or really great sex can override a lot of negative qualities in a person.  So can a lot of money or material goods.  But these things can only make up for so much.  At the end of the day, the relationship between A and B has to be a solid one.  Not rock solid, but it has to take some weight.
            Making this decision between B and C needs to cause some turmoil for A.  Not gut-wrenching, years-of-therapy turmoil, but it should require a bit of effort.  It has to be a challenge.
            At least, more of a challenge than picking cake or death off the dessert menu.
            Next time… well, it’s that time of year again.  It’s contest season, and I wanted to offer a few tips to the screenplay-centric folks so you can make sure that your script goes down screaming in a ball of flames and never has a chance.
            Until then… well, okay, tonight your mind shouldn’t be on writing.
            But tomorrow, go write.
January 24, 2013 / 6 Comments

His But Looks Like an Asterisk

Bonus points if you get that reference…

Something quick for you.  I’m trying to finish some rewrites.

I’ve mentioned conflict once or thrice. Usually I prefer the term challenge, which has also shown up here a few times. Challenges are what make a story. When my character deals with problems, obstacles, and unexpected twists, that’s what makes them interesting and keeps the audience engaged.

Yeah, there are a few character-heavy stories out there that manage to have no challenges at all and still be interesting. Believe me when I say that they are very, very few and far between. Much, much rarer than some of our college writing instructors and chosen gurus would have us believe.

And really, at the end of the day, readers want to see challenges. They want to read about characters who are doing something active—physically, emotionally, spiritually. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, characters who never face any sort of challenge are boring as hell.

And that hundredth time is a coin toss.

So here’s a simple test to see if my story has any kind of challenge in it.

Back when I was talking about expanding ideas, I mentioned that I should be using a lot of conjunctions when I explain my plot to someone. If you look back at the example I gave (the first half of Raiders of the Lost Ark) you’ll notice that but accounted for almost half the conjunctions I used. This is because but represents conflicts and setbacks. Indy finds the Ark of the Covenant, but Belloq and the Nazis steal it out from under him. I would’ve had a great time at the party, but my ex was there. Congress says they want to accomplish a lot, but the House and Senate never agree on anything.

Take your novel, screenplay, or short story. Try to summarize it one page. This isn’t a sales-pitch summary like you’d find on the inside flap of the dust jacket or on the back of the DVD. Write up an honest summary from beginning to end with all the beats and plot points. Don’t hold back, include as much as you can, but keep it at one page.

Now let’s take a look at it. How many times did you end up using but as a conjunction? You can count however if it shows up, and maybe though, as well.

If I can summarize my whole story without using the word but, I have a problem. Because but is where my challenges are. No but means no conflicts, and no conflicts means my characters aren’t doing anything worthwhile.

And that means they’re boring as hell.

Hopefully you see my point. But I’m sure some folks won’t.

Next time… hmmmm, not really sure what I’ll do next time. Open to suggestions as always. If none appear… well, I’m sure I’ll think of something really interesting.

Until then, go write.

September 27, 2012

Fleshing Things Out

            That’s right.  Taking requests and playing the hits you ask for.

            Probably one of the most common thing writers hear is people asking about turning ideas into stories.  “Oh, I’ve got a really great idea, I just need someone to help me turn it into a book.”  I get messages like this four or five times a year.  When it’s from friends, I try to be really polite and explain why it doesn’t make much sense for me to help with their idea when I’ve already got far too many of my own to work on.  When it’s someone I don’t even know…
          I usually just ignore those messages. 
          Still, the unspoken question there is a valid one.  How do you go from clever idea to full-fledged book or screenplay?  How does a writer go from “bugs in amber have dinosaur DNA in their bellies” to Jurassic Park?
            Let’s talk about that.
            Now, as usual, nothing I’m about to say is a hard-fast rule.  A lot of it comes from a talk I had a few Christmases back with writer/director Shane Black (best known for Lethal Weapon, The Long Kiss Goodnight, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, the upcoming Iron Man 3, and a string of really awful dirty jokes in the movie Predator).  He had a few thoughts on how to assemble a story that I thought were very insightful, and I’m going to use his general framework to address this week’s topic.
            Having said that, just to make things less confusing, from here on in I’ll be referring to our collection of words as “a novel.”  It’ll be clear why as we move on.  Depending on what you want to write, feel free to swap “novel” out for screenplay, short story, epic poem, or whatever. 
            If I’ve got an idea for a novel, I want to look at it in terms of plot and story.  Can it expand into a full plot?  Does it lend itself to a strong story?
            Let’s go over each of these terms.
            Okay, first we need to understand what the plot is.  If I’m writing a book, the plot is what’s going to be on the back cover.  If I’m writing a screenplay, it’s going to be what they put on the back of the DVD.  Simply put, the plot is the chain of events that make up the novel.  It’s what makes readers need to turn the page so they can find out what happens next.
            It’s important to remember that one idea does not make a plot.  “There’s a haunted castle,” is not a plot.  “My partner is a robot,” is not a plot.  “I want to go to the prom with a cheerleader/ quarterback,” is not a plot.  A lone idea is just a plot point, and basic geometry tells us we need multiple points to make something worth looking at.  That something being a novel (or screenplay, epic poem, etc.).
            If I’m describing a plot, I’m going to use a lot of conjunctions.  I’ll be using and, but, and orto string all those plot points together.  Take a look at this example…
            Indiana Jones is an adventurer who finds ancient treasures and he’s a professor of archaeology at a university.  The government hires him to find the Ark of the Covenant before the Nazis, butthe Nazis have a head start.  Indy goes to find his old mentor, but finds out that Abner has died and his daughter has a grudge against Indy.  The Nazis show up and Indy and Marion fight them off.  They travel to Cairo and meet Indy’s old partner, Sallah, but learn the Nazis already have their excavation well under way.  The Nazis try to have Indy killed in the marketplace and he fights them off again, butMarion is killed when the getaway truck explodes.  Indy and Sallah get the medallion deciphered butit turns out there are two parts to the inscription and the Nazis only have half of it.
            See what I mean?  Lots of points, and I’ve barely written out half the movie.   It’s also worth re-noting then none of those ideas on its own is a novel.  It’s when they start joining up that we get something that interests us. 
            This is where a lot of people mess up the whole idea of “expanding an idea into a novel.”  Y’see, Timmy, an idea doesn’texpand.  The plot expands as more ideas are added into it.  It’s impossible to expand “Indy and Sallah get the medallion deciphered” without adding a new element to the mix.  Seriously, try it.  Any attempt is just going to be some artificial wordplay and padding until I bring “it turns out there are two parts to the inscription” into it.
            It’s also worth noting another key thing.   For most good novels, the plot is the attempt to do something.  Not necessarily succeeding at something, mind you, but attempting to do it.  Beat the Nazis, save the girl, beat the system, save the clock tower, and so on.  Plot is active.  In that little summary up above, ten of the eighteen points are characters physically doing things. 
            Listing these points out can also be a hint that my story is getting a little thin on plot.  If I’m really stretching to come up with individual points, or falling back on a lot of inactive, internal points, that could mean my novel is veering into more of an artsy-character range.  If a lot of my points don’t really tie back to the main thrust of the novel, that’s another good sign.  There’s nothing wrong with that, provided I knock the character stuff out of the park.  Which brings us to our next point.
            Now, if plot is what goes on around the characters, the story is what goes on inside the characters.  Plot is big and external.  Story is small and intimate and internal.  It’s the personal stuff that explains why the characters are interested in the plot.  And if it’s why the characters are interested, it’s also why the reader is interested.  Plot makes us need to turn the page, but story makes us want to turn the page because we’ve come to like these characters. 
            A great example of plot vs. story is Silence of the Lambs.  The plot is the search for a missing girl, and some of the desperate decisions and deals the FBI will make to find her.  The story is about Clarice Starling trying to make up for what she sees as an awful failure in her childhood, and how much of her life is shaped by the need to balance that failure.
            I’ve said a few times here that characters are key to a successful novel, and that’s because without good characters you can’t have a lot of story.  I can have a ton of plot, but not much else.
            Now, because of this, developing an idea into a novel is a little tougher from the story side, because it involves developing characters.  How the characters react to the idea depends on who they are and how this idea interacts with their personality and history.  Which means they need to have personalities and histories.  And a lot of this can just come down to asking and answering questions that relate back to that original idea.
            Let’s go with the one I mentioned up at the top—my partner is a robot.  Let’s say my character is Bob.  Did Bob know this partnership was coming or did it get sprung on him?  Does he like being partnered with a robot?  Does he like robots in general?  What kind of partnership do they have?  Is Bob the junior or senior partner?  Why?  Do they work well together?  Does Bob have weaknesses the robot will compensate for (or vice versa)?    
            The answers to all of these questions expand the story.  Odds are that some of the answers will lead to more questions, too.  And more questions means the plot is expanding.
            As above, this can also be a hint that my novel is a little weak on the story side of things.  If I just give quick, inconsistent answers to these sort of questions, my characters are going to end up pretty flat.  Character arcs are a big part of the story, so if my character never changes in any noticeable way, it probably means my novel is emphasizing plot over everything else.  There’s nothing wrong with that—there are plenty of fantastic plot-driven  books and movies—but it does mean I need to have a really solid, engaging plot.
            It’s important to notice that story is why so many novels can use the same plot but still be very different.  Alan Moore’s Watchmenhas the exact same plot as the classic Outer Limits episode “The Architects of Fear,” but they have different stories.  The same with Never Let Me Go and The Island.  While the basic idea is the same, the character tweaks make each of these into unique stories.
            Consider this—how much does the story of Raiders of the Lost Ark change if I just do a gender swap on Indy?  Start way back with her relationship with Ravenwood’s underage son.  Would this still cause a falling out between the two professors?  How would the son view this past relationship?  And in the late 1930s, what would it be like for a female professor?  The male students hitting on her in class is a very different image, and would the government men be as enthusiastic when they learn Dr. Jones is a woman?  Our basic plot wouldn’t need to change too much, but all these story elements become very different.
            So when you’re looking to take an idea all the way to a full blown novel—or screenplay, epic poem, opera, or whatever it is you write—start with the basics.  Consider your idea as part of a larger plot.  Think of how it could fit into a character’s story.
            This week was kind of long and rambling, so next week I might just do something quick.  Whatever pops into my head.
            Until then, go write.

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