GENREALITY

Every now and then I get an email that says something along the lines of “I just picked up your book, [insert title of eighth or ninth book in series], and loved it so much I went back and got all the other ones in the series.”

I love these emails, because they tell me I’m accomplishing one of my goals:  to make sure each book stands on its own well enough to provide a satisfying read and potentially draw people into the rest of the series.  These emails are a great reassurance to me.  My instincts were right, and paying attention to this sort of thing while writing an open-ended, ongoing series really is important.

Making sure each book stands alone well enough to tell a complete and satisfying story is important to me, not just for the sake of aesthetics, but because every book might be some readers’ first encounters with my writing.  Some readers put out the effort to make sure they read a series in order.  Some don’t.  I don’t — generally, I’ll read whatever’s available, whether it’s part of a series, first or last book in a series, or whatever.  (The first Bujold book I read was Mirror Dance, because it had just won the Hugo Award.  Not only is this book set in the middle of the series, it’s in the middle of a three-book story arc.  And I still loved it.)

This doesn’t mean I can’t have an ongoing storyline, and that the characters have to remain static.  On the contrary, I think one of the attractions of a series is watching characters grow and develop.  What I don’t do is try to explain everything that’s happened in the entire series in each new book.  In a sense, I want to treat each book like the first book:  what does the reader have to know about these people to understand the story I’m telling right now.  Any backstory I provide is brief and topical.  I don’t really think of it as backstory, but as character description, along with clothing and demeanor.  This character wears a leather jacket and has a resident Victorian ghost (because of what happened in book #6, but the reader doesn’t need to know that much detail to understand the story right now).

A couple of anecdotes doesn’t make for a hard and fast rule about how to write a series, but my own experience is that some people will read the later books in a series first.  Maybe they got book #8 as a gift, maybe it was the only book available.  But each book I write in the series, I have to ask:  How will this read to someone encountering the series for the first time?  That thought has served me well, I think.

A few weeks ago I talked about “show don’t tell,” and how “showing” dramatized a scene I was writing and, in my opinion, made the story richer.  In the comments, Diana asked an excellent question: could “show don’t tell” ever make a scene shorter, or does it basically always mean expand?  I’ve had a chance to ponder this, and in some of my reading and writing came upon a particular situation in which the answer is yes, showing can make a scene tighter and shorter, at least in terms of word count.

It happens in sections of dialog.  Have you ever read a scene where the text surrounding the dialog basically explains the dialog over again?  For example (I just made this up off the top of my head):

I was so nervous, my words stammered out, “I-I’m not sure. . .the mashed potatoes. . .I-I left them right there. . .”

The first half of that sentence, “I was so nervous my words stammered out,” is “telling.”  It’s unnecessary, because the dialog demonstrates (“showing”) very well that the character is stammering, most likely out of nervousness.  So, a better — more dramatic — way to write the sentence is to let the dialog “speak” for itself:

“I-I’m not sure. . .the mashed potatoes. . .I-I left them right there. . .”

If the dialog is written well enough, it expresses the emotion the character is feeling without the narrator having to explain it.

This off-the-cuff example is overly-simplistic, but I’m sure we’ve all run across that sort of thing in our reading.  It’s a bit pernicious, because we usually slide right on by sentences like that — both in what we read and what we write — without thinking of it.  It’s not wrong exactly, but it’s wordy, and often not as immediate.

(I’m traveling this weekend, so I’m reprinting this post from a few weeks ago on my own blog.  I’m not one of those writers who will tell you to turn off the TV and lay off the movies.  But I will say — if you’re going to watch TV and movies, be an active viewer.  Analyze what you’re watching.  Figure out what works and what doesn’t.  You’ll become a better storyteller for the effort.  And now, my analysis of the plot of Ghostbusters.)

Ghostbusters is back in theaters for a limited Halloween-themed release (and, I suspect, to generate some enthusiasm for a proposed third movie), and I wasn’t going to miss it.  I had so much fun, and it’s been a long time since I’ve been with an audience that laughed so much at all the right places (there was a group of teens and twenty-somethings in the back of the theater who I suspect had never seen the movie before, because they laughed loudest).  Except for the lack of cell phones and a really excessive amount of smoking indoors (remember that?), the film holds up really well.

It also demonstrated to me why I still go to the movies:  I pay more attention.  When I watch movies at home, I’m also eating, knitting, playing with the dog, answering the phone, whatever.  But at the movies, I’m watching, and studying, and thinking.  I’ve watched Ghostbusters at home a dozen times over the last 25 years, and last night is the first time I realized how brilliantly plotted the thing is.  It was a little depressing, actually, because I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to write something that tightly plotted.

So, as an exercise for myself — and an exercise that may be useful to other writer types out there — I’m going to outline the plot, highlighting the various critical parts and how they work.  If you’re the kind of person who hates it when people analyze your favorite movies, you may tune out now.

What follows is the standard plot structure we all learned in grade school:  inciting incident, rising action, climax, and resolution.  Observe:

PROLOG:  This tells us we’re watching a ghost story.  Formulaic, but sets the mood nicely.

INTRODUCTION:  Two scenes introduce the three primary characters, and we learn everything we need to know about them through a few lines of dialog and some simple interaction.  Because it’s a comedy, it’s also very funny.  That earnest and comedic tone is maintained throughout.

INCITING INCIDENT:  The boys lose their university funding and get kicked out.  This sets off the rest of the plot:  they go into business for themselves.

SECONDARY CHARACTERS & PLOT INTRODUCTION:  We meet Dana, Louis, and the Central Park West apartment, which is the villain in the movie. (I know, Gozer is the villain, but the building is an avatar of Gozer.  Watch the movie, it’s there.)  Also, the incident happens that will bring the primary and secondary characters together.

INTERACTION:  The primary and secondary characters come together.  We hear the name “Gozer” for the first time.

**Note, that all the players who participate in the final confrontation, the climax, have all been introduced by this point, some twenty minutes into the movie.  The Ghostbusters, the Victims, the Antagonist.  It’s all there.

(If you’re a fan of the three act structure, Act I ends here.)

SECOND INCITING INCIDENT:  Hunting Slimer.  This is a direct follow-up from the first inciting incident, and sets up everything that follows.  We see how everything works.  Also, rather shockingly, this is the only ghost-busting scene in the entire movie.  But it’s all we need — it gives us all the information we need to understand everything that follows.  Everything after is summed up in montage that ends with introducing the next problem:  everyone is overworked.  The 600 lb. Twinkie.  We also see Dana again, and learn more about Gozer.

GUNS ON THE MANTEL:  Winston arrives on the scene.  On first blush, Winston seems a bit superfluous, but he provides a couple of very important functions:  Ray demonstrates to him how the containment grid works.  This is placing a big gun on the mantel.  It’s a perfectly natural scene that we slide right by but will play an incredibly important part in a couple of minutes.  He’s also the one who explicates the problem suggested in the previous scene:  “Maybe the dead are rising from the grave.”  The story escalates in a very big way — something cosmic is happening.  (And Winston gets some of the best lines for the rest of the movie. (“If someone asks you if you’re a god, you say yes!”))

ESCALATION:  The apartment makes its move and traps Dana and Louis.  This is the next domino falling.  The two sets of characters converge again:  Igon with Louis, and Peter with Dana.  The characters now have all the pieces they need to figure out the problem.  (And all the pieces are coming from within the story, right down to the monitor showing that Louis is possessed, which we saw used on Dana in the first act.  The story doesn’t have to bring in anything from left field to move it along.)

COMPLICATION/SETBACK:  The characters have all the pieces, but are prevented from solving the problem by a complication:  EPA guy Walter Peck.  (This may come from left field, but makes perfect sense given the world we live in.  So it’s not at all unexpected, really.  Just really bad timing, which makes for good story.)  Everything our heroes have worked for is destroyed, and the Central Park West apartment is allowed to advance unopposed.

(Second act ends.)

CONVERGENCE:  Peck’s interference is balanced by a rescue from the Mayor.  The heroes’ reputation as established earlier in the story saves them.

CLIMAX:  The final confrontation with Gozer and the apartment, which includes another delightful complication.  (“It’s the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.”)

RESOLUTION:  The villain is defeated, the victims are rescued and the heroes ride off in the sunset.

And there it is.  A beautiful plot.

A word on the comedy of the film:  I love that the comedy here is all situational and grows out of the characters’ personalities.  There’s so much banter, and it all reveals character and moves the story forward.  Why can’t we have more movies like this?  When did comedy become all about stopping the plot for a few scatological pratfalls?

I finished a story this past weekend.  I spent quite a bit of time going over the rough draft, trying to add depth and richness, beefing it up (and I’ll confess expanding, since I was a bit short on requested word count).  Since I wrote the first draft quickly, mostly building the bare-bones structure, I had a lot of room to play.

Something I paid particular attention to:  were there places I was telling too much, and not showing enough?  The story takes place during a complicated period in the Soviet Union during World War II.  I have to tell for some of it, to explain the background to the reader as quickly as possible, since it’s a time and a place I can’t count on everyone knowing about.

But I found some scenes that definitely worked better “shown.”  Here’s one of them:

Original (telling):

She parked her Yak and sat on the wing to talk with her mechanic about the engine, and whether it seemed to be running slow.  It was using more fuel than it should, Martya said.  She was fussy about things like that, and Raisa loved her for it.  She never doubted that the Yak would be airworthy when she got inside.

Another mechanic yelled from the edge of the field.  “Mail’s here!”

Revised (showing):

“Stepanova, you all right?”

She’d parked her plane after flying a patrol, tracing a route along the front, searching for imminent attacks and troops on the move–perfectly routine, no Germans spotted.  The motor had grumbled to stillness and the propellers had stopped turning long ago, but she remained in her cockpit, just sitting.  The thought of pulling herself, her bulky gear, her parachute, logbook, helmet, all the rest of it, out of the cockpit and onto the wing left her feeling exhausted.  She’d done this for months, and now, finally, she wasn’t sure she anything left.  She couldn’t read any numbers on the dials, no matter how much she blinked at them.

“Stepanova!”  Martya, her mechanic, called to her again, and Raisa shook herself awake.

“Yes, I’m fine, I’m coming!”  She slid opened the canopy, gathered her things, and hauled herself over the edge.

Martya was waiting for her on the wing, in shirt and overalls, sleeves rolled up, kerchief over her head.  She couldn’t have been more than twenty, but her hands were rough from years of working on engines.  She was very good.

“You look terrible,” Martya said.

“Nothing a shot of vodka and a month in a feather bed won’t fix,” Raisa said, and the mechanic laughed.

“How’s your fuel?”

“Low.  You think she’s burning more than she should?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.  She’s been working hard.  I’ll look her over.”

“You’re the best, Martya.”  The mechanic gave her a hand off the wing, and Raisa pulled her into a hug.

Martya said, “Are you sure you’re all right?”  Raisa didn’t answer.

Another mechanic yelled from the edge of the field.  “Mail’s here!”

There’s nothing fundamentally wrong with the first version, but it’s essentially nothing more than a transition from one scene to another, with a bit of period detail thrown in (indicating that there were women mechanics as well as women pilots).  In the second version, I get to do so much more:  give main character Raisa another relationship, add more details about what it’s like on a wartime airfield, and reveal more of Raisa’s emotional state.

My friend, and fellow writer, Kate Cornell has a great post for you guys today!

There comes a point in every project where I hit a brain shift. My perception of the world changes to mirror my protagonist’s. Euphemisms, cuss words, food orders, music taste; you name it, I am in sync with my main character.
It’s a manageable condition. My prefrontal cortex holds on to the personality I’ve spent a lifetime cultivating while my imagination is unclipped from the leash and allowed run free.
This poses an intriguing conundrum when it comes to writing a television spec script. I need the brain shift moment to slip into the sitcom and sneak onto the set, but how do you sink into the persona of a character they did not create? The same way you always do.
Research.
Hours and hours of meticulous research.
That’s right. You’ve got to watch a lot of TV.
I recently wrote a spec script for The Big Bang Theory. It sounds easy. Nerd life, cultural references, and social ineptitude define my normal life. All I needed to do was browse on ThinkGeek.com and Wiki a few physics articles to master Sheldon and Leonard’s world.
It didn’t work out that way.
A week into the research phase, my life revolved around BBT. Seasons 1-4 played in a steady rotation. I didn’t watch any other TV, fearful that another sitcom might slip in. I was lulled to sleep every night by a chorus of “Bazingas” and “Soft Kitty”. I printed and brass-brad bound every script available on the Internet, noting the changes between drafts and final on-screen edit.
Even my parents started watching the show. Our dinner conversations turned into: “Did you see the one where…”
After plotting my A-story, I thought maybe, just maybe, I might be on to something. Maybe I can take something that isn’t mine, immerse myself in characterization, and create something both unique and familiar.
Watching television with such singular attention isn’t easy.  There is a fine line between work and entertainment.
In Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell repeatedly mentions the 10,000 hour rule, the necessary time required to gain expertise based on a study Swedish psychologist K. Anders Ericsson. I may not have reached the 10,000 hours to accomplish Big Bang expertise, but I’m willing to take it to that level.
I’m watching TV.
For research.

Bio: Kate Cornell is a struggling faux-hemian who lives at home with her parents. Her current project is scraping together the cash to move out to Los Angeles and work as a writer in television. She has worked for Sony Pictures Television, Grapevine Star Entertainment, and the Soundtrack Channel.