Ebook Update

This is an update on your requests to make my nonfiction writing books and articles available on Kindle.  We're making progress, and this lets you know what's now available...

Blessings,

Vicki

PSYCHIC DISTANCE

©2003-2010, Vicki Hinze

Psychic Distance is the amount of emotional space you put between the reader and the character.  Writers use psychic distance to manipulate the intensity of reader involvement in whatever event is occurring within a scene.

Largely, writers attempt to draw the reader in to experience the story firsthand.  But there are times when the author doesn't want the reader to experience an event firsthand, and yet the reader must know this information or this background in order for what is happening in the novel to make sense, or for the way a character is reacting to make sense.  (Motivation disclosure.)

An easy-to-grasp example:  Let's say you're writing a romance novel.  Now you know that the primary focus of the novel must be on the development of the relationship between the hero and heroine.  That's the novel focus.  But say your heroine had been a victim of rape at some time in the past.  The rape certainly influences her motivations and actions now, yet you're writing a love story.  You don't want the reader to be up close and experience the rape.  So you, the writer, generate psychic distance to buffer the reader, so to speak.  You make the reader aware of what happened and how it impacted (and continues to impact) the heroine, but you don't make the reader relive the rape.  Rape is not the novel focus.

Let me pull an actual psychic-distance shift from a published novel excerpt so you'll see exactly what I mean.  This excerpt is from Mary Higgins Clark's BEFORE I SAY GOOD-BYE, page 118:

       "Can I win?  Nell wondered as she walked up Madison Avenue.  Will you still feel that way when you find out Adam's former employers are trying to throw the blame for their own bid rigging and bribery on Adam and Winifred?

       It's so easy to blame two people who aren't around to defend themselves, she thought angrily.  And so convenient.

       Still, Nell realized that a persistent thought had been rattling around in her subconscious:  Was it possible that Adam and Winifred were dead because they knew too much..."

Note that you're inside Nell's head ("Can I win?"), then you're outside it, in the author's company when the author tells you that Nell is wondering and walking up Madison Avenue.  In paragraph three, ("Still, Nell realized"), the author again shifts the psychic distance.  We're not inside Nell's head anymore.  Now, we again have the author telling us what Nell is doing.   There's more figurative space, or psychic distance, between the reader and

the character.

I've been an avid fan of Ms. Clark's for many years, but in my humble opinion, in this particular book--where psychic-distance shifts are made continually--the story suffers for it.  The reason is that every time the reader attaches to the character, the author severs the attachment by shifting the psychic distance.  Each shift interrupts the fictional dream and reminds the reader that s/he's reading, which prohibits her/him from living the story.

So how do we eliminate the shifts, or narrow the psychic-distance focus?  By closing the gaps and getting rid of the filters.

These filters, which are also known as "author intrusion," (wondered, realized, and thought in the example) plant the author between the reader and character.  So let's ditch them, narrow the gap in the psychic distance, and see how it reads:      

     Can I win?  Nell walked up Madison Avenue.  Will I still feel that way when I find out Adam's former employers are trying to throw the blame for their own bid rigging and bribery on Adam and Winifred?

     It's so easy to blame two people who aren't around to defend themselves.  And so convenient.

     Still . . .  A persistent thought rattled around in her subconscious.   Was it possible that Adam and Winifred were dead because they knew too much..."

Now, let's use this same example and widen the psychic distance--without filtering Nell's thoughts through the author:

       Could she win?  Nell walked up Madison Avenue.  Would she still feel that way when she found out Adam's former employers were trying to throw the blame for their own bid rigging and bribery on Adam and Winifred?

       It was so easy to blame two people who weren't around to defend themselves.  And so convenient.

       Still . . .  A persistent thought rattled around in her subconscious.   Was it possible that Adam and Winifred were dead because they knew too much...?

Hopefully now you see (and feel) the difference in psychic distance in the examples.  Note too that when the distance remains constant, the reader isn't jarred or distracted.

This shift challenge is comparable to those created in "head-hopping" or constantly changing point of view (POV).  Like POV shifts, psychic-distance shifts hold diverse expert opinions on when shifting should and should not be done.  For that reason, I won't cite suggested rules.  (Any writing rule made can and has been broken.)

What I will share is a reminder that every time you switch POV characters, the reader needs a little time to settle in and attach to the new POV character.  Too many shifts and you lose the reader, who no longer can attach and get emotionally involved in the story.  The same holds true for psychic shifts.  Too many continually jar the reader, remind her she's reading, and prohibit her from living the fictional dream you've created.

That said, don't be afraid to shift the psychic distance, (remember the case of the romance novel, where shifting is vital to the novel's focus), but be judicious and make the shifts for a specific reason that strengthens the story.❖

Effective Narrative

READ ARTICLE

The Power of Craft

READ ARTICLE

writing craft, writing business, writers' zone, writer's zone, writers library, vickihinze

Writers: A Common Mistake

READ ARTICLE

Writer: Lost

WARNING: This is a no-edit zone...


Writers are human, and being human they experience the same things emotionally that others experience. It is their ability to relate these common or universal emotions in a way that readers see glimpses of themselves in what is written that makes the writer a storyteller.


That’s a gift, and while you might be able to assume some storytelling traits, you can’t assume and sustain them through an entire novel much less through a career of novels.


In writing a novel, we often start out with the germ of an idea. One that meets specific criteria that determines whether or not the idea is viable to sustain the demands of a novel... MORE



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NARRATIVE V EXPOSITION

If you’re confused about the difference between narrative and exposition, don’t worry. Most writers use the terms synonymously. Both are portions of the work/scene that are engaging but non-active. The author's telling versus showing.

For a clear picture on the difference in narrative and exposition, we have to go back to Aristotle. When he was talking about his "beginning, middle, and end," he also said that exposition has no profluence. Narrative, according to The Art of Fiction's John Gardner, does have "some profluence of development."

So if we take stock in what Aristotle and Gardner have to say and translate it to normal writer talk, then we'd say:

Exposition is information the reader needs to know but it doesn't contribute to the forward momentum of moving the story along.

Narrative is information the reader needs to know (for what is happening at the time to make sense to the reader) and does contribute to the forward momentum of moving the story along to some degree.

Frankly, in my humble opinion, it's hair-splitting. Narrative and exposition (in contrast to scenes with action and dialogue) are essentially stagnant blocks of information inserted into scenes. These blocks create psychic distance between the reader and character; remind readers they're reading. Sometimes you, the writer, want that and sometimes you don't.

Regardless, no matter how engaging and well written, narrative and/or exposition won't hold a reader's attention for long. Why?

Because while the author is telling the reader what's going on, nothing is actively happening or going on in the story. The reader isn't experiencing the action. So regardless of which it is in our work, exposition or narrative, we want to be certain it's balanced and it doesn't drag down the novel's pacing--and our novel with it.

Below is an excerpt from an article/post/lecture (I don't recall which now) I did at one time on Effective Narrative. (Regardless, the entire article is in the Writers’ Aids Library.) I hope this excerpt will eliminate any confusion.

Excerpt from Effective Narrative Article:

When is narrative effective?

Narrative is effective . . .

•when the writer wants to convey necessary information to the reader quickly and efficiently. There are times when expository or background information is essential for the reader to grasp the severity of an event, or to understand the significance of something currently occurring in the story. When this situation arises, narrative can be the best means of effectively conveying that information in a minimum of space, thereby negating a long disruption in the forward momentum of the plot. Narrative often does stop this forward momentum, and it reminds the reader that they’re reading. Too many disruptions, or halting this momentum for too long, and the reader grows dissatisfied and antsy to get back to the story event where the reader is immersed in "real time" happenings. So give the reader essential back-ground quickly, and then get back to the active story event.

•when the writer wants to create emotional and/or psychic distance between the reader and the point of view character. Generally speaking, the writer is tasked with creating and maintaining the fictional dream in such a manner that the reader is totally immersed in the story and an active participant. Yet sometimes disclosing information or events is necessary for the reader to understand character conflict and/or motivation that the writer does not want the reader to experience firsthand. For example, if you are writing a romance novel, and your heroine is a former rape victim, it’s likely that you don’t want the reader to experience that rape with the heroine. Yet the rape is instrumental to your heroine’s inner conflict, and its resulting emotional devastation impacts her motivation for specific novel actions. The reader needs to know she was raped or her conflict and motivation lack conviction and the power to be convincing. Because this is a romance novel, and in a romance novel the focus is on the development of the emotional relationship between the hero and heroine, you want to convey the rape as background information. Narrative is an effective means. It allows you to convey the event and yet maintain psychic distance between the event and the reader.

•when the writer wants to smoothly transition, moving the characters/reader from one time or place to another. The individual segments of a novel--scenes and chapters--lead the reader from page to page through the book, from beginning to end. At times, the writer skips ahead in time, or flashes back to previous times. The writer also takes the reader from one setting to another. The most common means of accomplishing these changes is by incorporating transitions.
A transition is simply a bridge that fills the gap between Point A and Point B. It helps the writer to think of theses transitions as bridges. The longer the span, the weaker the bridge. So make transitions as short as possible. Some writers use an object to do this.
For example. Two characters are talking on the phone. The first is the point of view character. When the call begins or ends, the point of view changes from one character to another with just a few words.

Another means of transition is to setup for the transition in the last sentence of the work that precedes the change.

For example, chapter one ends with a character saying or thinking that they must talk to another character. Or they must get to another place. Then, chapter two opens with the two characters talking or at the other place.

Again, this transition is short, to the point, and it leads the reader from point A to point B unobtrusively.


•when the writer wants to cue the reader that something other than what is being said or shown is meant. Frequently characters say one thing when they mean something else, or the character’s perception of something is different from the facts. In these situations, narrative can be extremely effective at clueing the reader in to the actual intent versus the surface motivator or perception of the event. The writer can, through narrative, offer the reader a different perspective than is actively depicted by the characters. This perspective and depiction can be reliable or unreliable, which can create depth and add texture to the novel.

•when the writer establishes setting, tone, and emotional impact. Narrative is vital in conveying conflict--both internal and external--and in keeping the forward momentum of the plot strong. It is also essential to creating and maintaining the fictional dream, meaning that the details the writer selects to anchor the reader onto the scene, also assists in conveying tone and the emotional impact scenes will have on the reader. For example, if a man has just lost his wife, and he’s mourning, he isn’t apt to notice bright, sunny, or airy objects. He’s far more apt to notice those aligning with his current emotional mood that is naturally oppressed, depressed, dark, and gloomy. In utilizing details of setting that convey those emotions, the writer sets the appropriate tone, and the emotional mood of the character is conveyed.

CAUTIONS:

Large chunks of narrative are hard to swallow. If strictly informational, large chunks of narrative create sludge that the reader must wade through while waiting for something interesting and active to happen in the story. Feed in narrative and details a little at a time. Intersperse a sentence or two--at most, a paragraph or two--in an active event. Then, by the time the reader registers that the forward momentum of the story has stopped, it has started again.

Narrative should reveal something new and necessary that the reader must know for what is currently happening in the story to make sense, or to foreshadow a coming major event. Like dialogue, and everything else in a novel, narrative must serve a purpose. The more purposes it serves, the stronger it is and the more effective it becomes. If the narrative doesn’t reveal something new or a different perspective of something already conveyed to the reader, if it isn’t essential to the reader for events to make sense, or if it doesn’t foreshadow a major coming event, then delete it. It’s wasted space that will bog the reader down. Bog the reader down too often, and the reader puts down the book. Offer too many opportunities to put the book down, and the reader doesn’t pick it back up.

Narrative should never be stagnant. Use your writing skills to make it entertaining and compelling. While narrative does often stop the forward momentum of the plot, it should never be stagnate. Use vivid imagery and sharp verbs to make it compelling. Vary your sentence lengths. If the overall emotional tone is tense, then use short, terse sentences. The reader reads faster, thus picks up on the sense of urgency.

Narrative can be strong and compelling, informative and entertaining--and it will be, if written effectively.❦

Blessings,

Vicki

Tags: narrative, exposition, character, creative writing, author, novelist, writer, novels, writing craft, novel structure, writers' library, vicki hinze

From a Mess Comes a Message

WARNING: This is a no-edit zone...


It’s contest time. Writers from all over the world are entering contests and other writers (and editors and agents) from all over the world are judging and/or critiquing them.


I’m critiquing and judging (two separate contests) and coordinating a third. Why? Because I love seeing what’s there. What people are thinking, the kinds of things that fascinate them enough to tackle a book, the way they use their words and structure a story. In short, it’s fun.

Tags: author, emerald coast writers, novelist, books, CREATIVE WRITING, writing, writing craft, narrative, characterization, dialogue, writers library vicki hinze
Yesterday, a good friend and I touched base. She too is judging/critiquing right now. And while we, of course, didn’t discuss specific entries, we did both note a trend to heavy narrative in the works. And we both wondered why. Neither of us had an answer, so I phoned a third friend, who also does a lot of judging/critiquing. She, too, had picked up on this trend.


We put our heads together and determined . . . READ MORE

TACT IN CRITIQUES

I stayed up late last night doing critiques. I thought I’d get three or four done--as always, I have a stack to do. I didn’t. I got one done and a solid start on a second one.

Some would cringe at devoting that much time to a single entry. But writers are a giving lot and helping each other is the norm, so you’ll see no cringing there, though it does make for rough schedules. But it’s worth it, and one of the reasons I love the profession. We train our competition--willingly, and take great joy in doing so. This entry was worth every second of time devoted to it.

You see, storytelling is the sole element that can’t be taught. I’ve said it many times and believe it down to the marrow of my bones. You’ve got it or you don’t. And this entry was written by a wonderful storyteller with a unique voice that captivated. The story was perfect for its targeted genre. The characters were well developed, worthy of their story roles. So with all of this being so right, what was the time-eating challenge?

Mechanics. This terrific story and these terrific characters were mired down in a tomb of mechanical pitfalls. When that happens, it jars the reader the way a jackhammer jars your teeth and blows out your ears. When we read, we do so with that inner ear, and so cadence and rhythm (and pacing) are critically important.

Every year for many years I’ve polled editors at major publishers and asked why they most often rejected manuscripts. And every year for many years, these same things surface. Oh, there are the usual rejections because the proposed project didn’t fit on the publisher’s list, and the similarities between the writing of existing authors on the publishers’ lists with the proposed project, but overwhelmingly, mechanical challenges topped the list.

That’s good news. Mechanics can be taught.

If you’d like to read more on the top mechanical challenges (those that surface again and again on the poll), there’s an article in my website writer’s library (www.vickihinze.com in the A-P Library. Common Mechanical Pitfalls).

Read MOREof this post.


Tags: critique, tact, authors, emerald coast writers, novelists, emerald coast writers, books, CREATIVE WRITING, writing craft

Important Notice

Effective today, I will be posting my blogs on my website as follows:

Writing: Craft, Art, Business and Life: My Kitchen Table

Spirituality: Faith Zone


The "Vicki Hinze on Writing" blog will be incorporated into the MY KITCHEN TABLE blog.

The website url, should you have link challenges or desire to paste into your browser is:

http://www.vickihinze.com

Blessings,

Vicki

P.S. If you're viewing this via reader, you'll need to visit the www.vickihinze.com website to view any updates.

I apologize for any inconvenience, but I'm paddling as hard as I can, and I just can't keep up, so I'm having to consolidate where and when possible. Appreciate your understanding.

Vicki Hinze
www.vickihinze.com


TAGS: Vicki Hinze, hinze blog, CREATIVE WRITING, feature article, writing craft, books, novels, readers, authors, emerald coast writers, novelists, booksellers, book reviewers, everyday woman radio, romance writers, thriller writers, suspense writers

CAN'T FAKE THE MAGIC

WARNING: This is a no-edit zone...

A writer asked me a question yesterday that I’ve been asked many times:

“Of everything you’ve learned about writing, what is the most important thing? What’s the secret?”

My response: “The magic.”

That answer was as simple to me as a new writer as it is now--though for very different reasons.

As a new writer, I knew that a story I wasn’t wholly invested in didn’t captivate me. I liked the story, I was interested in the story, but it didn’t keep me up at night or worm its way into totally unrelated conversations on topics that had nothing to do with the story.

That made the writing more work. It required more effort and discipline and I wasn’t as eager to get to my desk or wherever I was writing to get back to it.

I won’t say it was a drag to do; writing has never been that to me. But I didn’t feel the irresistible tug to write my heart out. And when I didn’t feel it writing it, I didn’t feel it reading the book. It didn’t evoke that bubble in the gut that insists you keep going.

So I quickly learned not to write those stories. And I tore the stories up trying to figure out why they were more difficult and less fun to write than the others.

What I discovered was that while I was interested in them, the difficult stories just didn’t have the magic.

What is the magic?

The magic is that x-factor in a story that ignites and captivates the storyteller in the writer.

For me, the work lacking it was competent. The story fair enough. But writing it, I got stirred, not shaken and tumbled and all tangled up.

That’s when I set the criteria on what I would write. I share that criteria as “I won’t write a book I don’t love.” But the more practical (to other writers) explanation of that is: Don’t write a story that doesn’t totally grab the storyteller in you and shake you like a dog shakes something by the scruff until you’re breathless.

If the story doesn’t intrude on your thoughts, if you’re not eager to get to the writing to see what happens or how things actually work out (versus the way the writer in you thinks they’re going to work out), if you aren’t awakened in the middle of the night with thoughts about some element or character in the book--if you don’t feel that bubble in your gut--then the story lacks the magic. So do something to infuse it, or write something different.

Instinctively, I got the importance of this early on. Now, there isn’t an atom in my body that doesn’t know that gut-bubble is critical.

You see, there is only one aspect of creative writing that can’t be taught. It’s storytelling. You either have it or you don’t. Everything else you need to do this can be learned--structure, mechanics, grammar... But just having the gift of being a storyteller doesn’t mean you should tell every story that comes to mind. No, be more selective. The time it takes it write is your life; be very selective.

Maybe you’re not prone to intuitive reactions, or you can’t relate to gut-bubbles, so let me try to explain a little differently.

In selecting/writing stories, you know you’re on the right track when...

1. You’re shopping for food and see a jar of pickles. The first thought that comes to mind isn’t how the pickle tastes, it’s that the brine it’s in would make a wicked brew to die for--or to die from. (Right track? Absolutely. Your mind is wide open and in receive mode. That’s a very good sign.)
2.You’re getting your car repaired and while it’s up on the rack and you’re staring at its underbelly, you don’t ask the mechanic about the car or bill. You ask him how you can screw up the steering without ditching the fluid--so there’s no trace of tampering. (Um, be sure to tell the mechanic you’re a writer. Otherwise, expect a visit from your local police. [Yes, been there, done that.])
3.You’re in with your doctor having a checkup and you brush right past your condition and ask him if you were to kill someone using a specific method how long would it take them to die. Will they be lethargic--if so, how soon--or shouting? And on a pain scale of one to ten, how would he rate this method? (Be sure to tell the doc you’re a writer. Otherwise... you know what happens. And, yes, really have been there and done that, too, though I honestly thought he knew it before I started asking questions. And another tip, if you bring people like this a copy of your books, it spares you from this type of thing.)
4.You’re in the shower and the perfect--I mean, the perfect--solution to a problem with a plot element strikes you... If you have to get out, wrap in a towel and run to look for a pen, you’re probably new at writing. If you write it on the wall with a bead of shampoo or conditioner or shaving cream, then you’re learning. You know ideas flittering through your mind can be lost forever if not immediately captured. If you’ve got a pen stashed within reach, you’ve been at this a long time. And if you discover you’re out of paper and write on the shower stall wall, you’re a pro and don’t need to be reading this. :)
5.You attend a party with people you really like and you still sneak into the bathroom to write. You’re definitely on the right track.
6.Your need to know outweighs your reluctance to ask. Never been to the place your book’s set? Snag a phone book, call a stranger and ask. (Do mention you’re a writer, and do remember to thank them in your book’s acknowledgements.)
7.You’re in create-mode, one of your beloved children interrupts, and the first thing that goes through your mind is someone had better be bleeding.
8.You’re in create-mode, the phone rings, and your beloved spouse/significant other answers, takes a peek at you, and without a word tells the caller, you’re not there. You’re in la-la land. Extra points if the person phoning doesn’t require an explanation and knows what “la-la land” means.
9.You forget to eat, to run important errands, to pay taxes on the due date. Or if you so much as consider writing on your novel and fake taking notes while sitting on jury duty. (Please don’t do the jury duty thing. That you’d think about it is the “right track” sign.)
10. You’re so caught up in the work you agree to do something you’d never do if you weren’t. (Writers beware: your loved ones will catch on to this quick--and they’ll use it!)

There are tons more indicators that let a writer know s/he’s on the right track. Most of them, writers tune into instinctively. A few are learned as we go. Regardless of how you tag them, when you lump them together they translate to the work having the magic.

It fires the imagination and fuels the creativity in you, the storyteller. You feel it, are eager to express it, and few things will inhibit you from doing so.

So get selective, storytellers. Don’t settle for stirred when shaken and tumbled and tangled up is there just waiting. The difference for you is remarkable.

The difference for your reader is immeasurable.

Capture the magic, and then write.

Blessings,

Vicki

TAGS:CREATIVITY, authors, CREATIVE WRITING, psychic distance, storytelling, Vicki Hinze, writer's library, writing craft,

PACING

I've been getting a lot of questions focused on pacing lately, so I thought I'd share my article on it in the blog forum... It addresses the questions asked, and more. Hope it helps!

PACING
©2000-2008, Vicki Hinze

For a moment, let's pretend that the words we write on the page are sounds. If all the sounds are the same, then we have monotone. Monotone puts us to sleep, bores us to tears, turns us off--and if it goes on for any length of time--ticks us off.

We can't get emotionally involved with monotone because every single word

holds equal emphasis to every other single word. No sentence, paragraph, scene, or chapter bears more weight or is more intense than any other sentence, paragraph, scene, or chapter. The result is that the work is flat, dull, and boring. When writing it, we aren't actively engaged or enthused; we're writing on autopilot. That means when the reader reads, they're not going to be actively engaged or enthused, and they'll be reading it on autopilot. The reader can't get out of a book what the author doesn't put into the book. It's that simple. Autopilot translates to catching zzzs, snoozing.

Why? Because nothing is different. Nothing grabs us, insisting that we pay

attention and get involved. Nothing commands us, dares us to look away, or challenges us to keep reading to see what happens.

Our book is a victim of lousy pacing.

Words on a page don't create audible sounds, but they do create rhythms, and

those rhythms are active in the reader's mind. This is why the writer must learn to effectively manipulate the story's pacing--so that we writers invite and encourage and allow the reader to get emotionally involved in the story.

Every novel has a natural rhythm. A sweeping saga set in the South might be

slow and easy. But there will be times during the course of the novel that the pacing must speed up and move like the wind. Otherwise, the reader is going to become anesthetized and doze through the book. We don't want that. So let's begin at the beginning and learn how to prevent it.

First, let's talk about what pacing is.

Pacing is the rhythm of the novel, of the chapters and scenes and paragraphs

and sentences. It's also the rate at which the reader reads, the speed at which novel events occur and unfold. It's using specific word choices and sentence structure--scene, chapter, and novel structure--to tap the emotions of the reader so that the reader feels what the writer wants the reader to feel at any given time during the story.

In the movie, The American President, the female protagonist meets with a senator for dinner. It is her job to get his vote on a fuel fossil bill her employer wants passed. The senator comments that, if she's successful, she'll success herself right out of a job. She shoots back with a swift, "On election day, the voters think what I tell them to think. That's why I have a job."

In essence, that's the writer's perspective on pacing. You work the words,

the scenes, the chapters, until the reader thinks and feels what you want them to think and feel about events occurring in the novel.

Now, just as a novel's rhythm can't be monotone, neither can a chapter, nor a

scene, nor sentences within a scene. Take a look at the structure in one short paragraph:

Subject/predicate. Subject/predicate. Subject/predicate.

Reminds us a little of the drone of a jungle drum, doesn't it? No variance

in the rhythm whatsoever. How long do you think it would take a reader to hear that drone before going on autopilot? Not long. But make a slight variation:

Subject/predicate. Predicate/subject. Subject/predicate.

Now, you've got a different rhythm going. The drone disappears. The reader

might not consciously note the change of rhythm, but it won't subconsciously put him to sleep.

In manipulating the pacing, there are times when the writer wants to slow

things down or to speed them up. But when do you do which?

Let's start with slowing down the pacing.

SLOW THE PACING:

* When you want to place emphasis on something. For example, in a book I just finished, the protagonist makes her Uncle Lou's spaghetti sauce whenever she's upset. When this is introduced, I slow the pacing down by showing her actually making the sauce and by adding details. Spices, the smell of the sweet basil, that she bakes the meatballs before putting them into the sauce.

The reader senses that the protagonist making this sauce is important due to the treatment (attention) given it. The hero senses it, too. He realizes that, contrary to his belief that she's calm and unaffected by events, she needs comfort. Her Uncle Lou's sauce is her comfort food. (Knowing this--that she needs comfort—relieves and comforts the hero, helping to alleviate some of his doubts about her.)

Later in the book, when the protagonist says she's going to the kitchen, the hero intuits that she's upset and asks, "To make Uncle Lou's sauce?" When she says yes, the hero and the reader knows this is significant--a bond of trust in the admission.

And later still in the book, in keeping with the Rule of Three, the heroine and hero make Uncle Lou's sauce for a child who has been traumatized and needs comfort.

The emphasis given the act of making the sauce initially cues the reader that this event is significant. The later scenes don't require that reinforcement, only the mention, because both the characters and the reader is aware and attuned to the significance. By layering in details, you lend emphasis and significance to a novel incident. You also slow the pacing.

* After a dramatic, active scene. A reader can't sustain intense emotion indefinitely. No human being can. To feel intensely, we also have to not feel intensely. It's the old "you don't know you're on a hill unless you've trudged through the valley" phenomenon.

Likewise, if the writer keeps the suspense taut for too long at a time, then the reader gets worn out. Emotionally, her natural defense mechanisms engage and she shuts down. It's important for the writer to understand that when those defense mechanisms engage, they act like a safety shield, giving the reader a safe haven in which to recover. Hidden behind that shield, the reader no longer feels immediacy or intensity. She no longer feels anything.

Give your reader those moments of spiked intensity. But also give her a chance to catch her breath. We need hills and valleys, and you control which is which in your pacing.

* When you want to expand the emotional impact.

A good example of a time when a writer wants to expand the emotional impact is in a romance novel during a love scene. Here, the writer wants to slow the pacing down, to be generous with descriptive writing.

Another example is in extremely intense situations.

Have you ever been in a car accident? The moment arrives when you know you're about to be hit. Time slows down. Seconds seem hours long. You wait, and wait, and wait, and finally . . . impact.

Now, the moments before the actual crash are no longer or shorter than any other moment, and yet they seem to go on forever. The reason why is because you are so intently focused on waiting for the impact.

Conversely, during these intense moments, you can't think. I mention this because I'm still getting contest entries to judge where the character is in the middle of a crisis and pauses to think back to some event that occurred years ago. Human beings, just don't do that. When in crisis, the crisis consumes our thoughts. That's what we focus on. Rarely does any human being think deep thoughts in the middle of a crisis.

But we do note specific, concrete details that seem larger than life. Let’s use the car accident to illustrate. We know we can't escape being hit. During the wait, we might slam on the brakes and note the tires squealing. We might note smoke churning from them. We might smell the tires burning rubber. But we don't think about someone else's accident that occurred ten years ago.

I want to remark that I disagree with the next "slow down the pacing when" concept, and I'll deviate to explain why. But in researching for this, I did come across this recommendation by several different experts, so I'm including it.

* When you want to shift time, distance, or space.

Authors Robie Macauley and George Lanning say that writers function under "special laws of relativity" which allow them to make shifts in time and space. Writers can "condense, compress, or expand" time and space to best suit the needs of their stories. They can also use these special laws to determine what emphasis they place on specific scenes within the story, or specific incidents within the scenes.

It's said that if, in the story, a writer intends to:

1. Reveal dominate character traits
2. Heighten the dramatic impact of a scene
3. Introduce events that are pivotal (either in character or motivation)

then those scenes should be "shown" versus "told." What isn't essential to "show" the reader, the writer can incorporate into the novel in the form of lively narrative.

Narrative slows the pacing.

Now actively showing an event doesn't mean the writer should show every action in every active scene. To do so would be like using "real" conversation versus dialogue. Much of real conversation is inane and unessential to moving the plot forward, so writers edit it out. Same holds true for "every action" writing in active scenes. The writer must, through craft skills and instincts, select which actions and details are significant to the story--to establish tone, setting; plant symbolic articles--and to show them. Insignificant actions, edit out.

For every rule there is an exception, so I state no rules. But I do state this suggestion, which opposes the concept of slowing the pacing when shifting time, distance, or space: When you encounter mundane stretches of time or distance, use a transition to move past them quickly. If nothing important to the story happens during these times or travels, why show it?

Why give novel space to something that misleads the reader into thinking this information is important?

Result? The reader remembers the character driving from Point A to Point B. Nothing happened during that drive, but it must be significant or it wouldn't have been there. So the reader reads on, waiting for the significance to become apparent. But it never does. The reader thinks the writer forgot to tie up that loose thread. Or, s/he might not specifically pinpoint the reason, but feels a dissatisfaction with the book. This is why I disagree with slowing the pacing during shifts. Transition, and then move on.

There has to be a balance between narrative and active scenes in the novel.

Too much narrative and the pacing drags. Too little and the active scenes lose authority because an abundance of inconsequential details are included and the reader gets mired in them.

How much of each—narrative and active scenes—should go into the novel depends on the individual book. What balance might be right for a mystery won't be right for a saga, a romance, a thriller. Even within genre, the novel's natural rhythm and pacing must be respected. Some stories demand that they unfold at breakneck speed. Others require a slower disclosure.

The novel itself dictates.

Regardless, within the novel, it is the writer's job to vary the pacing, placing emphasis on that which is of consequence to the characters, the story, and the reader.

* Flashbacks slow down the pacing. Actually, flashbacks bring the forward momentum of the novel to a dead halt. The reason why is, we transition from the present into the past, and the present then ceases to exist until we return to it.

Flashbacks carry danger. The writer runs the risks of:

+ The flashback lasting too long
+ The flashback breaking the forward momentum of the present plot for such a time that the reader can't reconnect to it
+ The flashback’s past story becoming more interesting to the reader than the present story.

Often writers include flashbacks that do nothing to enhance or reinforce the present story. Obviously, those flashbacks are useless and should be cut during editing. Any flashback allowed to remain in the novel should fit the present story like glove to hand, adding some insight, something significant.

What are some techniques for slowing down the pacing?

Use long, flowing sentences, soft-sounding verbs, descriptions that are steeped in sensory input and rich in texture and sound. This evokes an appropriate emotional response in the reader. One of quiet, calm, serenity—great for those resting times in sequels!

Layering details, one upon the other, places emphasis on what is being described and slows down the pacing.

Long blocks of narrative or description—even those engagingly written with positively sparkling prose—slow down the pacing. Personally, I advise against long blocks of narrative. They aren't visually appealing to the reader, and they stop the forward movement of the plot.

Instead, break that long block into small chunks of two or three sentences each. Then insert those chunks at points in the story when the reader needs the information contained in the chunk in order for what is happening in the novel at that time to make sense. By the time the reader notes the forward movement has stopped (at the insert of the two-or-three-sentence chunks), she's read them and the plot is moving forward again. Not so with long, uninterrupted blocks of narrative.

SPEED UP THE PACING

* Dialogue speeds up the pacing. It gives the illusion of action, and that illusion moves the reader forward more quickly than does narrative.

* Lean writing. The lack of embellishment (adjectives, adverbs) causes the reading speed to increase, which moves the story along at a good clip.

* When writing dramatic or action-packed scenes. In dramatic situations, or intently active ones, the pacing must be brisk to help carry the right emotional impact. Here, long sentences or paragraphs won’t work. They’ll bog down the action, negate any compelling sensation from the drama you’re trying to build, and destroy compatibility between the tone conveyed and the one you intended to convey--all of which weaken the potency of the work.

What are some Techniques for speeding up the pacing?

Speed up the pacing by using short paragraphs. Spare sentences; no wasted words.

Use crisp, sharp verbs that sound hard. Think, short and punchy.

Use sentence fragments. The reader reads fragments faster. That imparts a sense of urgency the reader senses at gut-level, which evokes an emotional response—a quickening pulse, a worried gasp, a shiver.

Pacing can be manipulated and it should be--to best serve the story. If you looked at the story’s pacing on a graph, it would resemble an askew EKG. The rhythms wouldn’t be uniform. But there would be definite rhythms.

As a story progresses, the intensity should grow stronger. The obstacles become more difficult, the setbacks and consequences of the characters failure to fulfill their novel goals are harder to overcome.

This constantly growing "intensity" is why so often you’ll see books published where the early chapters are longer and more dense, and later chapters are shorter and more dramatic.



As the characters/readers move through the novel, they pitch and roll. Take two steps forward, and one back. Climb a little higher, and then stumble again. And on each successive attempt, it’s harder to climb and they meet with more resistance—inside and out (internal and external conflicts). But they keep going and, at the moment when it seems they (which has become "we" because the author has succeeded in accomplishing reader identification by using our emotions and we now feel "we" are the characters) can’t succeed—we’re body-slammed—and then the unthinkable happens. We find the key to the forgotten door that was foreshadowed earlier in the novel. We use the key, and struggle . . . and struggle . . . and, finally, we taste success.

A writer relies on skill to develop the right pacing for each individual project. But also relies on instinct. On the author’s inner ear that tests the rhythm to make sure the flow has the right sound and intuitive feel.

At times, instinct and learned skills will be at odds. Go with your instincts.

There isn’t a writing rule that hasn’t been successfully broken. The trick is in knowing them, and knowing when to break them. Knowing when to shift and speed up or slow down your novel’s pacing.*

FYI NOTE: Earlier, I mentioned Uncle Lou's spaghetti sauce in All Due Respect and the significance of it to the heroine's character and referenced "The Rule of Three." If you’re not familiar with this rule and would like to be, there’s an article on it in my website Library (www.vickihinze.com).

Tags: pacing, authors, novelists, writing craft, writers, writer's library, writer's blogs, thriller novelists, story structure, romance writer, psychic distance, novel elements, novels

BUILD A CHARACTER CAST

Inspiration for books strikes us in different ways:

1. Theme/Statement
2. Plot
3. People

Which comes first doesn’t matter much, provided the author ties the other two ways to it.
Why? Because these three things weave together with Setting and other story elements to make a tapestry--a book. And if they don’t interweave so the threads fit together, well, you won’t have much of a tapestry.
So it’s beneficial to you to develop these elements simultaneously.
For example, in HER PERFECT LIFE, the statement (or reason I wanted to write the book) was to bring to readers’ attention what serving our country can cost the people who do it, those they love and those who live them.
How do I build a protagonist to convey that message?
I chose a female POW. She demonstrated the costs, and helped define the plot: a female pilot crashes, is deemed dead but is taken POW for 6 years. She had a perfect life--all she wanted: a husband, two kids and a great copilot.
Now the story could have gone a lot of ways, depending on what theme or statement I wanted to make. I didn’t want to write about her as a POW, I wanted to write the costs of service. So In Chapter 1, she was rescued. And the rest of the book deals with her coming home, her husband being remarried to a great woman her kids love. She’s a stranger to the kids. And all that was in her perfect life--family, home, career--it’s all gone. Now what?
And that’s where real character development begins.
Remember that characters are admirable people we want to emulate. They’re not like us; they’re like the people we want to be. They do the right thing, or the wrong thing for the right reason--and that includes the antagonist. Even if he’s psychotic, he feels totally justified in what he’s doing. He might be warped, but he doesn’t see that, just as none of us see ourselves as bad people. He sees his actions as reasonable, logical, and maybe even noble.
You build a character based on need--not yours. The story’s. Every choice made, every idea pondered, every single thing you elect to include in the book, you include because it best serves the story.
Anything that fails to meet that test, you ditch. No matter how funny, no matter how strongly it resonates with you, no matter if the rhythm and sheer beauty of the words just sets you aflutter. Ditch it. Be ruthless. Only what best serves the story stays.
Characters, like people, need to be three-dimensional. Physical, Emotional, Spiritual.
Physical: What the character physical looks like. What abilities and skills does s/he need to be able to do what s/he must do in the story? (To be credible, s/he must be capable. This holds true for protagonists and antagonists. Make them strong, wise, sharp, clever--this way they can carry a lot of story weight.)
Where did s/he get those skills? Where do most people with those skills live, or where are they likely to be? (Now, your character has a history--and you’ve got a setting.)
What does the character’s name say about her/him? Is it a name common to the area s/he’s from? Where s/he is now, in the story? What is that community like? Is there a strong, say German influence? Or Hispanic influence? How does that impact your character?
All of these things are defining the physical attributes of the character--and far more. You’re putting flesh and muscles on the bones.

Emotional: Taking into consideration all the above physical aspects, you have also gone a long way to define the emotional demeanor of your character. To do this job, in this place, with this kind of history and experience, this person is apt to have this type of emotional makeup. Coping skills, what s/he loves and hates and fears. What s/he wants--goals and motivations (which you will use as story conflicts). And who is trying to keep him/her from reaching those goals? There’s your antagonist.
Ask why s/he is trying to stop the heroine and you’ve got his/her motivation. And that goes a long way toward defining what he’s like physically and emotionally.
Using opposites works. If he’s an arson investigator, then she’s an arsonist. If the protagonist wants to ban guns, the antagonist is a collector. If the protagonist wants to save the world, then the antagonist wants to destroy it,
Why does opposites work? Because it creates conflict that spontaneously combusts. The opponents are opponents the second they appear.
So what kind of temperament, attitudes and demeanor is the main person who is for and against what you, the author, have to say that you want others to hear? Answer that, and you’ve defined your characters’ emotional states, and honed the definitions on their physical designs.

Spiritual; These people in this situation, in this emotional state are apt to draw on these traits and beliefs. I’m not talking about religion, though that can be part of the definition of this. What belief does your character ascribe to, what philosophy of life. Does s/he believe in truth? If so, does s/he believe truth is immutable, or that you shape and mold it? Does s/he live in black and white? Or in vivid color? In shades of gray?
An example: “One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.” Not sure who first said it, but which label a person wears depends on who’s assigning the label. How that person sees himself relates to his spiritual side.

Strong characters, ones we remember, are three-dimensional and have aspects of all three dimensions: physical, emotional and spiritual.

Not only is this essential for crafting a credible story, it’s mandatory for making a reader care.
Look to how we react to books. We might feel drawn to its subject or to where it is set. We might even be drawn to its horror, but we emotionally react to its characters.
Would Harry Potter hold the same appeal if Harry weren’t Harry?
Would Gone With the Wind be as strong without Scarlett or Rhett? Would the story be the same if Melanie were the heroine?
No, on Harry. No, on Scarlett and Rhett. And no on Melanie--that’d be a totally different story.
We love characters, or love to hate them, because we identify with them. In them, we see shards of ourselves, reflections of who we are and what we want--why we want it--and who we want to be.
If we don’t identify with the characters, we do not care what happens to them. If we don’t care what happens to them, we aren’t going to enjoy the book. It’s that simple.
Remember, authors write for a purpose and with purpose. To do so effectively, the reader needs to bond with the characters or you don’t have the right vehicle to convey your message or statement. This is true, even if that purpose is to entertain.
A quick look at Secondary Characters. You create every secondary character in your book to serve a specific story purpose. Maybe s/he is a confidant to the protagonist, a mentor or someone who undermines and assists the antagonist. Know the purpose. What s/he must do in the story helps define who s/he is.
Now that you know what must be done, look for ways to combine these actions. Instead of having three different people do one thing, have one person do three.
My rule of thumb is to kill every secondary character I can possibly kill. If they won’t die, then I let them live. They’ve proven they’ve earned their space in the novel.
What they must do defines who they are, and what attributes and shortcomings they need to be well-rounded, developed characters. They too should be physical, emotional and spiritual human beings. And its through those three dimensions that you create highly individual, real-to-life people instead of cardboard characters.

THAT BRINGS US TO SUBPLOTS

You know what you, the author, wants to say. You know who is going to say it and, if you’ve developed your secondary characters, then you’ve also gone a long way to define your plot and setting. So your book is a vehicle, and its occupants are all on board.
Your plot is the windshield. It’s where you’re going. But that doesn’t make subplots side-trips or back seats. Subplots are more like your car’s rearview and side mirrors.
A rearview is smaller, and what you see through it is a reflection. That’s what a subplot is to a plot. It mirrors or echoes the plot. It relates, it’s interesting and compelling and it stays in secondary position to the plot.
The minute your subplot becomes more interesting or intriguing than your plot, it becomes the plot and your previous plot becomes subplot. Proportion speaks to importance. Importance is designated by story space. Space is premium, and you give only what an event has earned. So significant events and people get a larger share of space than secondary people and events. Plot gets more space than subplots.
Subplots strengthen and reinforce plots. They brace, add deeper dimension, greater understanding. They express motivations, which are often unstated otherwise, or create more significant obstacles than we deemed apparent initially.
For example. In WAR GAMES’ Body Double, the antagonist buries the protagonist in a tomb. She’s alive and he feels this will terrify her because he knows that her father used to beat her and lock her in a wooden box until her bruises healed, so looking at her didn’t offend him.
But he doesn’t know that the protagonist used to hide in the box to keep from getting beaten. It was the one place her father would never think to look for her.
Now, without that subplot being interwoven into the story, her being locked in a tomb wouldn’t hold the same level of significance. Her reaction wouldn’t have the same connotations, either. The subplot put down the foundation for the plot, strengthened it, reinforced it, and helped characterize the protagonist--and because he did this to her, it helped characterize the antagonist, too.
I’ve incorporated many of the lessons we’ve learned and the myths passed on about characters rather than setting them out on their own because of time constraints. If you’re not clear on that, then do a review of the archetypes and then look at unforgettable characters and note the things they have in common. Equally important, notice the attributes that are absent.

One last bit of advice in building your character cast. Love them all--protagonist or antagonist, primary character or secondary. If you do, it shows in the work on a level that is nearly subliminal. It infuses the work with layers you don’t often realize are there until much later. It’s almost magical, the way relevant tidbits appear and insert themselves.
Conversely, if you don’t love them and respect them, then that shows, too. And your magic becomes a nightmare.
Building story people takes time and effort, but the investment is the kind of thing that makes readers stand in line for hours to get “the next book” or read what the author wrote long after the author is no longer here.
Remember, there’s power in the pen. Power to captivate, convince, entertain and open closed minds. The story itself doesn’t do those things; the characters the author has built to live that story does, and those characters have the power to change lives. ❧

Note:

here are a lot of articles in my online library for writers at www.vickihinze.com on character and character development. One you should definitely look at is: Creating Unforgettable Characters. You might also take a look at the articles on Dialogue, because how we say what we say characterizes us, too.

There are a lot of different articles on characterization. You should also review the in depth series on Plot and The Fictional Dream.

The series on plotting contains more specific information along with examples on subplots.

Be aware that I went through a “goofy title” phase and so articles like Sunshine and Diamonds are on character, too. It seemed like a good idea at the time...

Blessings,

Vicki

Vicki Hinze
©2007

Printable PDF: How-To Build a Character Cast.pdf