Pacing within Lines

When people talk about pacing in stories, they usually turn to the lines--how to make a passage or paragraph feel faster or slower.

Recently, I've been sharing how pacing happens at three levels: 

- Within the Narrative Arc

- Within Scenes

- Within Lines

And it only seems right to finish up the series by visiting pacing within lines. Issues come up when a passage or paragraph feels too slow or too fast, and while line-level pacing can overlap in places with scene-level pacing, it's a little different. This is more about the way the story is written on the page.

And as I touched on in my prior posts, there is more to pacing than adding or subtracting words, even when we get clear down to the line level. 

Because I've already talked about line-level pacing on here before, I thought I'd simply review a few things.

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Defining and Developing Your Author Voice

Previously I talked about the differences and similarities between the author's voice, narrator's voice, and characters' voices. I decided that my voice equation could actually work at any of those levels:

What the Person Thinks or Talks about + How He Talks about It = Voice

Voice is essentially that person's personality and how that is rendered on the page. On some level, there is some overlapping of the characters' voices, narrator's voice, and author's voice--and ultimately, the former two types fit into and help make up the author's voice. 

Like any kind of voice, defining and nailing down an author's voice can feel a little elusive at first, especially if the author's work varies widely and his or her writing has evolved over the years. How do you figure out your own author's voice? And do you need to work at finding, gaining, and developing it?

First, let's revisit what was stated in our previous post about the writer's voice.

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Author Voice vs. Narrator Voice vs. Character Voice

Like many writing terms, "voice" can be a little ambiguous, mainly because it happens at three levels: the writer's voice, the narrator's voice, and the character's voice. And like many writing subjects, voice can seem elusive when you are learning. Often we know it when we see it, but what is it?

I've written posts on character voice before: "What You Need to Know Most About Character Voice," "Dos and Don'ts for Writing Your Viewpoint Character's Voice." But I've never really talked about the author's voice. Probably because it's not so much something you learn as something you already have and develop. And for the narrator's voice, well, in most stories, it's often very similar to the writer's or the character's voice. It can all get pretty tricky pretty fast. Recently, I was on The Rebel Author Podcast as a guest to talk about character voice, and when preparing, I spent some time thinking about the other two types. So in this post, I'd like to define and talk about each. 

While voice may feel elusive and ambiguous, it's one of the most effective ways to give audiences a powerful impression of who you, your narrator, and/or your character are. Multiple times I have heard agents and editors talk about how voice is one of the first things to grab them. It's also one of the first things that can grab a reader. 

So what is it exactly? And how do we put it to work?

What is Voice?

In the recent podcast, the host, Sacha Black mentioned a few times how voice is simply that person's personality, and that's a great way to say it. And for years when talking about character voice, I have used this equation:

What the Character Thinks or Talks about + How He Says It = Voice

But in prepping for the podcast, I realized . . . 

. . . this works at the other levels as well. 

What the Writer Thinks or Talks about + How She Says It = Author Voice

&

What the Narrator Thinks or Talks about + How He Says It = Narrator Voice

So really, one might simply sum it up like this:

What a Person Thinks or Talks about + How She Says It = Voice

Look at the two ingredients of voice. One is about content and the other is about how it's communicated. Voice is made up of both, not just the content and not just the way it's communicated. 

Together, this is how the writer's, narrator's, and/or character's personality gets on the page.*

*Okay, it also sometimes includes what's not said, and the way it's not. Sometimes avoiding talking about a topic, or perhaps tactfully steering away from a topic can show as much personality as what is in the text. It just shows up as subtext, which also makes a story powerful.

How the Writer's Voice, Narrator's Voice, and Character's Voice Work Together

Every book has characters, a narrator, and a writer. So how the heck do these work together, and how do we utilize and get them on the page all simultaneously?

Glad you asked.

See, it's sort of like a Russian nesting doll. (I know I've used that as a comparison for story structure, but it works well with voice too.)

The biggest doll is the author's voice--because every story the writer writes helps make up that voice.

Inside of that is the narrator's voice--this is the voice of the narrator of a particular story. Now, you may have multiple books that have the same narrator, but the narrator's voice is not the exact same as the author's voice.

Inside of that is the character's voice--and you may even break this down further, into the viewpoint character's voice and then into any nonviewpoint characters' voices (which is often coming through the viewpoint character's perspective, obviously). . . . Or not, it just depends how you want to slice and dice it.

So, when you look at this, you realize, to some degree, they all overlap, though to some extent, they are individual pieces. 

Now, in some stories, each piece may be more distinct than in other stories. Let's look at some examples.

A Series of Unfortunate Events is narrated by Lemony Snicket, but he has also narrated other books such as Poison for Breakfast and All the Wrong Questions, and while "he" is listed as the "author," he's not. Daniel Handler is the real author and has written several other books. Lemony Snicket is just a narrative personality he puts on--it's part of Daniel Handler, but it's just a narrator. Inside of Lemony Snicket's stories, the characters have their own voices, and we may even follow specific viewpoints, but it comes through Lemony Snicket's narration, which comes through Daniel Handler. Author, narrator, and characters all have distinct voices.

Sometimes the narrator and the viewpoint character are more one in the same. In the Percy Jackson series, Percy Jackson is the viewpoint character and the narrator, but he's not the author--Rick Riordan is.

In The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, the narrator isn't Tom. In The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Huckleberry Finn is the narrator. But both are told through Mark Twain, and make up his author voice.

In a memoir, one may argue they are all more aligned. The viewpoint character is the narrator who is also the author. However, it is possible the story is narrated by an older version of the viewpoint character, and that will affect the way the story is told. Furthermore, the author's voice may be made up of more than only the memoir.

And if we get deeper into viewpoint and POV penetration, well, it's enough to make anyone's head spin. No need to do that today for this post. 

Suffice it to say that the characters, viewpoint character, narrator, and author all have their own voices--it's possible for them to be obviously distinct or more closely aligned. There are, in some sense, three voices, but they all come from the author.

Let's talk a little about each.

The Writer's Voice

You are a unique person. You have unique experiences, a unique personality, a unique worldview, a unique belief system. There are particular types of stories (or genres) you like to write--whether that's wide-ranging or narrow. There are particular tropes you are drawn to and perhaps types of people or places you like to write about. There are types of themes you like to visit. Maybe you enjoy writing protagonists that have positive change arcs. 

There are also particular types of stories (or genres) you don't want to write--whether that's wide-ranging or narrow. There are particular tropes you turn away from. There are certain types of people you'd rather not write about or types of places you have no interest in. There are themes you don't wish to touch and arguments you don't believe in. Maybe you dislike writing negative steadfast arcs for protagonists.

All of these things help make up your voice as a writer.

But it's more than that.

There is a breadth and limit to your lexicon. There are sentence structures you like using more than others. Maybe you like using lengthier, more poetic and meaningful descriptions. Or maybe you prefer simple and straight-to-the-point descriptions. Maybe you are prone to choosing metaphors that come from nature. Or maybe you only ever tell stories in first person. Or maybe you prefer having protagonists who are female. Maybe you like to always add at least a little romance to it. Maybe you use dashes more than most writers.

There are also things you may never write. Perhaps because you dislike profanity, you'll avoid using the f-word. Instead of having sex scenes, you always "fade to black." You almost never write long descriptions. You'll probably never tell a story in omniscient viewpoint. You'll never use a semicolon--you hate them.

How you tend to tell stories also makes up your author voice.

If we pick up a book by Mark Twain, we know what kind of places and people and themes and plots and language to generally expect. Same goes for Jane Austen. Same goes for Rick Riordan. William Faulkner. Dan Brown. C.S. Lewis.

Sure, some may have a wider range than others, but they still have their limits. Jane Austen wouldn't write a Dan Brown book.

In the near future, I'll do a post specifically on the author's voice, with techniques to help you understand yours. For now, let's continue.

The Narrator's Voice

The narrator's voice exists within the author's voice, but it's not exactly the same thing. I may choose to use an essentially invisible omniscient narrator for an adult general fiction book, and then I may choose to use a narrator that breaks the fourth wall in limited third person for a YA romance book. The narrators may sound very different, but they both come from my author voice.

Why?

Because even with different narrators, I'm still the same person. I may still write about similar characters and places with similar themes, and I will still favor certain tropes. I will still add a dash of mystery, even if it's just for a minor subplot. I will still choose not to use the f-word, and I will still choose not to write graphic, violent scenes. 

However, the narrators are different in the simple example that one will break the fourth wall and the other won't. And one can know the thoughts of all the characters simultaneously, and the other can't.

Whether it's The Adventures of Tom Sawyer or The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, the writing still rings of Mark Twain. But they have completely different narrators.

Often these days, the viewpoint character is the narrator, just as Huck Finn is the narrator of his own story. (But he's not Mark Twain.)

Just as any author's voice may take on and move into their narrator's voice, the narrator may actually take on and move into the character's voice. So Daniel Handler(author) takes on the voice of Lemony Snicket(narrator). Markus Zusak(author) takes on the voice of Death(narrator) in The Book Thief. But also, the narrator of Harry Potter will take on Harry's voice--but the story isn't exclusively narrated by Harry. There are scenes where Harry isn't present. An omniscient narrator may possibly dip in and out of a character's voice as he dips in and out of their minds.

Each level can take on the levels below it, but not necessarily the other way around. Tom Sawyer can't put on the voice of the narrator nor the voice of Mark Twain. The only way you can get away with something like this, is if you are doing something unusual, like say having a viewpoint character who breaks the fourth wall and mimics the narrator or author, but that's a highly specific situation.

The Character's Voice

Just as with the other levels, the character also has his or her own perspectives and personality. They have their own culture, identity, dominating emotions, things they like and dislike talking about. They may use slang or get easily distracted or try to sound smarter than they are. The list goes on. Again, they may also be the narrator of the story.

But they still exist within the author's voice.

Why?

Because they themselves and how they show up on the page comes out of the author.

For example, maybe I don't like using profanity. But I have a character who uses coarse language. Since the rest of my story doesn't use profanity, it doesn't take much to get the character's language across. I may only need to throw in one or two swears or naughty phrases, and the point is made. Or alternatively, instead of writing exactly what the character says, I may summarize with something like: "Alfred shared a joke about Jacob's mom." Or, "Alfred swore at the top of his lungs."

But . . . this could also just be the narrator. 

For example, maybe I don't have any problems with profanity, but I'm writing a chapter book for kids. While I might write cusses like sailors in a book for adults, I may choose to narrate the chapter book differently, and I may choose that no character has coarse language.

Harry's voice isn't the exact same as the narrator's voice and neither are the exact same as the author's voice. But the first two are components of the author's voice.

Sometimes the differences aren't obvious at first glance. Both The Hunger Games and The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes have similar narrative voices, which speak to Suzanne Collins's author voice. Even though they both have more straightforward prose and tell their stories in similar ways, each viewpoint character has a different voice simply because the content of what they think is different. Katniss's thoughts aren't Coriolanus's thoughts. Neither work is particularly "voicey" on the page, but each character still has a unique voice because their experiences and worldviews are unique, because they are unique. Because they are unique, they don't speak in the exact same way.

Character voice also exists beyond the viewpoint character. Pretty much every character should have his or her own unique voice, because every character has a unique personality. What they choose to talk about and how they communicate that makes up their unique voice.

Again, for more on character voice (and I guess, to some extent, voice in general) check out: "What You Need to Know Most About Character Voice," "Dos and Don'ts for Writing Your Viewpoint Character's Voice." You can also check out the podcast episode at these links:

Blog Link: https://sachablack.co.uk/2022/02/09/124-how-to-craft-your-writing-voice-with-september-c-fawkes/

YouTube Link: https://youtu.be/WgivPeRR6nQ

Podcast General Link: pod.link/rebelauthor

See you in a future post as we talk more about author voice.

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The Technicalities of Writing Thoughts

On a few occasions, I've been asked how to actually write thoughts on the page in a story. If you are newer to writing, this can be confusing for several reasons (and you'll see why by the end of this article). 

Just to clarify, this post isn't about what makes one passage of introspection better than another, or how to keep a moment of introspection interesting. If you want to learn about that, check out my articles "How to Write Excellent Introspection" and "Breaking Writing Rules Right: 'Never Open with Introspection.'" No, this post is about actually writing character thoughts on the page. Even if you already know how to do that, this topic may be worth a review. And who knows, I might cover some points you didn't know, you didn't know. 

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Participial Time Warps

Today I want to talk about an elusive problem that I see regularly in manuscripts but that almost no one talks about. In fact, every so often, I have to scour the English books and online sources to make sure I'm not the crazy one.

I'm not. (We'll, let's be honest, I am, but . . . yeah 😉)

But it does seem that even textbooks and English teachers don't want to address "participial time warps" very often, and instead just want to address "dangling participials" (another common problem that I'll save for a future post).

What is a participle? Well, first I'll have to address that. And geez, have you ever noticed how English terminology sounds unnecessarily complicated?

Take my earlier post about how to use a semicolon. The "English" definition would be something like "Use a semicolon to connect two independent clauses that are related." But a simpler way to say the same thing is, "Use a semicolon to connect two complete sentences that are related, turning them into one sentence." Most people haven't learned what an "independent clause is," so using an unfamiliar term to explain another unfamiliar term isn't very helpful.

Anyway, sometimes writers unintentionally create "time warps" by misusing participial phrases, such as,

Jumping on the tramp, Alfred went inside for a cookie. 

This is a "time warp." Let me explain why.

What is a Participle? 

At it's most basic form, a participle is a verb word acting as an adjective.

If you don't remember what an adjective is, it is a word that modifies (describes) a noun. "Yellow," "small," "round" are all adjectives.

Sometimes you can take verb words (aka, "action words") and turn them into adjectives by adding -ed or -ing endings. This is a participle. 

The injured dog whined.

"Injured" is a participle, because "injure" is a verb, and it is being used as an adjective to describe a noun ("dog").

She couldn't find her running shoes. 

"Running" is a participle, because "run" is a verb, and it is being used to describe "shoes."

Participial Phrases

But the time warps happen with participial phrases.

Phrases are groups of words that are part of a sentence, and that don't stand or make sense on their own (they lack a subject and a verb). If that's too confusing, don't sweat it. I'll give you some examples.

So a participial phrase is a group of words that uses a participle and modifies (describes) something else.

Jumping on the tramp, Alfred hummed "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."

"Jumping on the tramp" is a participial phrase.

It modifies (describes) Alfred. It uses a "verb phrase" as a description.

Melinda, taking a deep breath, walked to the front of the class.

"Taking a deep breath" is a participial phrase.

A child wearing a mask looked out the window.

"Wearing a mask" is a participial phrase that describes the child.

Matt decided to celebrate, having passed his driver's test. 

"Having passed his driver's test" is also a participial phrase.

You've probably written loads of participial phrases, even if you didn't know that's what they were or exactly how they functioned.

Now we can get to the time warps.

Participial Time Warps

Since the participial phrase is a modifier, not an actual verb, it can create some issues with timelines when misunderstood.

For example,

Jumping on the tramp, Alfred went inside for a cookie.

"Jumping on the tramp" is modifying Alfred but Alfred is going inside for a cookie. How can he be jumping on the tramp when he's going inside? He can't. He must have jumped on the tramp and then went inside.

Alfred jumped on the tramp before he went inside for a cookie.

This fixes the wonky time issue.

Here is another.

"Grab the gun!" I yelled, holding my breath as a cloud of smoke came our way.

You cannot yell and hold your breath at the same time. So this is a problem. But you can easily fix it:

"Grab the gun!" I yelled, then held my breath as a cloud of smoke came our way.

Or

"Grab the gun!" I yelled, and I held my breath as a cloud of smoke came our way.

Here's one another.

Making a sandwich, George ate every bite.

Actually, he probably made the sandwich, and then ate every bite.

And another,

Tiffany, locking her front door, scraped the frost off her windshield.

Now fair warning, there are definitely some gray areas! And you can really drive yourself crazy trying to properly handle all of them.

Putting on her makeup, Jasmine drove to college.

This one can be a little tricky. Most women put on their makeup before driving, but it's actually not uncommon for a woman to put on makeup in the car, while driving. But then "driving" becomes a gray area, because technically, they put it on when at stoplights, not when they are literally pressing the gas pedal. But "drove to college" is kind of all encompassing. It probably means the whole journey to college, including all the stoplights. So maybe she was really putting on her makeup during her drive to college.

"And" can be a slippery one too. Often it means things happen in order.

Jasper washed his face and brushed his teeth.

Clearly he washed his face and then brushed his teeth, not at the same time.

But throw in a participial phrase, and it's a little trickier.

Taking a deep breath, Melinda walked to the front of the class and gave her presentation.

If "Taking a deep breath" is modifying Melinda, does that mean it's still modifying her when she's giving her presentation (which would be an error)? I've looked in textbooks, and I'm actually not sure on the answer. In my prior example, the timeline was sequential, so I lean toward that, but I've heard other opinions.

Unfortunately, the English language, like all languages, is imperfect. It's weird working in the industry and finding all the slippage and gray areas that there aren't definitive answers for.

So don't kill yourself over getting this perfect all the time.

But it doesn't hurt to clarify when you can.

Just watch out for the obvious time warps. Alfred can't be jumping on the tramp the same time he goes into the house for a cookie. 

For further reading on this, you can check out Joshua Essoe's post on it on Grammar Girl. I admit I stole his terminology of "time warp"--it seemed most fitting.

Let me know if you have any specific insight on any gray areas in the comments. I would also argue that context plays a role in clarity.

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When Descriptions Turn Boring . . . (and How to Fix Them)

One time, years ago, I went to a writing conference, and while there, one group of people decided to organize a "first chapter" critique meet-up in the evening, where anyone could come and get feedback. It was great. But one of the people leading it brought up regularly that he hated description. Whenever someone read a description that was longer than two sentences, he commented that he hated description. Seemed a bit erroneous to me. I sort of worried that someone there would take his opinion to heart.

You see, I don't believe that most people hate description.

I believe that most people hate boring description.

A lot of people today blame technology for making readers unable to sit through a passage of description, and they argue that instant gratification has dulled their patience. This is only a half-truth.

Yes, technology plays a role in the way description should be written today, but not because we are all more lazy. Because of accessibility. You see, back in the day, the average person didn't have access to all the information we have now. A reader might not have actually known what a bayou in the South looked, smelled, and sounded like. They might never have been to the desert. They maybe had never tasted wasabi. Or seen a giraffe. Or heard an Irish accent.

Technology has made information and descriptions on these things all more accessible. And yes, more than technology has done this--I mean, I can go to any Japanese restaurant to experience wasabi--it's always there.

This is one of the reasons writers nowadays are sometimes discouraged from writing dialects like Mark Twain did; today, we all know what that accent sounds like. Instead, we just tell the reader they have an accent and then we sprinkle in some regional phrases here and there.

Technology didn't make us lazy (well, maybe it did in some sense); it made us more knowledgeable.

Which means . . .

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Reeling Readers in via Curiosity

A few weeks ago, I did a post on stakes, which also related to hooks. And this year, I've been talking on and off again about pulling the reader into the story by getting them to look forward to what could happen, which is often done by getting the reader to fear or to hope something may happen (and then they have to turn pages to find out if it does). But there is a third way to do this. You make the reader curious.

You make the reader feel like they need more information. You make them want more information.

But this can easily go wrong if you handle it wrong. For example, a lot of beginning writers try to shock their audience, subconsciously thinking that it will be so shocking, the readers have to keep reading. It's like when there is a car accident on the side of the road, and you don't want to see it, but you can't take your eyes off it--that mentality. So you can find a lot of unpublished stories with openings that are unnecessarily graphic, overly sexual, or over-the-top vulgar. These beginning writers are trying to reel the audience in by making them feel like they need more information or they need to see if this continues to be shocking.

It almost never works. And it can even make readers want to stop reading.

That's not to say there are never reasons to open a story with such content, but more often than not, the writer is opening that way without legitimate reasons.

Hooks are so tricky to master largely because most people don't actually understand them, therefore they don't know how to do them consciously and intentionally. And most of the advice on them is seriously lacking (in my opinion). Often when I search for advice on hooks, all I get is something like, "Come up with a line that makes the reader want to read more." Well, I know that already, that's why I know to google hooks in the first place. I want some specific ideas of how to do that, exactly. Hopefully dissecting how hope and fear over what could happen has been as helpful to you as it has been to me.

So today, I want to talk about how to actually do the third one: spark curiosity.

Because sometimes we are reeled in because we are intrigued, and we are looking forward to reading more to get more information.

So how do we create that effect exactly?

Well, here are some specifics.

Pair Contradictions

I talk a lot about utilizing contrasts and contradictions on my blog, so hopefully you guys aren't sick of it, but it's so dang effective and almost no one ever talks about it! But this is exactly one of the ways to get the audience to want to know more. It might even be the most effective.

In my story structure series, I talked about how Into the Spider-verse largely uses contrasts and contradictions as hooks in the opening of the story.

When two opposing things are smashed together, we naturally thirst for more information, an explanation.

Here is an example I made up for another post:

Mom handed me my birthday present, and my stomach dropped.

Birthdays and birthday presents are usually something to be happy and excited about. So, when the protagonist feels negatively about one, we want to know why. It seems like a contradiction.

For years, I've loved this line Dashiell Hammet wrote in The Maltese Falcon.

[Samuel Spade] looked rather pleasantly like a blond satan.

"Pleasant" and "Satan" seem to contradict each other. And the "blond" is just specific enough to make me more curious. So now I want to read to learn how someone can look "pleasantly" like "a blond satan." And I want to learn more about this Samuel Spade.

Contradictions and contrasts are important because they help create specificity (sometimes even in a more literal, philosophical sense than I want to get into for this blog post), and as I've talked about before, the audience needs enough specificity to become invested in the story--to want to read more. Therefore, enough specificity is important for hooks and for reeling the audience in. Contradictions and contrasts create specificity by creating a boundary. For example, Samuel Spade fits somewhere between pleasant and Satan.

The line wouldn't be half as interesting if it was less specific.

Samuel Spade looked like a satan.

Sure, that can still be interesting. And it can still work effectively if the context of how we understand him seems to already contrast that line. But the line and concept in and of itself isn't as interesting anymore.

A lot of times we think we reel the audience in by being vague, but that can actually do the opposite. We need to be specific enough. Writers sometimes try to spark a reader's curiosity by not really saying anything, hoping it will make them want to learn more so they understand. Yes, if done right, this can work well in certain places, like teasers, but being more specific with contrasts is often more effective.

Look at this approach:

Samuel Spade looked pleasant yet unusual, in a strange way. 

Even though it technically still has some contrast (pleasant vs. unusual), it's quite vague. Honestly, it doesn't really hook me. I don't feel the need to learn more.

How about this?

Samuel Spade was blond and looked pleasant. 

This has no contrast and is therefore not as interesting. I mean, you will of course write sentences like this, but when you want to hook a reader and get them invested this doesn't work.

When you pair contrasts and contradictions, the audience will want to know how and why those things go together. Just make sure to deliver on that to some extent so the reader doesn't feel like this is a cheap trick.

Stretch Just Beyond What is Known

A year ago I did a post on how to create a sense of wonder in the modern audience, which I argue is quite different than it was even one hundred years ago. Audiences today often feel wonder most powerfully when they are exposed to something just beyond their understanding, that builds off something they already understand somewhat, as opposed to something that doesn't connect to anything. So you can have whole movies that spend a ton of money on making the film and setting feel magical when the audience is yawning. Or you can have hits like The Martian or Interstellar that stretches us just beyond what we know.

A sense of wonder makes us curious. I mean, that's why it's wonder.

But this can work on a smaller scale to draw audiences in too. You just want to touch beyond what is already known. Naturally, the audience will be curious to want to know more. This can work with speculative fiction, or really, just about any kind of fiction.

In His Dark Materials, everyone has a daemon of the opposite sex. So the protagonist, a girl named Lyra, has a male daemon named Pantalaimon. Daemons are part of a person's soul that lives on the outside of their body and assumes the shape of an animal. So everyone has their daemon from birth. But at one point, we get this line:

Bernie was a kindly, solitary man, one of those rare people whose daemon was the same sex as himself.

Okay, well, that's something just beyond our established understanding of daemons. So now I'm curious to learn more about Bernie. Why is his daemon the same sex as himself? And what does that mean?

But this can happen with a more realistic story as well. You just need to brush beyond what is already known or established as normal. It can happen with setting, character, or even plot.

Peach Days happened every year faithfully, except in 1998.

Okay, well, guess what I'm wondering now? Why not in 1998? I need to read on.

Here is another.

The Big Bang theory has long been accepted by scientists, but today a star was discovered to be older than the Big Bang itself.

This was a real discovery in the news recently. So what did you think I did? I read the article.

In some ways, you could argue this is just another form of contrasting, since we are contrasting something normal or known with something unknown, but I feel that the approach here is a little different, so I think it helps to have the different categories.

Share Something Surprising

When something surprising happens, we want more information. Even if it's a surprise birthday party, after the "Surprise!" everyone wants to talk about how they got to that point. There is the person that talks about almost accidentally giving the surprise away. Or the person that talks about trying to get the birthday person out of the house. Or the birthday person recounting their suspicions. After a surprise, we want a second to take it in and understand it.

In writing, sometimes the surprise is an unexpected response, something unusual that happens, or it may even be an interesting fact or statistic.

It might be Hagrid revealing to Harry that he's a wizard and that his parents didn't die in a car crash (how can you not want more information?). It might be the old guy, the Duke of Weselton, who wants to dance with Elsa in Frozen. It might be a nice meet cute in a romance.

Sometimes it's an interesting statement.

Squirrels are behind most power outages in the U.S.

Well . . . tell me more. I'm curious.

I've never read Gone Girl, but I love its opening line:

When I think of my wife, I always think of her head.

Um . . . what? Not only is that surprising, but it implies something pretty sinister.

Like all hooks, just make sure you don't use the surprise approach as a cheap trick. If anyone is interested, I have a post on surprises in general, here.

Use "Negative Description"

"Negative description" in my terms means when you describe what something is not. When someone tells us what something is not, we almost always want to know soon after what that something is. In other words, it makes us curious. It makes us want to keeping reading or listening for more information.

Tolkien does this in The Hobbit:

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat.

Okay, well, now I'm wondering what kind of hole it is.

Sometimes this is something simple:

Jessica wasn't like other girls her age.

Why not? And how not?

Just make sure you almost always follow up with what that something is, and it almost always needs to be interesting.

Jessica wasn't like other girls her age. The only craft she liked doing was taxidermy.

 Tell me more.

Make a Bold Statement

Bold statements sort of relate to surprises. When someone says something bold, we need more information.

Every man in Toonesbrook was a liar.

Or what about from The Raven Boys:

If Blue was to kiss her true love, he would die. 

That one also plays off the idea of fear.

Or:

I've never liked chocolate. 

Now that is bold. ;)


To be bold, often the statement is unusual or broad-sweeping. "I never liked chocolate," that's unusual. "Every man in Toonesbrook was a liar," that's far reaching. Something that goes against a generally accepted belief or experience is bold.

Employ Non-linear Timelines

Some people may consider this a no-no. After all, we are taught so much to stay in the present. But sometimes jumping around in time briefly, makes us want to know more. We want to know more about how one point in time connected to another. Or we want to know what happened in between.

When I met Sam Bywater, I was unimpressed, but that encounter would go on to haunt me for ten years. 

Or:

Peach Days happened faithfully every year, except last, but this year they had better security.

Or:

I wasn't excited about another boring dentist appointment, but looking back, I'd rather I'd gone and gotten my teeth cleaned--at least then I would have been safe.

Subtext can also be key to writing great hooks and/or reeling audiences in. The second example in this sections suggests something bad happened last year that led to needing more security. "When I think of my wife, I always think of her head" suggests the possibility of murder. So lines like that can make us want to learn more.

In some ways, you can argue that sparking curiosity is just another way we are getting the audience to hope for something. We are getting them to hope for more information. But still, I think it's a little different. When I talked about hope and fear before, I mainly talked about it in relation to the actual story. In these kinds of lines, that may not be the case. Your book may have almost nothing to do with Peach Days, for example. But the line still reels readers in.

Keep in mind that with all hooks, you don't want to throw them everywhere as a cheap trick. You still need to deliver on them most of the time (some would say you need to do it all the time, but I'd argue that point. That's another subject though.). And curiosity hooks alone will only keep an audience for so long, sort of like how a teaser can only sustain an audience for a few pages tops. There needs to be more. Nonetheless, they are an excellent way to draw your readers in.

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Fluttering

Hey everyone! Today we are going to talk about a writing mistake that I see from time to time that I don't believe has an official name, but best-selling author David Farland calls it "fluttering." That sounds about right to me. So I was going to write a whole blog post on this, and then remembered that Dave already did, so I asked permission to share it here, so really, he's the one who's going to talk to us about it today:

Have you ever watched a butterfly in flight and tried to figure out where it will go next? The butterfly will soar three feet in the air, veer left, drop, veer right. It will look as if it’s heading for a flower, then land on a rock.

Of course, it is biologically programmed to do that. It makes it hard for a predator to catch the butterfly when the predator can’t figure out where it is going.

However, some writers “flutter,” too, moving so fast from topic to topic that the reader can’t quite follow the tale. For example, I may find a story where the author says, “It was windy outside. Lola sat down in a chair. At the bar, a customer staggered up from his stool. A rocket blasted off from the spaceport.”

Do you see the problem? Nothing has been created, and the reader’s attention is directed from place to place seemingly at random. What’s even worse is I know that usually such an author will continue to flit about, never describing anything in full.

So when I start a story, I immediately choose to focus. Let’s say that you are trying to create a setting. “It was windy outside” might be a fine way to start, but outside of where? Readers don’t know. We seem to be in a bar a moment later, but the author hasn’t created a bar. How many people are in it? What’s the décor? What does it smell like? What time of day is it? How do we know that it’s windy outside—by the sound of howling wind, by wind blasting through an opened door? There are a dozen questions that need to be answered here before we can go on.

Then “Lola sat down in a chair.” Who is Lola? What does she look, smell, and sound like? What’s her demeanor? How is she dressed? A dozen questions arise before I can really imagined her as a character.

What does the patron getting up from the bar have to do with anything? Is he important to the tale, or just window-dressing?

“A rocket blasted off from the spaceport.” Again, how does the viewpoint character know? Does he feel the ground shaking? Does he see a bright light through the window? Does the roof of the bar rumble as the rocket shoots overhead? We really don’t know because the author here has just narrated the tale, not really used the senses in order to “create” the setting.

So when you begin to describe something, realize that you need to go all in. You need to slow down and focus.

For example, if you’re going to describe a setting, perhaps you could start by letting us see what is in the “near ground”—what’s near at hand for your point of view character. For example, “Nila grasped her knife firmly and sliced some venison from the spit above the campfire, squinting against the bitter smoke.”

You might want to add more details about Nila or what is close at hand, but you could also move to the mid-ground. “The shadows were dark beneath the pines that crowded at the edge of the wood, and in the distance a chorus of wolves began to howl.”

Now, you could spend more time on the woods, describing its scent or the temperature, or you might go into the deep background: “Overhead, a silver crescent moon shimmered among blowing clouds.”

That is the way that I do it, typically. I try to give a setting in a few broad strokes, knowing that I need to fill in details in a page or two, but I get the basics down.

Only when you’ve created a bit of a setting might you start now describing Nila—her clothing, voice, physical description, history, hopes, fears, and so on. But with her, too, I might create her in bits and pieces, giving a general sense at first, then adding details as the story grows.

The important point here is that as an author, you need to think of yourself as something of a movie director. You need to figure out where you are going to point the camera, bring in the sound, and have your characters act. Do it in stages. In other words, you direct the reader’s attention.

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How to Use a Dash—in Fiction Writing

I've been getting more requests to do posts on proper punctuation, and one that a few people have mentioned is the em dash. I actually think this one is a little trickier to use than the semicolon (which I argue is actually one of the easiest), just because the rules surrounding it are more lax. However, like the semicolon, you can pretty much get away with almost never using it.

But a great em dash can be really effective, and sometimes it's just the punctuation mark you're looking for. It's worth noting that em dashes feel more informal. They make the text more casual, which may or may not be what you are looking for.

With that said, let's get started.

For Interruptions

As an editor, one of the most common (but understandable) problems I see with dashes is that the writer uses an ellipsis (. . .) to indicate an interruption instead of a dash. An ellipsis in dialogue means that the speaker sort of just trailed off:

"I don't know. Maybe it's something . . ." she trailed off.

But an em dash means they are cut off.

"I don't know. Maybe it's something--"
"Like an animal? Maybe a bear?" Callie interrupted. 

Interruptions may not always be from another speaker. They can be a sound in the environment:

"If only--"
A police siren suddenly went off. We looked at each other, and then ran pell-mell down the alley.

They can be an action in the environment:

"Now I just need peaches, grapes, apples and--"
A shopping cart crashed into mine.

Sometimes you can even get away with the character's own thoughts interrupting their dialogue if they have a sudden realization.

"I don't know! Maybe it's something like--"
A jaguar, she suddenly realized. Yes, that fit perfectly!

Basically when a character is cut off in dialogue (or in some cases, even thoughts), you should indicate that with an em dash. 

If action interrupts a complete sentence of dialogue, you set it off by em dashes:

"You said"--she wrenched open the car door--"that she would be safe!"

"You said that she would be safe" is a complete sentence, but "she wrenched open the car door" is an action, not a dialogue tag, so technically it should be set off like that example.

For a Sudden Change of Thought

Similarly, your character may sort of "interrupt" themselves in that they may have a sudden change of thought. In that case, use an em dash.

"If only--hey, want to go to dinner?" I asked.

This can sometimes happen out of dialogue if you are in deep viewpoint.

I slowly put down my bag. If only--maybe she'd want to go to dinner.

As a Counterpoint to Parentheses

Em dashes can also function like parentheses . . . but different.

Parentheses imply a sort of aside. I personally think of parentheses as the "whisper" equivalent of writing. It's additional information that is read "quieter," like having a friend whisper something to you when you are at a lecture.

Dashes can set information aside too, but rather than "whisper" it, it's being highlighted. It carries a little more intensity and tends to be read at a faster pace than parentheses. (Even though it may be additional, side information.)

He grabbed every kind of soda he could see--root beer, cream, orange, Dr. Pepper, Pepsi, Sprite, even grape Fanta--and piled them into his shopping basket.

Notice how this has a slightly slower, less intense feel when in parentheses:

He grabbed every kind of soda he could see (root beer, cream, orange, Dr. Pepper, Pepsi, Sprite, even grape Fanta) and piled them into his shopping basket.

Dashes are also a little different in that if you use a dash to set off the beginning or end part of a sentence, you don't need a second one. You only need two when you're setting off something in the middle of a sentence.

He grabbed every kind of soda he could see--root beer, cream, orange, Dr. Pepper, Pepsi, Sprite, even grape Fanta. He piled them into his shopping basket.

Or

Root beer, cream, orange, Dr. Pepper, Pepsi, Sprite, even grape Fanta--he grabbed every kind of soda he could see. He piled them into his shopping basket.

With parentheses, you always need to close them.

He grabbed every kind of soda he could see (root beer, cream, orange, Dr. Pepper, Pepsi, Sprite, even grape Fanta). He piled them into his shopping basket.

And you typically don't start a sentence with parentheses, unless the entire sentence is in parentheses.

For Quick Emphasis

Similar to the last section, you can also use em dashes for quick impact.

You can use a dash to highlight or emphasize a single word.

There was only one place he dreamed of being--Hawaii

This can also work in places where parentheses typically won't (which is why I'm putting this in its own section).

Hawaii--it was the only place he dreamed of being.

Of course, you can do this with more than one word.

Joshua had two loves in life--Lucy and tater tots. 

To Help Readability

Dashes can also be used to help make a sentence easier to read. This is usually done when a phrase set off by commas has a lot of its own commas within it.

When the medicine arrived, about two months, three stomach aches, five headaches, and six sleepless nights later, she felt so sick, she didn't know if she could keep the pills down, so she begged to be taken back to the hospital. 

-->

When the medicine arrived--about two months, three stomach aches, five headaches, and six sleepless nights later--she felt so sick, she didn't know if she could keep the pills down, so she begged to be taken back to the hospital.

Like a lot of things in writing, you can argue that some of these sections overlap (because can't this dashed part just be put in parentheses? Or be considered an interruption?).

For Missing Text

This is sort of outdated and not something I recommend using except in special circumstances.

Sometimes the em dash is used to show that certain text has been left out. If you read some older books, like some of the classics, you may notice em dashes are used to avoid giving specific dates or names.

For example, in Jane Eyre, you will find text like this:

Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield, near Millcote, ----shire.

Which is meant to say the place is called something shire.

Or you may find dates like this:

19----

So the story avoids giving a specific year.

Fiction today doesn't usually do that.

The em dash can also be used this way when the text is unknown. The only way I can see this working in fiction today, is if your character found a paper or something that was damaged so they could not make out the words properly. You might would write the note like this:

My dear ------,
Please come to m---- at t---- and bring ------
Sincerely,
----t

When used this way, two em dashes denote part of a missing word and three em dashes denote a whole word is missing.

It's completely possible to go through your whole writing career and never need to use em dashes this way.

Hyphens vs. En Dashes vs. Em Dashes

When people talk about "dashes," they are almost always talking about the em dash, which is what this whole article has been about, but there is also the en dash and the hyphen. En dashes are shorter than em dashes and hyphens are shorter than en dashes.

Hyphen (-), en dash (–), and em dash (—)

An en dash is about as long as the letter "n" and an em dash is about as long as the letter "m" (which is where they get their names).

The differences between the hyphen and the en dash can get a little fuzzy in the industry, so I'm going to pull from the The Chicago Manual of Style (which is what fiction uses) website and let them explain it.

The hyphen connects two things that are intimately related, usually words that function together as a single concept or work together as a joint modifier (e.g., tie-in, toll-free call, two-thirds).

The en dash connects things that are related to each other by distance, as in the May–September issue of a magazine; it’s not a May-September issue, because June, July, and August are also ostensibly included in this range. And in fact en dashes specify any kind of range, which is why they properly appear in indexes when a range of pages is cited (e.g., 147–48). En dashes are also used to connect a prefix to a proper open compound: for example, pre–World War II.

You probably don't need to worry too much about the differences between a hyphen and an en dash, so I don't recommend stressing about it. Just know they are different, and you can look them up if you really need to. And definitely don't go walking around like you are smarter than everyone because you can tell the difference between hyphens, en dashes, and em dashes.

How to Properly Write an Em Dash

You may notice now that you don't actually have an em dash key on your keyboard. You have a hyphen. This often gets used as both a hyphen and an en dash. To denote an em dash, you hit that key twice (--); today, most word processors will automatically turn that into an em dash (—).

In the traditional, standard manuscript format, em dashes are written as --. This is in part because SMF uses a Courier font, where every character is the same width, so technically a hyphen is going to look the same as an em dash, so you need to use two hyphens to indicate an em dash. You can also use two hyphens to indicate an em dash when automatic reformatting is unavailable. You've probably noticed on my blog that I usually use -- for my em dashes. My blogging platform does not reformat them to em dashes, and I have much better things to do than copy and paste them all in. Besides, there is nothing "wrong" with using --, technically speaking. It's just if something is going to be professionally printed, you should use —.

In fiction, there should be no spaces before or after the em dash.

Wrong:

He grabbed every kind of soda he could see — root beer, cream, orange, Dr. Pepper, Pepsi, Sprite, even grape Fanta — and piled them into his shopping basket.

Correct:

He grabbed every kind of soda he could see—root beer, cream, orange, Dr. Pepper, Pepsi, Sprite, even grape Fanta—and piled them into his shopping basket.

Also Fine:

He grabbed every kind of soda he could see--root beer, cream, orange, Dr. Pepper, Pepsi, Sprite, even grape Fanta--and piled them into his shopping basket.

(But reformat for professional printing)

And that's about all you need to know about em dashes for fiction writing.

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The Story Shape that Permeates Just About Everything

I've been working on a scene this last week for my next book, and it's been giving me some grief, so last Thursday I decided to sit down and focus on figuring out why I was having such a difficult time getting it on the page. (The starting of the scene came fine, but then I got to a section that was not coming together.) Some of the reasons I knew right away. The magic system in and of itself is innately difficult to write about, because of the subject matter I chose it to be about (and the lack of vocabulary we have about said subject within the English language doesn't help). I had certain plot restrictions and subtext I needed to get on the page with a careful hand, which can be really tricky if I don't want it to be annoying or blatant. And finally, I realized this section, of perhaps a half-dozen paragraphs, needed a Freytag Pyramid to work right.

You see, we often talk about the Freytag Pyramid as an overall story structure. Sure, we can talk about plot point, midpoints, and more advanced forms of story structure, but at the bare bones, a story needs to follow Freytag's Pyramid (you've heard me talk about this before). Rising action, climax, falling action. Don't underestimate the basics people! I run into writers once in a while that mock Freytag's Pyramid today, because of its simplicity. But just about every successful story structure today fits within that bare bone structure.

The longer I work in this industry, the more I realize that this structure doesn't just fit overall story structure. It fits just about everywhere in smaller sizes. As I wrote about in another post, it fits into almost every single scene. Right now I'm watching Stranger Things, and guess what? Basically every scene follows that same shape in some way: setup, rising action, climax, falling action. It's just shorter.

What's crazy is that this isn't limited to writing. Freytag's Pyramid is all over the place. You can find it in dance performances: setup, rising action, climax, falling action. You can find it in music: setup rising action, climax, falling action. You can find it . . . elsewhere ;) (hey, if I didn't acknowledge it, I knew someone would be stuck thinking it). You can find it within relationships. You can find it in storms. You can find it when you are getting groceries in the grocery store. It seems to permeate just about everything in the universe, even our sun's life cycle.

I know what you are thinking: AGAIN?! But just hang with me and read the article.

In writing, it happens over and over again. Sometimes even within paragraphs, which was exactly what my scene needed. Heck, it can even happen within sentences. Freytag's Pyramid has motion. And sometimes when I feel a scene or a part of a scene starting to go stagnant, it's because it doesn't have that shape.

Now, does Freytag's Pyramid literally need to be in everything? Of course not. There are always exceptions.

But it can happen on a very small scale.

It can happen within dialogue of a scene:

Setup

SHERLOCK: Molly, please, without asking why, just say these words.

MOLLY: What words?

SHERLOCK: I love you.

MOLLY: Leave me alone.

Rising Action

SHERLOCK: Molly, no, please, no, don’t hang up! Do not hang up!

MOLLY: Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me?

SHERLOCK: Please, I swear, you just have to listen to me.

SHERLOCK: Molly, this is for a case. It’s ... it’s a sort of experiment.

MOLLY: I’m not an experiment, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK: No, I know you’re not an experiment. You’re my friend. We’re friends. But ... please. Just ... say those words for me.

MOLLY: Please don’t do this. Just ... just ... don’t do it.

SHERLOCK: It’s very important. I can’t say why, but I promise you it is.

MOLLY: I can’t say that. I can’t ... I can’t say that to you.

SHERLOCK: Of course you can. Why can’t you?

MOLLY: You know why.

SHERLOCK: No, I don’t know why.

MOLLY: Of course you do.

SHERLOCK: Please, just say it.

MOLLY: I can’t. Not to you.

SHERLOCK: Why?

MOLLY: Because ... because it’s true.

MOLLY: Because ... it’s ... true, Sherlock.

MOLLY: It’s always been true.

SHERLOCK: Well, if it’s true, just say it anyway.

MOLLY: You b------

SHERLOCK: Say it anyway.

MOLLY: You say it. Go on. You say it first.

SHERLOCK: What?

MOLLY: Say it. Say it like you mean it.

SHERLOCK: I-I ...

SHERLOCK: I love you.

SHERLOCK: I love you.

SHERLOCK: Molly?

SHERLOCK: Molly, please.

Climax

MOLLY: I love you.

Falling Action

(Both John and Mycroft heave out noisy sighs of relief. Sherlock also sighs and buries his head in both hands. In her kitchen, Molly closes her eyes. She puts the phone down and raises both hands to her mouth.)

It can happen within an action:

(I'm using a poem for this one. Brackets mine. Also, FYI, you aren't actually supposed to pause at the end of each line when reading poetry, unless it has a natural pause there.)

Kissing a Horse [Also, in a lot of poems, the setup happens in the title.]
By Robert Wrigley

Of the two spoiled, barn-sour geldings
we owned that year, it was Red—
skittish and prone to explode
even at fourteen years—who’d let me
hold to my face his own [<--setup][rising action-->]: the massive labyrinthine
caverns of the nostrils, the broad plain
up the head to the eyes. He’d let me stroke
his coarse chin whiskers and take
his soft meaty underlip
in my hands, [<--the description, the detail, leads up to the moment] press my man’s carnivorous
kiss to his grass-nipping upper half of one [<-- climax] [falling action -->], just
so that I could smell
the long way his breath had come from the rain
and the sun, the lungs and the heart,
from a world that meant no harm.

I consider that section the falling action, because it shows the consequences and changes from the climax.

It can happen with a single brief subject in a paragraph:

(This is a prose poem I wrote for my poetry class in college years ago. Poems are easy to grab as small-scale examples.)


Considering the Pointe Shoes
By September C. Fawkes

Whoever called them slippers, never put them on. Those boxes of cloth and glue, cage your toes and stink of fabric scraps and string bits. The ribbons snake around your ankles. The shanks jab into your soles as you, with duck feet, waddle to the wings, a hollow clunk, clunk, clunk. I once smiled when I jammed my feet inside—it was something revered, wearing Pointe shoes; something I have done more than once, more than twice, more than three years. I pressed my silk sneakers into the floor, held my breath as my insides fluttered, and, tensing my muscles, elevated to my toes, lifted one foot, and balanced in passé while my palm hovered over the ballet barre. One time at a theatre I watched a ballerina glide across the stage and leap into the air. The Pointe shoes curved in crescents, molding to her feet like leather. For a moment we all soared with her: the audience, the usher, the technician in the control box; our chins lifted, our eyes shining, our lips slightly parted. Everything silent and serene, like the flight of a falcon bathed in sunlight.


I feel kind of weird talking about my own work to you guys, but hopefully this illustrates the point. The title sets us up for the subject matter of the paragraph. The paragraph starts with sort of "first experiences" or "beginning" experiences with Pointe shoes. It then rises from walking around in Pointe shoes to actually practicing them at a ballet barre, then the climax happens when we see a professional ballerina in them on stage.

When talking about processes or working within descriptions a nice trick to use is an extended metaphor that is introduced, then rises, then climaxes. In here, I tried to use bird and bird-like terms that way:

cage your toes
you, with duck feet, waddle
held my breath as my insides fluttered
my palm hovered
I watched a ballerina glide
For a moment, we all soared
like the flight of a falcon

So we move from being caged, to walking around with duck feet, to fluttering, to hovering, to gliding, to soaring, to flying like a falcon.

But on a smaller scale, there are other rising actions. Notice the progression within a single sentence.


I once smiled when I jammed my feet inside—it was something revered, wearing Pointe shoes; something I have done more than once, more than twice, more than three years.

When working on the small scale, you can also create Freytag's Pyramid within beats and rhythm.

Here is another poem I wrote for that same class that is essentially nothing more than a description of a candy shop. (Remember you don't pause at the end of the lines, unless it naturally happens. If you do, it will change the rhythm and may not illustrate my point.)


Sweets
By September C. Fawkes

Where the door jingles open
with a greeting and shuts with a creaking,
an assortment of jelly beans—
yellow, blue, green, red, purple,
striped, swirled, speckled,
very cherry, French vanilla, tutti fruitti,
lemon drop, and Dr. Pepper
—burst from jars,

suckers, Congo squares, saltwater
taffy spill out of baskets,
and the heavy scent of cocoa
hangs in the air.

Where saliva thickens and greedy
customers grasp handfuls
of licorice and lollipops,

wrappers wrinkle, crinkle and twist,
glisten like linoleum, and are peeled
away like wax.

Where English toffees crunch, cementing
teeth shut, and truffles melt
across the tongue like dark velvet—
so rich it make your mouth tingle,

where bags and boxes are bunched together,
where the tinkling of glass containers permeate the room,

where sticky fingers dig
into pockets, seek change for chews,
chocolates, brownies, bon-bons, butter
cups, caramels, candied apples, coated nuts,
and haystacks,

sits a man. With white hair, creases in his face,
bifocals on the bridge of his nose, and donning
a sugar-stained apron.


This is a little trickier to talk about (especially since I'm not musical), because its the beats. Hopefully (if college me did a good enough job), you can hear a kind of crescendo. Particularly at the climax:

where sticky fingers dig
into pockets, seek change for chews,
chocolates, brownies, bon-bons, butter
cups, caramels, candied apples, coated nuts,
and haystacks,

sits a man.


And then the falling action sounds much calmer (calmer than any other stanza):

sits a man. With white hair, creases in his face,
bifocals on the bridge of his nose, and donning
a sugar-stained apron.


But still, you could break this process down further and look at smaller pieces, like within just the first stanza, which is actually not even a full sentence:

Where the door jingles open
with a greeting and shuts with a creaking,
an assortment of jelly beans—
yellow, blue, green, red, purple,
striped, swirled, speckled,
very cherry, French vanilla, tutti fruitti,
lemon drop, and Dr. Pepper
—burst from jars,

Notice the rhythm before the first comma seems rather calm. When we get to describing the actual jelly beans, it becomes more intense; this is in part because of the names, but it's also in part because it's such a long list. We aren't used to lists going on that long in creative writing, so it carries a kind of tension (when is it going to end?). It also moves from general to specific: yellow, blue --> tutti fruitti, lemon drop, and Dr. Pepper. General words often carry less . . . weight? (Not sure on the word.) Than specific words. General words are more . . . invisible, than specific words, so they pack less punch.

When writing a book, you can create similar effects, increasing the intensity in beat and rhythm as a sort of "rising action" before you hit the musical climax.

Anyway, needless to say, once I realized my paragraphs weren't working in part because they needed Freytag's Pyramid shaped within them (in my case, these paragraphs are describing an important, significant process so I couldn't skimp out on it), things got better from there. I mostly have that figured out now.

Do you really need to be this detailed and intense? Not necessarily. I just sat back and wrote down what wasn't working in order to figure out how to make it better. And in that situation, that was one of the things I needed. But I certainly think it's helpful to be aware of how Freytag's Pyramid works on the small scale and can be something we can utilize.

Unfortunately, neither of my poems that I shared today were ever picked up by any magazines when I sent them out years ago, but I'm still happy with how they turned out (even if I do see some potential flaws in them), so it was nice to finally share them with someone outside my college's English department.


P.S. Another way to look at this might be tension --> release, tension --> release, if that works for your brain more. But for me, that's too linear and not specific enough. Tension and release isn't enough to make the story work. You need to build up the tension. And often you need to set the stage. So I like setup, rising action, climax, falling action. Although in some cases, the falling action may be cut off.

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Breaking Writing Rules Right: "Don't Use Passive Voice"

You may have heard the advice that you shouldn't write in passive voice. You may have even been reprimanded for doing so. But passive voice isn't always a bad thing. So let's talk about what the rule is, why it's a rule, and when to break it.

What's the Rule?

Passive voice has to do with sentence structure, not word choice. Some people get confused and think any sentence with a to-be verb in it is passive. This is not the case. Every passive sentence will naturally have a to-be verb in it, but not every sentence with one is passive.

In passive voice, the subject of the sentence is acted upon. For example:

Tony was bitten by the cat.

The wagons were pulled by oxen.

The carpet was ruined.

My bike was stolen.

Cannibalism is frowned upon by most societies.

Notice that in each of these, something is happening to the subject, the subject isn't doing the action. Also notice how every sentence requires a to-be verb in it.

Tony(subject) was bitten(action done) by the cat(what did the action).

The wagons(subject) were pulled(action done) by oxen(what did the action).

The carpet(subject) was ruined(action done).

 My bike(subject) was stolen(action done).

Cannibalism(subject) is frowned(action done) upon by most societies.

 Active voice is what we typically write in, where the subject is doing the action.

The cat bit Tony.

The oxen pulled the wagons.

Jared stole my bike.

Most societies frown upon cannibalism.

 Generally writers are discouraged from using passive voice.

Why it's a Rule

Active voice leads to stronger sentences. Reading about being acted upon, along with all those to-be verbs can make writing feel weak and wordy. Just imagine what it would be like if you sustained it for very long.

Tony was bitten by the cat. A band-aid was found by his mother and put on by his father. Cats are considered a common pet. Tony's hand had been marred by teeth punctures. The cat was no longer wanted.

Annoying, isn't it?

Passive voice can also reverse the way people naturally think. When reading "Tony was bitten by the cat," they have to imagine the cat biting Tony.

Active voice naturally carries more power. "The cat bit Tony" is more interesting. Generally speaking, we want to read stories that feel alive and active, not stories about people and things simply being acted upon.

Finally, passive voice can feel more indirect and non-specific. "The carpet was ruined." Great. But who or what ruined it?

When to Break it

1. We don't know who performed the action.

Maybe no one knows that Jared is the person who stole the bike. In that case it might be best to write "My bike was stolen."

However, an alternative to that is to say, "Someone stole my bike."

Some people oppose words like "someone" or "something" because they are non-specific. Personally, I don't think they are any worse than passive voice.

2. Who performed the action is irrelevant or unimportant.

Maybe we know who performed the action, but it's no one important to the story or the situation at hand, a character or thing so minor that to mention them specifically would be to draw too much attention to them.

"The vending machine had been restocked."

3. You want to emphasize what's being acted upon or what's being acted upon is more important than the actor.

Passive voice changes the emphasis in a sentence. So maybe a cat bit Tony. Great. That's active. But what if Tony has Hemophilia so his blood doesn't clot? (This is a BIG cat apparently.) Suddenly the fact he was acted upon and bitten is a lot more important.

"Tony was bitten by the cat" puts the emphasis on Tony and his state.

4. To avoid revealing responsibility.

The most common example of this is, "Mistakes were made." Great. Who made the mistakes? We don't know. That's the point.

HOWEVER, this shouldn't be your approach for concealing contextual information from the reader. If you are regularly doing this to try to conceal who is doing what in a scene or story, you are probably writing false tension by being vague. That's not good.

But you can use it effectively to imply or communicate indirectly. 

5. Stylistic flow

Imagine writing a paragraph about a ball. Sometimes you want to use passive voice to keep the flow of the passage or to help transition into a new passage more smoothly. We just spent several sentences talking about a ball, so writing "The ball was kicked" flows better than pulling in an actor we haven't been focusing on.


Passive voice has now been explained to you. ;)

Is it really such a bad thing? Not if you use it sparingly and for the right situations.

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How to use the Thesaurus Properly

Some authors say to never use a thesaurus. But guess what? I use one all the time--every week, often every day. Sometimes it's when I'm editing others' manuscripts but always when I'm writing fiction, and on occasion even for my blog posts.

Why do some authors say that?

Because a lot of people in the world use the thesaurus wrong.

At least when it comes to actual writing.

The other day I was gassing up my car while the screen on the Chevron pump advertised to me. One of the features they have at these Chevron pumps is a "Word of the Day" feature--one of my pet peeves that I love to hate. You may have heard me complain about them on here. The "Word of the Day" feature is practically useless.

Why?

Because they almost always highlight words that are useless. They're so rare, so specific, or so convoluted that they actually have no real life (or real writing) value.

Take one I'm looking at on a website right now.

Squiz

Have you ever heard of that word?

I haven't. And I spend A LOT of time with words.

So I click on it.

First thing I notice, this is actually an informal Australian word. That's what it says, right on the page.

So if you are one of my international followers (love you guys ;) you may have heard of this word. But for us here in the U.S. the word is essentially useless to know (unless of course we are working on something that relates to Australia)

If I use it in one of my stories, it'd be like me writing "trainers" instead of "sneakers" when the rest of my story is written in American English. It doesn't work. It doesn't make sense.

Okay, so let's see what the word actually means.

to peer at quickly and closely

Great. (If you are Australian.) But instead of using a word that most of my audience (which is in the U.S.) has never heard of before, why not just use these: scan, notice, consider, study, scrutinize, glance, inspect . . . or peer itself.

Sure, they don't mean the exact same thing, but if needed, I can always add an adverb to capture it.

Angelica quickly inspected the advertisement.

Boom. Done. Now my target audience knows what's going on.

See, a lot of people approach the thesaurus completely wrong: They use it to find rarer and more convoluted words, because they think it makes them sound smarter and like they are an amazingly educated writer. (For the record, I'm convinced this is a normal phase that writers go through when learning to write.)

But writing is a collaboration between the writer and reader. If the author is literally writing for themselves--even into the details--then the story isn't as powerful. This is especially true when handling emotion in your story. Writers writing for themselves will try to write how they feel about that scene to render emotion, but more experienced writers know you need to instead focus on writing what will actually elicit those feelings in the audience.

Here is how NOT to use a thesaurus:

Tiffy is writing a novel.

Tiffy decides to use the thesaurus to come up with "a better word."

Tiffy replaces the phrase "facial expression" with "physiognomy."

And "breakfast" with "jentacular"

No!

This puts the audience at a distance and disadvantage. And it does more than that. It changes the pacing and tone of the passage--and probably in ways you don't want. 

Here is how to use a thesaurus properly:

Max is writing a short story.

Max could use the word "looked,"  but it's a little vague and doesn't capture the moment as accurately.

Max decides to use the thesaurus to find a more accurate word the reader is familiar with and that will convey more than "looked" does.

Max replaces "looked" with "scrutinized."

Way to go Max!

When and How to use the Thesaurus

1. Use the thesaurus when you can't remember or come up with the EXACT word you are looking for.

Hmmmm something like "dance" but more happy . . . --> Prance

2. Use the thesaurus when you are looking for a word that carries a more accurate, more powerful, or more telling connotation or definition. (This can be important in voice, tone, style, humor, subtext, undercurrents, and evoking emotion.)

Fat --> Plump

3. Use the thesaurus to find stronger verbs or to replace an adverb + verb combination (as long as the results aren't unfamiliar to the reader)

Pulled hard --> Yanked 

4. Use the thesaurus to find a shorter, simpler, or more common word when you need to speed up pacing

Galloped --> Ran

5. Use the thesaurus to avoid awkward repetition of the same word.

He looked over and into the look on her face. --> He looked over and into her expression.

6. Use the thesaurus to find the right word for the beat or rhythm. 

[The yellow fog] Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and . . . ?

-->

[The yellow fog] Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

Different Synonym = Different Meaning

When you run across words that seem to mean the same thing, look up the dictionary definition of each and see how they are different if you don't know. This will help keep the integrity of what you are trying to convey and allow you to write with more precision. Most synonyms are different in some way--which is why they're different words. 

For example, "twilight" is a synonym for "sunset," but they don't actually mean the exact same thing. 

"Sunset" is when the sun is setting. "Twilight" is when the sun has just set. 

Other times the differences aren't dictionary related, but in their connotations.

"Stubborn" carries different emotional impact than "steadfast," even though their dictionary definitions may be the same. Which conveys the connotation you want? "Stubborn" is often used negatively. "Steadfast" is more positive.

When you first start really trying to write with precision, it can feel like a nightmare. I remember back in college sitting down on a short story assignment and deciding I was really going to pick precise, strong words like my professor talked about. 

It was so hard. 

In fact, for a while, I thought this would be how I always felt writing. 

But it passed and I'm far better off. (And have been using the thesaurus ever since that assignment.)

Wait, some of you might be saying, then doesn't that excuse some of the blunders--because I'm writing so specifically when I say "squiz"???

Like all writing "rules" there is a give and take. "Galloped" is more specific than "ran," however, if pacing is a bigger priority than specificity in that moment, then you sure better go with "ran." 

This was also something I struggled with a bit in college when I took my poetry class, after I'd committed to using precise language. I'd pick the exact right word. I remember in my first critique my professor said she wanted me to pay more attention to sound, beat, and rhythm (I mean, I guess those are sorta important in poetry ;) So sometimes those had to be prioritized over specificity. You might have to compromise in some places. 

Wait, then what's the point in learning all this if it's not set in stone? you might ask. 

Because you can't learn and understand when to do what and how x makes y more powerful until you understand and follow the guidelines.

Now go forth and use the thesaurus properly! (At least when you need it.)

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