What is a Deus ex Machina? Why is it "Bad" Writing?

What is a Deus ex Machina? 

In writing, a deus ex machina happens when something (character, object, ability, event) suddenly resolves a seemingly unsolvable situation, usually at or near the climax. The "something" is unexpected or unlikely, coming out of nowhere.

The term deus ex machina is Latin and translates into "god from the machine." It references ancient Greek theater, where a god character would be lowered on a crane (machine), or raised through a trapdoor on a riser (machine), to resolve the story's problem. This pulls the story toward its conclusion.

Deus ex Machina Examples

Some examples of a deus ex machina include:

- A powerful, skilled minor character who abruptly shows up to save the protagonist by defeating the antagonist at the end.

- A protagonist suddenly finding a magical object that defeats the antagonist.

- An unexpected rainstorm that puts out a fire surrounding the heroes' homes.

- A character who abruptly reveals she's the sharpest shooter in the region, and she can make the unlikely, extremely difficult shot that will definitively thwart the antagonist.

- A pack of wolves charging into the clearing to take out the bad guy at just the right moment.

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Why You Should be Cautious with Beat Sheets

Beat sheets are amazing tools that can guide you to write a great story, but unfortunately, they also have their pitfalls. For those unfamiliar with the term, a beat sheet is like a story template, and it can help you brainstorm and/or map out a sturdy structure for your story--generally speaking, anyway. Some of the most famous beat sheets are Save the Cat!, The Hero's Journey, and 7 Point Story Structure (depending on the version you are using). There are also beat sheets for writing romance (Romancing the Beat by Gwen Hayes has a great one).

These guides walk you through the beats--the moments that move the story forward--so that you can use them to shape your own more-likely-to-be-successful story.

Though, I must admit, the term "beat" is a bit of an ambiguous one in the writing community, as it gets used both for parts of the whole narrative arc, and for tiny parts that exist in scenes, and people define the term in different ways (which isn't very helpful when you are learning). Some people argue beats are plot points, others say they are shifts in emotions or tone. And sometimes in a screenplay, the word is used to denote a pause. So yes, another ambiguous writing term to add to the list. But anyway . . . 

Beat sheets can also be useful when learning about story structure, what happens when and how (and sometimes, why).

And some people are rather religious about beat sheets in the writing community. There are many people who will speak as if every story needs to follow this specific beat sheet, and they will try to fit every story that's been successful into that beat sheet.

While many successful stories will--actually--fit multiple beat sheets, not all of them will fit a popular beat sheet.

Beat sheets are super helpful, but I also feel like they have damned a lot of stories, writers, and to some degree, even the writing community itself.

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Breaking Writing Rules: "Never Start with a Character Waking Up"

There are so many wrong ways to start a story, or even just a scene, and one of the common "wrong" ways is to open with a character waking up. It's even more "wrong" if the character then goes about his or her ordinary routine--shower, clothes, breakfast, commute. And yet, we've all seen and read stories, or scenes, that start, more or less, this way. So what gives? Why is it a "don't"? And when and how can we make it a "do"? In today's post, I want to go through just that.

What's the Rule?

Don't open a story or scene with a character waking up. Furthermore, don't then have the character go about her ordinary day.

Why it's a Rule

There are several reasons why this is a rule:

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2 Rules of Thumb for Breaking Writing Rules

In the writing world, there are a lot of writing "rules": "Show, don't tell," "Don't use flashbacks," "Only use 'said,'" "Avoid adverbs" . . . While they can certainly be helpful, they aren't law. And if you've been with me for a while, you'll know that I love figuring out how to properly break just about any writing rule. I mean, I only have a whole section in my Writing Tip Index dedicated specifically to rule breaks.

Lately though, I've been thinking about two rules of thumb that can be used to justify breaking almost any writing rule. And really, they merit their own article.

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Breaking Writing Rules Right: "Don't Write Direct Dialogue!"

Over the years, I've done a lot of posts on dialogue, in part because when I went searching for a deeper understanding on the topic, I didn't find a lot of material. One of the recurring things I did find though, was about writing indirect dialogue. And this is absolutely one of the best places to start, when learning how to craft better dialogue. Dialogue should always be saying and doing more than what's on the page.

Almost always, anyway.

Naturally, this means incorporating indirection.

Which plays closely into subtext.

But a few times I've been asked, when is it okay to use direct dialogue? For this post, I have at least four answers.

What's the Rule?

Don't write direct dialogue!

Why it's a Rule

Usually the best dialogue considers what the character doesn't say, and how. In other words, subtext. When subtext happens, the dialogue is bigger than what's on the page--a quality that seems to be key to drawing in readers and writing a great story.

And in reality, most of us do talk indirectly. And we are always revealing more about ourselves than what we say (whether or not we want to). Interestingly, the more powerful emotions we feel, the more indirect we tend to be.

Indirect dialogue also holds more tension. (This again draws us in.)

On the flip side, direct dialogue releases tension, something we rarely want to do.

And when we talk about powerful emotions directly (and disproportionately), they can actually lose power. This is one of the many facets of the "show, don't tell" rule. Talking about powerful emotions directly in dialogue, labels, or in other words, "tells" them, which usually is not as satisfying as showing them so they can be experienced by the reader.

Direct dialogue also means one-dimensional dialogue. What you see (or read), is what you get. This turns the reader into more of a spectator, instead of a participator, in the story (and we want participation).

But a lot of beginning writers write direct dialogue--we probably all did. Writing indirect dialogue is a skill--it takes study and practice (and more practice).

In case anyone isn't quite sure what I mean about direct vs. indirect, here is a quick example:

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Breaking Writing Rules Right: "Never Open with Introspection"

The idea for this post has been floating around in the back of my mind for a while now, and this last week when I eagerly cracked open the newest Hunger Games book, Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, and read the first eight pages, I knew it was time to write it. (Plus, let's be honest, I just wanted an excuse to write about a new Hunger Games book) (And don't worry, no spoilers here.)

Almost the entire first eight pages are introspection. And they work so, so well.

. . . like lots of other published books that open with introspection.

And yet time and time again, writers are told to not do this. So what gives? Is Suzanne Collins just such a money-maker now that she can do whatever she wants? (Maybe.) Is she just so famous she doesn't need to care about writing rules? (I hope not!)

So why does it work?

I shall count the ways. (Many of which you can use in any story opening or passage of introspection to make them stronger.)

But first, let's discuss the rule.

What's the Rule?

The Rule:

Never open a story with a long chunk of introspection.

Why it's a Rule

Many beginning writers love (and I mean, love) starting a book with big chunks of introspection. Sometimes it feels so natural, they don't even realize they are doing it.

And what can be even worse, is that often the viewpoint character isn't doing anything--literally. He or she may be sitting on a rock, thinking. Or taking a shower, thinking. Or lying in bed, thinking.

There are quite a few reasons why this is a problem.

First, the story lacks a sense of immediacy. Because nothing is actually happening. There is literally nothing important happening in the present.

Second, when most learning writers write introspection, it has the viewpoint character focusing on the past.

Oh sure, the past may sound interesting (*cough cough* to the writer *cough cough*), because it often relays what led to the present and who the character is today (even if there doesn't seem to be anything important going on . . . "today").

For the writer, it usually feels awesome writing the character thinking about his or her past--he or she is so interesting! (To the writer.) And surely his or her past is so riveting! (To the writer.)

And the writer needs to know his or her past usually to start the story, to boot.

I'm pretty sure all of us have done this at some point. 🙋‍♀️

But the reality is, for the reader, opening with a big chunk of writing about a character sitting and doing nothing and thinking about the past isn't interesting.

Like I talked about in my flashbacks article, the past is only usually interesting when it clearly links to something in the present, or better yet, future, that needs addressing--when the past provides meaningful context to the present or helps solve a current problem. But in the opening, the reader doesn't know the character nor his or her current, significant problems, so going immediately to the past is not very effective.

This is doubled by the fact that the past has already happened--it's done, it's over. Therefore, it holds little to no tension or stakes, because nothing can be changed. Not only does it not draw the reader in innately, but it can become boring because the past has nothing at risk.

The reader doesn't care about the past until he or she cares about the present. And they won't care about the character's past, until he or she cares about the character.

(Generally speaking, of course.)

But wait--there's more!

When writing a character's thoughts--they are often told in "telling" ways. After all, that's how we think. (Well, at least when we put our thoughts into language--in real life some thoughts don't actually make it to language.) And in the hands of a beginning writer, telling can be even more boring--because often beginning writers haven't learned how and when to tell well, yet. (Which is fine, we all start in the beginning). So not only is it boring, but it's vague and non-immersive for the reader.

All of these things combined, lead to slow pacing. Nothing is happening in the present. There is no real tension or risk. The past has already happened. All the writing is told. The audience struggles to care about the character . . .

And all of these things together and--look! Let's watch that new show on Netflix instead of reading. (*closes book*)

And because so many unpublished authors want to start a story this way, it's often preached to never open with long chunks of introspection.

Don't forget, most of what people read are published stories--which means they haven't seen the hundreds or thousands of stories that people who read unpublished stories have. Most of the "writing rules" come from navigating the realm of unpublished stories--because that's where you see most of the problems manifested. By the time something is published, most of the major problems are all sorted (hopefully).

Okay, now it's time for Songbirds and Snakes--err . . . I mean, how to break the rule. 😅 (And don't worry, I'm only referring to the very opening pages.)

How to Break the Rule

As I've said before, I love an excellent chunk of introspection. (The keyword there being "excellent.")

So after everything we've talked about that can go wrong when opening with introspection, how on earth can anyone do it right?

Here are some features you'll need to use to your advantage.

Think Forward, not Backward

One of the worst things about opening with introspection, is that the writer turns the character's thoughts to the past. In reality, almost every story should have some character thoughts sprinkled in, in the opening--that focus on the uncertainty that is called the future. Unlike the past, the future hasn't happened yet. And few things hook an audience better than uncertain possibilities.

This means (and you've heard me say it before!) putting in the text what the viewpoint character fears or dreads may happen in the near future or, what the viewpoint character hopes may happen in the near future. Ideally, you do both.

This is the first great rule of opening with lots of introspection. Have the viewpoint character think forward to what could happen.

Sometimes you can also get away with the character worrying or hoping about what could be presently happening--to someone else.

Songbirds and Snakes does this all over in the first eight pages.

It begins with Coriolanus worrying that if his stomach growls at the reaping, everyone will realize his biggest fear--that he's poor, which in the society of the Capitol, can have major consequences for him and his loved ones.

He also fears that his appearance will give it away (particularly his shirt), which means he simultaneously hopes that he can find a better shirt before it's too late.

Which also leads to him worrying about his cousin, who he knows is willing to even sell her body to find him appropriate apparel--something he doesn't want her to have to succumb to, but something she may be doing at this very moment.

Through the layers of his thoughts, these build and build, so that both his hopes and fears reach a climactic moment--if he doesn't take care of his stomach and his shirt, he may lose his opportunity to be a mentor, which means he won't be awarded at graduation, which means he won't be able to afford to go to university after he graduates, which means no career, no future--not only for him, but his family.

By having the introspection focus on the positive and negative near-future outcomes, we're drawn in. Which leads me to my next point . . .

Think, Significant Stakes

It's not enough to just have the character think about what could happen in the future. He or she needs to think about what significant things could happen in the future.

This means that whatever he or she thinks about, needs to have either deep, personal ramifications, or far-reaching, broad ramifications.

For Songbirds and Snakes--who really cares that Coriolanus (who will eventually become one of the worst villains in modern fiction) doesn't have a dress shirt and his stomach might growl? No one! It's a shirt. It's a stomach growl. But Collins lures the reader into caring, because each of those things have, juicy ramifications, a.k.a. significant stakes, attached to them.

These things together innately bring in tension and hooks.

Learn more about significant stakes here.

Think Complexities

Complexity happens when you smash together contrasting ideas and explore the space between them (sorry, some of you are probably sick of hearing me say this by now 😅 but it's still true!).

When you smash together things that seem to be opposites, or at least contradictory, the audience can't help but want to understand how such a thing can exist. Therefore, it draws them in.

As Coriolanus is praying cabbage soup can save him, he's also recollecting the long passed power of the Snow family. Imagine, living in a penthouse in the Capitol and having to worry about what you can stuff your starving stomach with to keep up an appearance. And isn't the Capitol supposed to be terrible? And Snow himself--starving?!

To be fair, some of the irony comes from how we know his life will end up. But that's allowed. Everyone comes into any story with some expectations. But even within this passage itself, there are opposing concepts pushed together, such as Coriolanus thinking about how Tigris's "apprentice" position is actually slave labor.

Think to Link Timelines

A big long opening with introspection about the past is boring--we've established that. But to be fair, naturally, the human mind is regularly linking the past, present, and future. In fact, some studies suggest that the reason we store memory is so we can perceive a future. Why not use that to our advantage?

One of the things that introspection can do, is link (think cause and effect) past, present, and future. And in fact, in a story, it's one of the only things that can do that in the text. It works as a bridge. And therefore helps bring temporal cohesion into a story.

Remember, once the audience cares about what could happen, they'll likely start to be more interested in what is happening or did happen. Because if something bad or good could happen, then they want to know what is influencing that potential outcome.

This means, that ideally, something in the present, or past, is affecting the potential consequence you've laid out on the page. If it's something in the past, it sucks; it's already past, the viewpoint character can't change it. If it's something in the present, it draws us in, because it could determine the outcome. Ideally, it's great if both the past and present are playing into the potential outcomes of the future. This is when you can use introspection to your advantage. After all, without it, you wouldn't be able to link timelines at all.

Likewise, when there are complexities (opposing concepts smashed together), the audience naturally wants to know how such things can exist, so, introspection may play into that, by feeding them information. How did the prestigious Snow family become so poor? Well, now I'd like to know what contributed to that. But first, I want to know why the person who will become President Snow is making cabbage soup.

Think to Sprinkle in the Concrete

The less we see the concrete present, the shorter the passage of introspection needs to be. Otherwise, it won't sustain the audience.

Sure, you can get away with a big chunk of introspection right off the bat, but it likely can't be longer than a couple of pages, and in most cases, a couple of paragraphs.

If you sprinkle in significant or informative things that are happening in the present, you can carry the introspection for longer. This is because it helps with immediacy, and therefore pacing. And if you are linking present and future together, than what's happening in the present can feed into the introspection in satisfying ways.

To be fair, Songbirds and Snakes does start in the concrete present--for half of the first sentence. Then largely goes into introspection, without very much happening in the present until Tigris arrives. But Collins still sprinkles in the present, with Coriolanus's grandma singing the Capitol anthem, which is at brilliant odds with their family situation, and therefore feeds into and influences what he's thinking.

Basically, she uses the present to emphasize, feed into, and direct his thoughts.

Similarly, it's helpful to include concrete images in the character's thoughts. Remember how I said most introspection is "telling"? And often "told" in boring ways? One of the tricks to making telling great, is include elements of "showing" into it. Part of this means including concrete thoughts. (Now that sounds like a contradiction.) Sprinkle in specifics--such as recalling the cigarette stain on the shirt. It can go a long way.

Think in Voice

Some of the best introspection is great because it reveals the character's voice.

Remember our little voice equation?

What the character thinks about + How she thinks/says it = Voice

Voice is more than word choice (though that plays a role); it's also worldview.

To get voice on the page in satisfying ways, you want to be at the deepest level of POV penetration. And guess what? That is simultaneously introspection.

Not every voice needs to be so vibrant that the snark leaps off and hits the wall across the room. It just needs to be real. And it needs to be there.

"Watching the bright pages of his picture books--the very ones he'd pored over with his mother--reduced to ashes had never failed to bring him to tears. But better off sad than dead."

That last sentence gives me all the voice I need.

"If Tigris's revamped shirt was unwearable, what was he to do? Fake the flu and call sick? Spineless. Soldier through in his uniform shirt? Disrespectful. Squeeze into the red button-down that he had outgrown two years ago? Poor. Acceptable options? None of the above."

That tells me what and how the character thinks.

And sometimes, the voice can be so entertaining or powerful, that it alone can sustain an audience for quite a long while.

To be fair, a lot of these things should be in any story opening, but this is how you can get away with lots of introspection, in particular. And you can also use these same techniques for introspection elsewhere in the story.

. . . And if you are interested in Songbirds and Snakes and haven't gotten a copy yet, you can get one here. I finished it yesterday, and have to admit--it was a satisfying prequel, in my opinion. 

P. S. I'm also looking to fill up more slots in my editing schedule. Check out my editing services.

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Learn the Rules So You Can Break Them, Explained

Early in my writing journey, I often questioned how writing rules really worked. I'd learn all about how to-be verbs are bad, how you shouldn't use too much telling, prologues are the devil, and you should never use an adverb! But when I opened up some of the best-selling novels of the time or even my favorite novels of all time, I found writers doing these things regularly.

"Learn the rules so you can break them," some people said.

But what does that really mean?

And why?

And if that's the case, why have those rules in the first place?

Some of you may already know all those answers, but lately, I've been thinking about this topic more in depth, and how it really works and why it matters. And how I would try to explain it to my younger self or anyone else struggling with this.

I mean, I'm pretty sure at one point in my life, I wondered why we even had writing rules to begin with when some of the best writers break them all the time anyway. Do they even matter?

Well . . . yes.

And in fact, their existence often actually adds meaning to writing--which makes things matter.

But they aren't just arbitrary. They aren't just rules that someone decided to enforce to create a standard.

There is truth to them.

When you are starting out, it might be hard to discern that, because you don't yet have enough guidance or experience. "Are all these adjectives really that bad?" you might wonder. "I think it makes it sound pretty."

A part that plays into this is that, usually at this point, we also don't have much experience reading unpublished stories. Which means we might be rather blind to a lot of the problems that unpublished pieces have. The gatekeepers have kept these things away from us, so while these problems might not seem that big of a deal to us (and may even seem like something "unique"), in reality, thousands of inexperienced writers are all doing the exact same thing, and to the professionals, it's mind-numbing.

But it's a phase we all go through as we are learning and growing.

The writing rules are real. Yes, if you use adverbs too much, it makes your writing sound weak. To-be verbs don't actually really convey anything to the audience. Telling in the hands of a beginner is usually boring.

When we restrict those things by relying on "writing rules," it forces us to grow in ways that are far more powerful. By axing to-be verbs altogether, the writer must stretch for stronger, more specific verbs. By axing telling, the author learns how to write a scene over summary--which is much more immersive for the readers. By axing flashbacks, he or she learns to keep the present the most interesting, full of the most tension.

The writing rules are like a gauntlet you must fight your way through to become stronger, more capable, respected, and wiser.

But that's not the only thing. Yes, they are real. But their existence also provides meaning to writing.

It's an idea that is similar to what I touched on in my post about obligatory scenes and conventions, and also another post I did about appealing to wonder in the modern age.

If anything can happen, then nothing matters.

If we decide to throw out all the writing rules and advice in the world, then however we choose to write, doesn't matter.

This is because it has no context.

Time and time again, people think that having no restrictions makes something unique and powerful.

In reality, without any restrictions, uniqueness and power can't exist. Because there is no context, there is no meaning. It doesn't matter what you do, because anyone can do anything.

Context = meaning.

Boundaries = context.

Establishing boundaries establishes context.

We need some form of context (even if we are not consciously aware of it) to get grounded, so we have some frame of reference to add meaning to what we encounter.

It's similar to what the Cheshire Cat said, if you don't have an idea of where you are going (context/boundaries/meaning), then it doesn't matter what path you take. It's all the same. It's all meaningless.

Originality doesn't come from nothing. In order for anything to be original, there must be some point of reference, some context. Because in order for something to be original, it must be different from other things. If these "other things" don't exist or matter in the first place, then it can't feel very original.

Originality isn't this thing that is swimming clear out in its own abyss--it's something different enough from the boundaries, the context, the reference point, that is set.

Likewise, something is only powerful because it is more powerful than other things.

If "other things" never existed, then we'd have zero reference to recognize something as original or powerful in the first place.

Back to writing rules.

Writing rules are boundaries.

Boundaries create context.

Context creates meaning.

Meaning means what and how we write matters.

Meaning means what and how we write affects our readers differently. 

When we understand this, then we can begin to understand when to break the rules. Because now, breaking the rules has meaning.

But we can't just automatically "know" these things. We have to learn how to discern them first. And discernment comes from learning the rules and gaining experience using them.

Once you have discernment, then you can start experimenting with breaking them to gain more discernment.

And what you choose . . .

affects the audience's experience . . .

because it has meaning.

When I talk about such topics, I often like to think about Picasso.

When people think of Picasso, they think of things like this:

But prior to all this, he actually painted like this:

One of the reasons his later work is so respected, is because he pushed boundaries--that he understood. In other words, he understood context when it came to art. Because he understood context, he understood what to break to create the effect he wanted on his audience. And because he knew the context, it had meaning when he did it.

And once you have context from his earlier paintings, you can appreciate his later work more.

Learning the writing rules is similar. Yes, you should learn the rules. You can try to skip ahead or ignore them, but if you never nail those rules, you'll never develop the same depth of discernment when it comes to writing. Your choices will never carry as much meaning, originality, or power. You'll never be as strong of a writer. Because you don't understand the context.

When you understand the context, you understand how to break the boundaries set.

And you can take what you've learned, to break them well. For example, yes, many writers do use telling. In fact, in some cases almost whole novels are "told." But the only reason this works is because the writer has learned to infuse the techniques that makes showing great, into their telling. They've learned how to write great summary, by infusing it with the same things that make scenes great.

So you can break the rules once you learn them. Even if that only means intentionally using to-be verbs.

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Breaking Writing Rules Right: "Only One Impossibility"

You may have heard of the "one impossibility rule," the idea that the audience's suspension of disbelief can only handle one impossible thing. In this article, I'm going to talk about what the rule is, why it's a rule, and when and how to break it.

What's the Rule?

When we write, we invite the audience into our fictive universe. In order to take part, the audience must have what's called a "willing suspension of disbelief," meaning that they are willing to enjoy the story even though it's not real.

For example, maybe your story has fairies in it. But fairies aren't real. However, the audience is willing to accept that for the story.

The Rule:

In a story, only one impossibility can exist.

Why It's a Rule

Most audiences can only take in so much impossibility before their suspension of disbelief is no longer . . . suspended.

They might accept with the premise of the story that there are fairies. But if your story has not only fairies but also aliens invading the planet, there is going to be a problem.

That's two different impossibilities.

And they don't go together.

Take that a step further and add the fact that in your fictive universe, dogs have overcome humans in the species hierarchy, so they are the ones running society--and now we have three impossibilities.

It's too much. Every time you add an impossibility, you narrow your audience. With these three, I've really narrowed audience. 

My examples are a bit exaggerated, but these are the sorts of things that the one impossibility rule is referring to.

However, it can sometimes be used in other situations.

One thing the audience has very little tolerance for is when human behavior doesn't make sense. Maybe your protagonist's mom dies, and he doesn't even grieve. That seems impossible. And the more you stack on unlikely human behavior, the more the audience's suspension of disbelief wanes.

For more on problems with unbelievability, see "Inconceivable! Dealing with Problems of Unbelievability."

How to Break It

By now you may have thought of one or more stories that clearly have more than "one impossibility." In a high fantasy, you may have fairies and dragons and dwarves and elves and centaurs . . . the list goes on.

Or maybe you thought of a rarer rule break, like a story that deals with both an alien invasion and restoring faith in God. Putting a belief of God in can be considered a big no-no in the industry when writing science fiction. From one perspective, you are dealing with two impossibilities. (I'm not saying I feel this way, I'm just talking about the industry.)

Or maybe you thought of something stranger still, a story where part of your soul lives outside your body in the form of an animal, where one of the intelligent species are (randomly) bears, where there is a clan witches, and some of the main characters are quite literally at war with God.

Clearly this rule can and has been broken. So let's talk about how to do that.

1. Use an Umbrella

The reason high fantasy gets away with so many impossibilities is because everything actually fits under one big impossibility: an imaginary world.

Sure, in our reality dragons and elves and dwarves don't exist.

But in a completely fictional world, like Middle-earth, all of them do, and more.

Tolkien, like basically all high fantasy writers, gets away with so much impossibility by lumping them together under one big one. Other examples include Alice in Wonderland, The Chronicles of Narnia, and even Star Wars (in a galaxy far, far away).

Even though Harry Potter includes the real world, it does this same thing--everything impossible comes from a magic society within our world, that's the umbrella.

The umbrella does not even necessarily need to be a world or society. Those are just the obvious examples. It could be an origin, history, or something else. The idea is that the one impossibility encompasses and explains all others.

2. Make Connections

Similarly, the audience is more likely to take in more than one impossibility if they connect in some way. Maybe you are reading a novel that has vampires in the real world. Then the second book in the series deals with werewolves. What?

But it's okay, because Stephenie Meyer made them connect by explaining that werewolves exist because of the vampires--they are the natural predators of vampires (yes, I just used Twilight as an example) (yes, I know other stories put vampires and werewolves together as enemies).

When you use this method, you usually want to build off what the audience already knows. They already know about the vampires, great. So when you explain the werewolves, make sure to relate it to the vampires. This will make it easier for the audience to swallow.

Of course, there are some stories that don't do that. Usually in those cases, the writer may introduce them as two separate things and explain the connection later. If you chose to do this, you should know that it's more difficult to pull off, and it will likely narrow your audience, because people might be rolling their eyes and stop reading before they get to the connection. However it has and can be done.

In rare occasions, the connections may not be concretely obvious, but instead thematic. What do invading aliens have to do with regaining faith in God? Well, nothing, directly. Except that it works together thematically in a beautiful way in Signs. Keep in mind, though, that this is one of the reasons some people hate that movie. So for some people, it did not work--in other words, it narrowed the audience. That's fine, if you are willing to pay that cost and take that risk.

3. Shift Context

Sometimes you can get away with multiple impossibilities if you don't present them as all impossibilities to begin with. In Interstellar, we are dealing with some pretty heavy science fiction, but then on the other hand, one of the main characters believes there is a ghost in her room.

I would hazard a guess though, that most of the audience didn't believe there was a real ghost in the room. Instead we can accept that the character believes that. As we get more information and the context shifts, we realize the "ghost" really was a person.

Though worth noting is that it is still ultimately explained by science, so the movie also connects it the other impossibilities.

But my point is, you may be able to do something similar. Maybe we think the second impossibility is something other than it actually is, and it's truly explained later.

4. Foreshadow

 Sometimes you can get away with more than one impossibility if you foreshadow it right.

I know a writer who saw Arrival and loved it up until the ending, where the entire story was "ruined" because it "broke the one impossibility rule."

I'm going to have to agree to disagree with that. All of the impossibilities, especially the last, were foreshadowed from the beginning, so when I encountered them, as an audience member, I was prepared.

Also notice how that movie also incorporates context shifts and connections.

The story essential has three impossibilities in it, but in my opinion, they pulled them off stunningly.

However, it didn't work for that one writer, so, like I said above, you are always taking that risk.

But then there are people like me and my family, who loved the story even more and were brought to tears because of how it incorporated three impossibilities.

Basically if you are breaking the one impossibility rule, you are probably polarizing your audience, which is sometimes a good thing, if you want word-of-mouth advertising.

5. Utilize Tone

Tone can go a long way in letting you get away with the impossible. This is especially the case with what are called "unreality" stories.

Unreality stories take place in what's recognized as the real world . . . but it isn't. It's an unreality. It's best explained through examples. Here are some unreality stories:

A Series of Unfortunate Events
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
Matilda
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
Edward Scissorhands 
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

Like I talked about in the last section, you may realize that unreality stories can be very polarizing: You either love it, or you hate it.

Notice how all of the examples I gave have more than one impossibility (sometimes completely unconnected), but for audiences okay with the unreality genre, that's not a problem. (Which reminds me, it's also worth noting genre does play a role in what you can get away with).

If you establish the right tone, you can get away with almost anything.

6. Acknowledge the Impossibility

In some cases, you can get away with multiple impossibilities if you validate to the audience how impossible, unlikely, or strange it is, on the page. Since I have two posts that go into this, I'm not going to reiterate everything, but you can read more here and here.

7. Keep the Reader Hooked and Invested

Sometimes you can get away with more than one impossibility if the reader is already deeply invested in the story. They may be so hooked, so pulled in, that adding a second impossibility isn't going to ruin it--as long as you don't do anything too crazy.

Ask yourself (and maybe your beta-readers), is adding this one impossibility really going to stop the reader from reading and enjoying the story? It might give them pause, but you might be able to get away with it. After all, it is a story.

8.  Start with the Most Familiar Impossibility

Everyone knows what a dragon is, even if they aren't real. So it's easier for the audience to accept that.

In Spider-verse we are dealing with two impossibilities that don't . . . really even connect . . . or fit under an umbrella. 1 - that radioactive spiders can bite people and turn them superhuman. 2 - that there are parallel realities. Those are both impossibilities, and they don't actually go together.

But the audience is willing to accept it, because they are so familiar with Spider-man and superhero movies. Adding parallel universes to it isn't a big deal. (Not to mention that parallel universes have been long established as part of the comic book world.)

The more familiar something is, the easier it is for the audience to accept and digest it.

Kitchen Sink Stories

There is a term in the industry called "kitchen sink." It's the basic idea that a writer has a lot of ideas, but they are throwing them all into one story. It's like a kitchen sink. It has a bit of this and a bit of that. A scrap of old pizza, an onion peel, a soggy fry. Sometimes when writers are trying to include a lot of impossibilities, it turns into a kitchen sink story. In some cases, you may definitely need to divvy out ideas into different stories. But in other cases, it's amazing which seemingly unrelated ideas you can make work, especially using these methods I outlined.

It's hard for me to tell everyone that their "kitchen sink story" isn't going to work. Because it might.

I feel like the best example of this is His Dark Materials. It has everything, and the kitchen sink. But in England, it became a hugely successful series. Yet so many of the concepts don't seem to belong in one story.

- Parts of people's souls live outside their bodies in animal forms.
- There is an intelligent species of bears (bears?? Why? That's so random!)
- Oh yeah, and there are also witches. (oookay . . .)
- And angels
- By the way, there is also a religion reminiscent of Christianity, but it's antagonistic
- Also, God is in it
- And there is this device that allows the user to know all truth
- It takes place in England . . . but it's sort of . . . somewhat . . . steam-punky
- Oh yeah, also, not only is this fantasy, but it's also science fiction. We will definitely be talking about dark matter and running experiments with computers
- Also, surprise, I know you didn't know this from the first book, but our world, the real world, is actually part of this same universe
- Aaaand there are spectors
- We'll also be following people into the afterlife. . . .

Okay, seriously, that whole series is a kitchen sink story!

. . . which is also why it was so revolutionary. It was unprecedented.

So . . . while it's very difficult to pull off . . . it's not impossible.

You might be thinking, "but everything fits under the umbrella of a parallel world." Dude, it doesn't. We don't even know parallel worlds exist until the second book.

It's a kitchen sink.

You Can Break the One Impossibility Rule . . . with These Risks and Consequences

Depending on what impossibilities you decide to use and how you implement them, you run these risks:

- Ruining the suspension of disbelief 

Your audience may still not be able to accept your impossibilities. In truth, some readers are unwilling to even accept one. So they may stop reading.

- Narrowing your audience

This may lead to a narrower audience. Maybe most people don't like M. Night Shyamalan's movies (he breaks a lot of writing and film rules). That's okay. Enough people like him, and he obviously isn't trying to appeal to the masses.

- Polarizing your audience

Some people will absolutely hate stories that use multiple impossibilities. But other people love them. Polarizing your audience isn't actually necessarily a bad or good thing in and of itself--it depends on your goals.


These are risks and consequences, but they do not necessarily influence success. Some people cannot read any fantasy, yet it's one of the most popular genres. Not everyone likes Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but it's now a children's classic. Even a kitchen sink story has been highly successful.

Can you break the one impossibility rule? Yes! But like breaking any rule, it can be tricky.

Next week I'll be talking about critique letters and editorial letters, and how I write one. See you then!

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Breaking Writing Rules Right: "Write What You Know"

You've probably heard the writing rule, "Write what you know," but in the world of fiction, that advice can seem questionable, especially if you work in the speculative realm. No one alive has ever met a dragon, but there are load of books that have them. On the other hand, if you write about Latter-day Saints attending churches filled with crosses, those familiar with the religion will be shaking their heads.

So where do we draw the line? And what does it mean? And when can we write what we don't know?

What's the Rule?

Write what you know.

Why it's a Rule

My church example above is problematic because that religion doesn't use crosses. So the person who wrote it doesn't know what they are talking about. Here is another example from the book Making Shapely Fiction by Jerome Stern:

"Mush, mush!" Nooknook shouted, as he threw bits of meat to make his dogs bound across the ice floe.

That's not how dog sledding works.

One of the most obvious (and quickest) problems that arise from this is that it messes up believability. We are instantly taken out of the story because we know that's not how dog sledding works.

Having done ballet, including pointe shoes, I find myself cringing a lot in movies when they incorporate it. For those that don't know, wearing pointe shoes requires very specific technique and you also need the shoes to fit in the exact right way (you should have a professional fit your foot), which is one reason why you have to sew the ribbons and elastic on yourself. If you haven't developed the right muscles, haven't learned the accurate technique, or you wear shoes that don't quite fit, you can develop serious health issues. It's hard to get to the threshold where you can even use pointe shoes, but being able to continue to use them can be even harder.

So when I see Gwen Stacy zip down from the trees and land on hers hard like this:

I cringe inside.

Look at how damaging that alignment is! Ouchie.

(Even worse is when movies show a character skipping the ballet slippers and going straight for the pointe shoes. *facepalm*)

But there are more problems than just believability issues.

If it's a reoccurring thing in entertainment, negative and inaccurate stereotypes can emerge. Also, if audiences see inaccurate information enough times, they begin to believe it as truth.

As a writer, you probably know what I'm talking about. You know those movies that are "about" writers? Where the character has a moment of inspiration and then stays up all night and completes a novel by morning? It's a joke, right? But because that's how the process has been conveyed so much, the average person thinks that's how it works and is completely clueless as to what actually goes into it and what it takes (same with pointe shoes).

I still remember watching La La Land and laughing internally as the protagonist spends the entire movie struggling to be an actress but then magically becomes an amazing screenwriter/playwright after writing two stories (one when she was a child). Please. Even when they try to show how difficult the arts is, they show the writing part of it wrong.

Anyway . . .

My writer examples are rather harmless, but these things can have real world, real serious consequences. Such as when someone started slipping off the edge of the Grand Canyon, so their loved one reached out for them and they both ended up dying. Folks, real life is not like the hanging-on-the-ledge-by-one-hand movie trope. Also, mines don't really go off after you step off them--if you wanted to kill someone, why would you invent it like that? You'd have it go off asap.

Then there are the stereotypes, which is a whole other thing. Some of you might be familiar with the popular Disney ride, Splash Mountain. Fewer of you may know that the movie it's based on, Song of the South, is actually banned because of racism. Lots of people who've seen it will argue all day that the movie has nothing negative about blacks in it. But the point isn't that it doesn't have blatantly negative depictions of blacks, the point is that it perpetuates damaging stereotypes and ideas about blacks.

See, back in the day, blacks were often depicted as being happy to be slaves, in order to encourage society to keep them as slaves--which in some ways is actually more dangerous than being blatantly racist, because the average person watching the entertainment is blind to it. Whether or not you agree that Song of the South should remain banned, the reason it was banned, is because it taps into and perpetuates that damaging stereotype. This is also why every Halloween there is controversy over someone painting their face black--because back in the day, people in power intentionally did that when intentionally portraying blacks in negative or damaging ways, subtlety keeping them in a culture and societal state of less power (and in a way that would seem harmless). This is also why there are arguments regularly about who has the right or ability to portray minorities, period.

If this is a new idea to you, or you are bit skeptical, let's go back to the writing example. How many people have you interacted with that expect you to whip out a book in a week, and if it takes you months or years, they become skeptical of how you spend your time, or if you are "actually" working? Probably a lot of us have had an interaction like that of some sort (seriously, no wonder there are so many closet writers! Because writers don't want to deal over and over again with all the misunderstandings). Even as a writer, you may be faced with perpetuating myths and misinformation that have been so ingrained into our culture and society that people do not even know to even question them as possibly being false.

This is one of the crazy powers of storytelling.

So.

I guess I had a lot to say about that. But the point is, when you write what you don't know, not only do you damage the audience's suspension of disbelief, but if the audience doesn't know, you can intentionally or unintentionally create or perpetuate false ideas as truth, which can be harmful to individuals or even a culture or society.

I mean, imagine everyone grabbing pointe shoes and dancing around on concrete.

Aaack, let's not! It's too cringe worthy.

Does this all sound like a burden?

Let's talk about what the advice actually means.

What it Actually Means and How it Applies

"Sound bite" advice can always be dangerous when it's applied to everything. Very, very few things in life can apply to everything.

Let me give an example.

I hate the adage, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

Because there are so many exceptions to this, depending on how you interpret it.

However, in the right context it can be absolutely true. But as human beings, we don't want to reiterate the whole context and setup and everything else every single time we use an adage. It's monotonous and long winded. And it looses its punch. We like when phrases sum an idea up and communicate it quickly. "No pain, no gain." --obviously this doesn't apply to everything in life, but it's shorthand advice for a particular situation. Problems come if we take it out of that context/situation and assume it applies to everything. Sometimes, we hear an adage so much, that the context is lost over time, so we assume it's absolute--that it's intended to always be true on all accounts. (Dangerous.)

But really, adages are meant to serve as a written/verbal symbol for a thought process. We don't want to go on a long winded speech about courage, liberty, and purity every time we incorporate American ideas, so we display the flag as shorthand. Same with adages.

"Write what you know," probably originally had a whole thought process, but it's been used as shorthand advice for so long, that a lot of us don't know what it actually means or what it applies to anymore. (And this happens a lot with writing advice.)

But I like how Stern rewords it in Making Shapely Fiction. He notes it might be better to think of this advice in the negatives:

Don't write what you don't know.

If you don't know about dog sledding, and you are going to write, "Nooknook threw bits of meat to make his dogs bound across the ice floe," we have a problem.

Don't write what you don't know.

Great.

But it's still vague, right? I mean, does any of us actually know definitively what real aliens are like, assuming they exist? No.

What the advice is really saying is:

Don't write something wrong that you (or society) can know to write right.

Don't write something wrong when you or society has the capacity to know what's accurate.

Obviously, for a lot of things, this is taken care of through research. I can research dog sledding. You can interview someone who has done pointe shoes.

Heck people, we have the internet these days! Research is easier than ever (though it takes a level of discernment with your sources).

However, some of this section overlaps and is bleeding into the next section, so I'm going to move onto that.

When to Break the "Rule"

The most obvious, and the one I touched on in the last section, is speculative fiction.

Speculative Fiction

None of us know about aliens, so in that case, we have to imagine them. We get to make it up.

Have you or has anyone you've known met a dragon? Of course not. In order to write a dragon, you will have to write about what you "don't know." Sure, you can research all you want about "dragons," and if you want to, that will fill in a lot of blanks. But since they don't exist, it's all myth anyway. And even if you do use what's historically available, you will have to make up some part of it.

Same with science fiction. Even with things we know, like all we know about dinosaurs, Jurassic Park still had to imagine and make up what we don't know about dinosaurs to fill in the blanks. How they moved, how they sounded.

Remember my modified version of the rule:

Don't write something wrong that you (or society) can know to write right.

Is there really a wrong way to write your own made up magic system? In most cases, no.

HOWEVER

Weirdly enough, sometimes even the fantastic can go wrong. That's because even the imaginary needs to be believable within the realm of the story and within the audience's suspension of disbelief. (For more on problems with believability, see this post). For one, your magic system probably needs to follow the rules you established in the beginning of the story. If fantasy or science fiction doesn't follow the established rules, there is (probably) a problem.

Personal Experiences

Because I already talked a bit about what the rule is actually supposed to mean, I almost feel like I don't need this section, but I'm adding it because people get stuck on it.

Sometimes we think "knowing" means we have to have experienced it. Obviously experiencing something firsthand is super helpful when writing, but it's not a requirement. Just because I've never owned a sugar glider doesn't mean I can't write what it would be like to own one, if I do the proper research. Just because you are a man doesn't mean you can never write from a heroine's viewpoint. Learn what you can, then draw from your own intellect, imagination, or experience to fill in the blanks. (Notice I didn't say "make up the blanks," I said "fill in the blanks.")

I'm not a murderer. In most ways, I don't really know what it would be like to actually be one. I know some things because I love watching the creepy I.D. channel on tv. But I have been very angry before, and I have imagined what it might be like to be a murderer (if only through television and fiction), so I could use that to fill in the blanks.

When we confuse "knowing" with "experiencing" we can really paralyze ourselves as writers. For most of us, it's impossible to experience everything everyone in our cast of characters has experienced. If you want to cripple under powerful bouts of imposter syndrome, this is a fantastic way to accomplish that.

One way to help make something you haven't experienced still feel authentic is to make it very human. Another helpful way is to ask how that experience would play out for that specific person in that specific setup. So, maybe you are a man writing about a woman walking home in the dark. How is walking home in the dark different for a woman than a man? Well, a woman is going to be more cautious and suspicious of others. Personally, I'd have my hand on my pepper spray. So you brainstorm that, then slide some choice details of that experience in. They key is you slide in some--don't overdo it. Some people draw attention to their lack of experience by overcompensating.

The Information is Known, but Inaccessible

There are still some things you can not know, even if other people exist that do know. Secret experiments. Government cover-ups. The latest technology in weaponry. Even if you manage to get some information from someone, you may not be able to get all of THE information.

Like the last section, build off what you do know, and then fill in the blanks. In some cases, it's okay to be vague (though it depends on the situation). For example, maybe you have a character fixing an advanced piece of equipment that is real, but you don't have access to information on how its components actually work. So write a little vaguely about him fixing it. The average audience member isn't going to care or notice, unless it's something already established as very important to the story. It's okay to bluff a little. After all, as writers, we are making stuff up. Remember, it still needs to be believable in the realm of the story.

Intentionally Writing What You Know is Wrong

In some cases, it might be worth really breaking the rule by intentionally writing what you know, wrong.

An Exchange is Worth the Cost

Remember my complaints about Gwen being on pointe shoes? Guess what? Even though I cringed initially, who really cares? It was a fun and cool character design. Maybe portraying pointe shoes wrong was actually worth the exchange of a cool character design. Spider-man is my favorite superhero, so a Spider-woman who does ballet and is in a rock band? Um, okay, that's really cool and fun.

Despite all my complaining above, after my initial response, I actually kind of loved the pointe shoes. I've never seen them used for a superhero costume. Also, let's not forget she's freaking Spider-woman, so she can flipping get beat up, mess up her body, and break her bones and still survive. Sure, we probably don't want girls running home and trying to do acrobats and land on pointe shoes they've never worn before, just like we don't want them to run through traffic in New York to get away from police. But at the end of the day, I'm willing to forgive any inaccurate portrayals in exchange for a cool character design (also the fact she's super-human does really help).

You might run into similar moments. Sometimes intentionally doing something wrong is worth the cost.

It Serves the Story

Similarly, you may want to intentionally write something wrong when it serves the story. HOWEVER, this is not to be confused with ruining the suspension of disbelief (believability). It's possible to write something wrong without making the audience roll their eyes.

As a lot of you probably know, I'm a huge fan of Interstellar, and it was interesting watching the behind-the-scenes clips for the movie and hearing Christopher Nolan talk about the things he portrayed wrong, intentionally. I mean, it feels like we aren't allowed to do that right? But he did.

One thing he did in particular was put a whole cornfield on fire. When he said he was going to do this, people told him that Cooper's cornfield wouldn't actually burn. It's too green. Nolan said he was going to do it anyway.

Other than maybe a percentage of farmers in the audience, did anyone really care? No. It was a minor change that served the plot. Those who knew better would probably make note of it, but as for actually ruining the suspension of disbelief . . . ? I doubt it. You're going to tell me that having a green cornfield catch on fire is going to ruin your movie experience? If you are that guy, you need to loosen up and have some fun. "It's a movie!"--as they say.

It Serves the Audience

Sometimes the audience will actually enjoy the story and benefit more if you portray something inaccurately.

Also in Interstellar, there are a few lines of dialogue where the science is slightly wrong--intentionally. At one part, the characters talk about sling-shotting their spacecraft via gravitational pull. In order to do what they were talking about, you would need to slingshot around a little black hole. One problem: there was already a black hole in the story, and mentioning another one, in passing, was just going to confuse the audience. It wasn't important enough to slow down and explain that there were two and differentiate them, so instead, they said something else (I think it was a pulsar) to keep the story flowing.

A harmless little white lie.

That served the audience.


Note: You probably almost never want to portray minorities wrong--unless the point is that it is wrong, and therefore ridiculous for it. Any controversial topic should also probably not be portrayed inaccurately either. Use your brain.

Room for Forgiveness

After everything I said in the beginning of this about the importance of portraying things correctly, I also want to note that we are all probably going to get something wrong at some point. I mean, we're only human. Even writers can't know everything. ;)

It's better to make some mistakes or write a few minor things wrong than to not write at all.

I mean, if a writer gets something wrong, but the rest of the story is great, I'm going to forgive the error. I'd rather have a good story.

Also, don't forget that it's a story.

On the one hand, it can be incredibly important how we portray things in storytelling, on the other, it's important to also remember it's a story. It's not real life. And sure, that character can hang off a ledge by one hand and be fine, and that soldier can step on a land mine and not have it go off until after he takes his foot off. Sometimes we go so far one direction, that we can forget that it's a work of fiction and not necessarily a perfect nor accurate representation of real life. Or in other words, "It's just a movie!" (or book.)

Now go forth and write!

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Breaking Writing Rules Right: Don't Use Filter Words

In the writing world, filter words are often considered problematic, and for good reason. You may have been told to cut back on them in your story, or you may have been told to cut all of them. But sometimes filter words are actually the best choice. Today I'm going to talk about what filter words are, why people discourage them, and five reasons you should break the rule and use them.

What's the Rule?

"Filter words" are words that filter us through the character. They are phrases such as:

He looked

She felt

Julia smelled

Derek tasted

She saw

Chris touched

London stared

. . . and it goes onward.

While not as well known as some of the other writing rules ("Show, don't tell," "Don't use 'was'"), if you look around in the writing world, you'll see there is no shortage of sources that say we shouldn't use filter words.


The Rule:

Don't use filter words.

Why it's a Rule

At first glance, phrases like, "He looked," seem rather innocent.

But they are weak for a few reasons.


1. They put the character between the audience and the story. 

On my blog, I've talked several times about how it's important for the audience to experience the story for themselves, instead of just reading about the events that happened. Only when the audience is invested and experiencing the story will the story reach its full breadth of power. (There are some stories that are exceptions of course, but they are rare.)

Filter words distance the audience just a little bit. There is a degree between them and what's happening in the story.

When we want the audience to feel as if they are in the story, we want them to get as close and as invested in what's unfolding as possible.


2. They are unnecessary. 

Often filter words don't communicate anything new in the story and can just be cut.

For example:

Aiden saw a beetle climbing up the mulberry tree.


The phrase "Aiden saw" is taking up space and can simply be cut.

A beetle climbed up the mulberry tree.


Unless you are writing from what I call "guided omniscient" or "first-person omniscient," (and sometimes even then, depending on how the narrator handles it), the fact that the sentence is even on the page implies that at least the viewpoint character of that scene saw it, if not other characters.

Say that Aiden is our viewpoint character for this scene. The fact that a beetle is mentioned at all automatically suggests that Aiden saw it, because the audience knows (if only subconsciously) that we are experiencing the story from Aiden's view.

So to say that Aiden saw the beetle is redundant and unnecessary.

If Aiden isn't the viewpoint character, but someone with the viewpoint character, we can still imply that he also saw it. Here is one way:

A beetle climbed up the mulberry tree. 

"Woah!" Aiden said, drawing closer to the trunk. "Come look!" 

Dani didn't budge. The last thing I'm going to do is get close to a bug, she thought. 


In this example, Dani is the viewpoint character, but we can clearly tell Aiden saw the beetle too.

However, I should explain that since here Aiden isn't the viewpoint character, those phrases probably aren't technically filter words, because we are seeing the scene from Dani's viewpoint, so we can't be filtering through Aiden. So if I wrote this:

A beetle climbed up the mulberry tree.

Aiden stared at it.

Dani didn't budge. Where do those bugs keep coming from? she wondered. 


I'm not sure I could agree we are "filtering" through Aiden, but it's still a phrase you might get some flack for, even though here it's communicating that Dani saw that Aiden was staring. So some people might still have a problems with it and argue against it on your manuscript.


3. They are weak verbs

Filter phrases can kill your writing quick if you use them all the time, mainly because they are weak verbs.

For example:

Marley went out back and saw the forest. He saw it was right up close to the hotel. He looked deep into the trees and saw a squirrel. He could hear a bird singing. He felt a cool breeze on his neck. A strange noise sounded to his left, and he looked to find a man sitting on a stump. Marley wondered how long he'd been there.

Do you see all those filter words? All those verbs are pretty bland and weak. You should use stronger verbs to make the story come alive.

(Hopefully you also see that all those filter words actually distance the audience, at least a little bit.)

Sometimes filter words can simply be cut, like I showed with Aiden. Other times getting rid of them takes more effort.

When you're a beginner, it's a lot harder to write without them, because, darn it, "saw," "looked," "smelled," "touched," are all verbs! And if you don't use those, well, crap, you have to find a way to get a different verb in that sentence to make it complete!

I feel your pain.

This is usually the part where the more experienced writer comes in and explains how the beginning writer needs to use more "strong verbs"--verbs that are more specific and powerful. Filter words are considered to be "weak verbs."

I still remember the first assignment back in college where I committed myself to stretching and reaching and using only strong verbs.

I was soooo slow. I looked up so many words. It was so hard. And even after that assignment, I was still at a snail's pace. I started to think it would always be like that. 

But it gets better.

And it was worth it.

When to Break it

- Establish and remind the audience who the viewpoint character is (third-person with multiple viewpoints)

Some people will probably disagree with me on this, but sometimes a nicely placed filter phrase is the best way to tell or remind the audience who the viewpoint character is. It's simple and straightforward.

If you are writing in third-person and have multiple viewpoint characters, when you start a new scene with a new viewpoint character, you've got to alert the audience to it quick.

Usually the first viewpoint character name to show up in the scene is the one the reader first assumes is the viewpoint.

Sure, there are a few ways you can do this.

For example, you could do it with an action:

Tiffany slammed her bedroom door.


But for some scene openings, the focus isn't what the character is doing, it's what the character is witnessing or feeling--that's what's important.

In the novel I'm perpetually working on, I open a scene with the viewpoint watching someone else. If I'm not using filter words, I'm going to be describing what someone--who is not the viewpoint character--is doing, and the reader is either going to get confused, assuming that person is the viewpoint character, or they are going to feel "ungrounded" and unsure how to view or interpret what they are reading.

In one of my scenes like this, I avoided using filter words, cause I mean, they are sorta bad, right?

But when I got feedback on it, a comment I got was something like, "say 'Mark looked.'" I had mixed feelings about it, but later realized it was exactly what needed to be done. It simply, quickly established whose viewpoint we were in.

See, imagine that Mark is witnessing a classmate sabotage someone else's test. And maybe because that's going to be my hook for the scene, I want to open with that in the first and second sentences.

I could just open the scene describing what that person is doing (in other words, no filter words).

Amber put her finished Honors History test on top of the rest, leafed through the stack until she found another, and promptly began erasing its answers. She didn't even look over her shoulder, only smiled. Mark still sat finishing his.


Now, sure, if Mark is a regular viewpoint character prior to this, the audience may assume he's our viewpoint character here. But if this is the first time that he's the viewpoint character or if Mark and Amber are regularly viewpoint characters, this opening might be confusing.

You can try reworking it and maybe finding other ways to communicate that Mark is the viewpoint, but maybe at this point in the story, the most powerful opening image is Amber sabotaging this test. You can appease both goals with a simple filter word.

Mark watched Amber put her finished Honors History test on top of the rest, leaf through the stack until she found another, and promptly began erasing its answers. She didn't even look over her shoulder, only smiled. Mark still sat finishing his.


When you are working in a scene that has several of your viewpoint characters in it, then in some scenes, particularly ones where the viewpoint isn't always obvious (the team of characters are working together to accomplish a physical goal, so you have a lot of physical blocking, often focusing on the group overall), then it might be helpful to your readers to occasionally remind them who the viewpoint character is through filter words.

Linda felt sick. She watched Brad and Joe climb over the wall and into shadows.

(Linda is our viewpoint character. "felt" is important in particular, because we know we can only know what the viewpoint character feels.)

vs.

Brad and Joe climbed over the wall and into shadows. 

(No filter words.)

This can also be really important when the viewpoint character knows what another person is thinking and feeling (out of being familiar with that person).



-When a viewpoint character knows another character's thoughts, emotions, or knowledge, and you need to signal to the reader that you didn't hop heads.

Imagine reading this when Linda is supposed to be our viewpoint character:

Brad held back panic and curse words.


You might think for a second that we are somehow now in Brad's viewpoint, or that it's a viewpoint error. But actually, what it is, is that Linda knows Brad so well that she can tell what he is feeling and thinking. 

So we might want to use a filter to help. 

Linda knew Brad held back panic and curse words.


OR

Linda felt sick as she looked at Brad. He held back panic and curse words.
 

Assuming that it's been established that Linda knows Brad and his expressions very well, that would work. Other times you just get characters who are good at reading people, their body language and expressions, to know what they are thinking and feeling, even if they don't know the person personally.

Here, Linda's filter words remind and validate to the reader that we are in Linda's viewpoint, even though there is a line about what Brad is feeling and thinking. The author didn't suddenly hop heads.

Here is another example:

He wanted Sharon dead. Natalie considered ways he'd want it done. A fake car crash? Poison? or a disappearance? Which would he choose?


In this example, Natalie comes to a conclusion about what "He" wants.

Notice how that might get confusing without Natalie's filter.

He wanted Sharon dead. A fake car crash? Poison? or a disappearance? Which would he choose?


Depending on the scene--for example, if this line happens when Natalie is thinking back on a conversation with "him," and "he" is no longer present--you may not need filter words.

But if it is happening during a conversation with him, you should probably consider using filter words.

And again, there may be ways around these things in your particular story.

He wanted Sharon dead. Natalie bit her tongue. A fake car crash? Poison? or a disappearance? Which would he choose?


If her mouth is closed, we can assume that Natalie would be the only one to know she bit her tongue, so she must be the viewpoint character.

It should be noted that context plays a big role. What may work in one instance may not work in others. It really depends on the context you've given the reader.



- Emphasize an action over what is perceived or experienced

Remember how I touched on the idea that filter phrases contain verbs?

Sometimes the fact that a character sees something is more important than what she actually sees.

I'll give a stark example, and then get more into the details.

Imagine your viewpoint character has been temporarily blind. When his eyesight comes back, the fact he can see is maybe more important than what he sees.

I could simply write what he sees:

Bright yellow paint coated the wall.


But if he's just barely gotten back his eyesight, that might actually sound like a viewpoint error (for the average reader, we need to communicate that he sees it).

Besides, walls are kind of boring. But maybe that is the setting that he's in.

What's interesting is the fact he can see. And it's more important.

Eddy saw the bright yellow paint on the wall.


And also as I touched on, if we refuse to use filter words, we might accidentally not give the reader enough context to understand that his vision is back. They might think that our description of the wall color is actually a viewpoint error, since last they knew, Eddy was blind. In some scenes you can reword things and get around that, but in some scenes you just can't.

You may even want to use the phrase "Eddy saw" a few times to emphasize the fact he can see (stylistic choice).


Then there are sentences during conversations that read like this:

Miranda looked at Lily.


Major filter sentence, right? According to the rule, you should just skip the filter and describe what Miranda sees, which in this case would mean describing Lily's face.

But sometimes the fact Miranda looked at Lily in that moment, is more important than Lily's face. The point isn't what Miranda saw. It's that action. You know what I mean, when you are sitting and talking with people, and you say something, and someone suddenly looks at you. It's the action of looking that carries meaning.

Sometimes the fact the character sees, hears, smells, tastes, touches, wonders, thinks, or feels something is more important than what the thing is.



- When you need a simple, bland, low-key beat, and don't want it to take attention away from something else.

In a few places on my blog, I've talked about naughty phrases and words like "There are" and "was" and even passive voice--filler words that don't actually communicate anything. In fact, they can be viewed as a method that actually lacks communication.

But that doesn't mean they are worthless.

We get so focused on making every word count, that we sometimes forget about the sounds and beats of our words.

Sometimes we just need that dang beat in our scene, a low-key beat that doesn't draw attention to itself--that doesn't take away attention from our real focus of the scene--it's that pause before the delivery of an important line, that part of silence during an important conversation, that preparation before a killer descriptive paragraph, that bland component that balances out complicated ideas we're trying to communicate.

Using a filter phrase can help with all those.

Sometimes it's because they communicate very little that they are perfect to use. They exist, they are there, they give us that beat, but they don't compete with what else is on the page for the reader's attention.

Sometimes "She thought for a moment," is exactly what you need. 


- Describing smells (I know it sounds random, but it's true)

When it comes to smell, at least in the English language, the verb word pool is really small. Like, seriously. What are your verb options that you can use that aren't filter words without getting weird?

Stunk
Wafted
Rose
Filled
Permeated

For some reason our language has a lot of words that relate to stinky smells:

Stunk
Rank
Funked up
Fumed

But I mean, there are only so many stinky smells in the world, and yet the English language is hugely lacking when it comes to finding other strong verbs for other smells. I've probably used "wafted," "filled" and "permeated" hundreds of times, but I don't want to overuse them either, so really, my other option, other than to try to get so fancy it turns weird, is to use "smell" or "sniff"--filter words.

Frankly, I don't know how you can get through a whole novel regularly appealing to the sense of smell without using those filter words. Our language lacks dreadfully in that category.

Avoid getting too weird trying to coin strong verbs for smells.

Say "She smelled . . . "



Other Rule-breaking Posts
Breaking Writing Rules Right: "Show, don't Tell"
Breaking Writing Rules Right: "Don't Use 'Was'"
Breaking Writing Rules Right: "Don't Use Adverbs, Adjectives"
Breaking Writing Rules Right: "Only Use 'Said'"
Hiding What the Main Character Knows from the Reader

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