by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
I believe it was the writer-director John Huston who once said a great movie has three unforgettable scenes, and no weak ones. Makes sense to me. Maybe that’s the difference between a good book and a great book, a fine read and an unforgettable one. Let’s think about it.
Huston wrote and directed many great films (let’s not talk about Annie. Why Ray Stark tapped Huston to direct his first and last musical, I’ll never know). One of my favorites is The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948) starring Humphrey Bogart, Tim Holt and John’s dad Walter Huston (who took home the Best Supporting Actor Oscar). It’s a stark, noirish drama set in Mexico. The first unforgettable scene (for me) is a brutal fight in a bar, when Bogart and Holt confront the man who owes them money. It’s brilliantly choreographed, and done without musical score.
And then there’s a scene that is with us today, whenever anybody utters the line, “Batches? We don’t need no steenking batches!”
I also love the scene where Walter Huston dances around calling out Bogart and Holt. “You’re dumber than the dumbest jackass! Look at each other, will ya? Did you ever see anything like yourself for bein’ dumb specimens? You’re so dumb, you don’t even see the riches you’re treadin’ on with your own feet. Yeah, don’t expect to find nuggets of molten gold. It’s rich but not that rich. And here ain’t the place to dig. It comes from someplace further up. Up there, up there’s where we’ve got to go. Up there!”
Let’s talk thrillers. Let’s talk The Silence of the Lambs.
There’s the first time Clarice meets Lecter. When I saw the movie I felt a distinct chill throughout my body as Clarice first approaches Lecter’s cell in the bowels of the prison. We watch from her POV and she first lays eyes on him.
He’s just standing there, looking like Anthony Hopkins, in a position that’s hard to describe. It’s almost like he’s at attention, but with the slightest smile that is full of mystery and menace. It just radiated off the screen. And then begins the cat-and-mouse game that is almost ten minutes of pure tension, primarily through dialogue (as in the book as well).
Quieter movies or books need those unforgettable scenes, too. To Kill a Mockingbird has several to choose from. There’s the cross-examination of Mayella Ewell (the movie version is enhanced by the knockout performance by Collin Wilcox as Mayella). At the end there’s the revelation of Boo Radley (brilliantly portrayed by a young Robert Duvall).
And then there’s the scene at the jail where Atticus faces a lynch mob, and the scene takes a most unexpected turn. See for yourselves:
It’s no undiscovered writing tip to say that we ought to strive for unforgettable scenes. Some writers don’t think about it. They just go from scene to scene doing the best they can with them. I prefer to be more intentional.
One of the things I used to do (before Scrivener came on the scene) was take a pack of 3×5 cards to a local coffee establishment and start brainstorming “killer scene” ideas for my upcoming project. I didn’t pre-judge. I just wrote and looked at the cards later. I remember writing cards for my first Ty Buchanan legal thriller, Try Dying. I had this “vision” of Ty getting on a conference table and tap dancing. Wait, what? But it fit in the book as Ty, whose fiance was killed on page one, is in the conference room of a big-time lawyer trying to intimidate him:
I grabbed my notes and stuffed them in my briefcase. With a quick step on the chair I jumped onto the conference table. As Walbert’s eyes opened wider, I did a little three-step tap dance.
“What are you doing?” he howled.
“Gene Kelly,” I said.
“Get off that table!”
“This is what it’s going to be like, Barton. You looking up at me from now on.”
His face changed colors. Cheeks rosy like the dawn. I don’t know why I did it, except that I never liked bullies. On the schoolyard or in a plush conference room.
Gerry Spence, the greatest trial lawyer of his day, was once asked on 60 Minutes what he’d have done if he were a cowboy in the old West, facing a guy with a knife. “I’d leave him bloody on the floor,” Spence said, “which is the way I try cases.”
I jumped off the table and said, “See you in court, Barton. I’m going to leave you bloody on the floor.”
Let your imagination run wild, without judgment. That’s how you get the gold. That’s what Walter Huston would say. He’d point to your head. “Up there’s where you’ve go to go. Up there!”
How about you? What scenes do you remember from books or movies that were unforgettable?
by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
John D. MacDonald and his lunchpail
I have been musing about something of late. Call it a typology of writers. Here the categories I’ve come up with, recognizing there will be some overlap. Let’s discuss.
1. Nothing But Fun
There are some writers who believe writing fiction should be nothing but a joy, carefree, never a matter of sweat or concern. Under this category, there are two sub types. The first believes that a carefree first draft is the only draft it should be written. Cleaned up a bit for typos, perhaps, but left mostly alone. The other subtype writes that first draft and then looks at it and wonders what the heck to do with it, and tries to apply some actual craft and editing.
2. Hate Writing, But Love Having Written
I know a few colleagues who fit this category. They find writing a first draft to be a somewhat difficult trudge. Sometimes this is because their standards go up with each book. The bar is raised. And they seriously want to meet that challenge.
But when they are done with the whole process, including editing and polishing, and the book is the better for it, they find tremendous satisfaction.
3. Lunchpail Type
This is a writer who goes to work each day. They’re not looking for a rapturous experience, though that may happen when they’re not looking. They set out to write a certain number of words each day and do that job. They know their craft and care about it, because they want to sell to readers, and readers care about good stories. The great pulp writers of old were like this. They could type 1 million words a year, sometimes more, and sell their product for a penny or two per word.
4. Doesn’t Care About Sales
In truth, I think every writer cares about sales. Who wouldn’t appreciate a little green from what they write? There’s that famous Samuel Johnson quote: “No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money.” But this type of writer rejects that notion and finds their satisfaction in writing alone. Nothing wrong with that. Writing can be a form of enjoyment, diversion, mental exercise, or escape.
5. Only Cares About Sales
Finally, there is the writer who is in this strictly for the money. There’s never been anything illegal about that. If somebody write something and there’s a market for it, that’s a fair exchange. But these days it’s possible to make money producing acres of “AI slop.” We all wish this weren’t true, but it is. This type shouldn’t even be categorized as a “writer.”
On the other hand, someone who sees writing as a way to make money, or at least side-hustle dough, and works to figure out how to write a good product, fine. I suspect this is the least populated category.
In reviewing this list, I would put myself as a #3. I’ve always written to a quota. I have also found tremendous satisfaction in learning my craft and getting better at it.
So what do you think about the above categories? Would you add one? Modify one? Where would you place yourself?
by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
Jackie Gleason, Paul Newman in The Hustler (1961)
When I teach at a writers conference I’ll often show a clip from one of my favorite movies, The Hustler (1961), starring Paul Newman, George C. Scott, Piper Laurie, and Jackie Gleason. It’s the story of “Fast Eddie” Felson (Newman), a pool hustler who longs to beat the best player in the world, Minnesota Fats (Gleason).
Stuff happens (this is what’s called a short synopsis). Bert Gordon (Scott), who manages Fats, labels Eddie “a loser.” This gets under Eddie’s skin. One day he asks his girl, Sarah, if she thinks he’s a loser. She is taken aback. He says he lost control the night he went hustling and got mad at the arrogant kid he was playing. “I just had to show those creeps and those punks what the game it like when it’s great, when it’s really great.” He explains that anything, even bricklaying, can be great if “a guy knows how to pull it off.” He tells Sarah what he feels “when I’m really going.”
It’s like a jockey must feel. He’s sittin’ on his horse, he’s got all that speed and that power underneath him, he’s comin’ into the stretch, the pressure’s on ’im, and he knows! He just feels when to let it go and how much. ’Cause he’s got everything workin’ for him, timing, touch…it’s a great feeling, boy, it’s a real great feeling when you’re right and you know you’re right. It’s like all of a sudden I got oil in my arm. The pool cue’s part of me. You know, it’s a pool cue, it’s got nerves in it. It’s a piece of wood, it’s got nerves in it. You feel the roll of those balls, you don’t have to look, you just know. You make shots nobody’s ever made before. I can play that game the way nobody’s ever played it before.
Sarah looks at him and says, “You’re not a loser, Eddie, you’re a winner. Some men never get to feel that way about anything.”
Give thanks you’re a writer. We experience life in all its colors—joy, doubts, hopes, frustrations, wins, losses, knockdowns and comebacks. We work at our craft and get better, and start to make “shots” we’ve never made before. A writer of any genre can make a book great—from pulp to literary, romance to thriller, chicklit to hardboiled. And when you pull it off, you feel like pool felt to Fast Eddie. That’s winning, because some people never feel that way about anything.
Some years ago I wrote a takeoff on Clement Clarke Moore’s famous poem, “The Night Before Christmas.” I offer it to you once more as we sign off for our annual two-week break. Heartfelt thanks to all of you for another great year here at TKZ!
’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the room
Was a feeling of sadness, an aura of gloom.
The entire critique group was ready to freak,
For all had rejections within the past week.
An agent told Stacey her writing was boring,
Another said Allison’s book left him snoring.
From Simon & Schuster Melissa got NO.
And betas agreed Arthur’s pacing was slow.
“Try plumbing,” a black-hearted agent told Todd,
And Richard’s own mother said he was a fraud.
So all ’round that room in a condo suburban
Sat writers––some crying, some knocking back bourbon.
When out in the hall there arose such a clatter,
That Heather jumped up to see what was the matter.
She threw the door open and stuck out her head
And saw there a fat man with white beard, who said,
“Is this the critique group that I’ve heard bemoaning?
That keeps up incessant and ill-tempered groaning?
If so, let me in, and do not look so haughty.
You don’t want your name on the list that’s marked Naughty!”
He was dressed all in red and he carried a sack.
As he pushed through the door he went on the attack:
“What the heck’s going on here? Why are you dejected?
Because you got criticized, hosed and rejected?
Well join the club! And take heart, I implore you,
And learn from the writers who suffered before you.
Like London and Chandler and Faulkner and Hammett,
Saroyan and King––they were all told to cram it.
And Grisham and Roberts, Baldacci and Steel:
They all got rejected, they all missed a deal.
But did they give up? Did they stew in their juices?
Or quit on their projects with flimsy excuses?”
“But Santa,” said Todd, with his voice upward ranging,
“You don’t understand how the industry’s changing!
There’s not enough slots! Lists are all in remission!
There’s too many writers, too much competition!
And if we self-publish that’s no guarantee
That readers will find us, or money we’ll see.
The system’s against us, it’s set up for losing!
Is it any surprise that we’re sobbing and boozing?”
“Oh no,” Santa said. “Your reaction is fitting.
So toss out your laptops and take up some knitting!
Don’t stick to the work like a Twain or a Dickens.
Move out to the country and start raising chickens!
But if you’re true writers, you’ll stop all this griping.
You’ll tamp down the doubting and ramp up the typing.
You’ll write out of love, out of dreams and desires,
From passions and joys, emotional fires!
You’ll dive into worlds, you’ll hang out with heroes.
You’ll live your lives deeply, you won’t end up zeroes!
And though you may whimper when frustration grinds you
There will come a day when an email finds you.
And it will say, ‘Hi there, I just love suspense,
And I found you on Kindle for ninety-nine cents.
I just had to tell you, the tension kept rising
And didn’t let up till the ending surprising!
You have added a fan, and just so you know,
If you keep writing books I’ll keep shelling out dough!’
So all of you cease with the angst and the sorrow,
And when you awaken to Christmas tomorrow,
Give thanks you’re a writer, for larger you live!
Now I’ve got to go, I’ve got presents to give.”
And laying a finger aside of his nose
And giving a nod, through the air vent he rose!
Outside in the courtyard he jumped on a sleigh
With eight reindeer waiting to take him away.
At the window they watched him, the writers, all seven,
As Santa and sleigh made a beeline toward Heaven.
But they heard him exclaim, ’ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good write!”
See you in 2026!
by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
Tim Holt, Walter Huston, Humphrey Bogart in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948)
The other day I woke up early, as is my wont, and set about working on my WIP, Romeo #11. The day before I’d finished a scene I loved, and as I looked it over I heard that little voice whispering, “Kill your darlings.” I’ve written about that before. Give a darling a hearing, at least.
The scene ended with action. What I needed now was Mike’s reaction to it. A “sequel” in Dwight Swain terms. Swain was the author of one of the great craft books, Techniques of the Selling Writer. I go over it once a year. Swain held there are two major beats in fiction, scene and sequel. A scene is the action that takes place, with obstacles (conflict) and, in commercial fiction, usually a set-back (he called this a “disaster”). The sequel is the emotional reaction to the disaster, followed by an analysis of the situation and a decision about what action to take next.
It makes sense. When we get slapped down our first reaction is not, “Well now, that was interesting. Let me think about it.” No, we react with raw emotion. The bigger the disaster, the bigger the emotion. Not all setbacks are a 10 on the disaster scale. Sometimes, you don’t need a long sequel. The character can’t find his reading glasses. Darn! That’s sequel enough. But if his wife is blown up by a car bomb (as in the classic film noir The Big Heat) there’s going to be a huge sequel.
You thus render a sequel commensurate with the disaster. If small, you can do it in one line or even one word. Or sometimes skip it and let the action do the talking (He slapped his forehead. And found his glasses).
How you handle scene and sequel determines how your book “feels” to the reader.
The more you emphasize scene, the more you move into the “plot-driven” camp. Some of these have no sequel at all, which makes the books as hardboiled as a twenty-minute egg (see, e.g., the Parker novels of Richard Stark, nom de plume of Donald Westlake).
The more you emphasize sequel, the more you move toward “character-driven” fiction; further still, and you’re closing in on “literary fiction.” Again, these are generalities, but the lesson is clear: the handling of sequel is crucial to the craft.
Indeed, Jim Butcher, author of the Harry Dresden series, is thought of as a plot-driven guy, and not without reason. But he believes sequels “make or break books.”
You’ve got to establish some kind of basic emotional connection, an empathy for your character. It needn’t be deep seated agreement with everything the character says and does–but they DO need to be able to UNDERSTAND what your character is thinking and feeling, and to understand WHY they are doing whatever (probably outrageous) thing you’ve got them doing. That gets done in sequels.
His breakdown:
1) Scene–Denied!
2) Sequel–Damn it! Think about it! That’s so crazy it just might work!–New Goal!
3) Next Scene!
Repeat until end of book.
Now, my Mike Romeo books are not, by intention, purely hardboiled. I think about sequels a lot.
And that’s where I was on the morning in question. I needed a sequel to the action. But what should it consist of?
Here’s a secret: don’t just grab the first emotion that comes to mind. That’s usually the one readers expect. Avoiding the predictable is essential to page-turning fiction.
So there I was, in Scrivener, wondering what Mike’s reaction should be. So in the notes section, I started writing…and writing….in Mike’s voice….until he started telling me something I hadn’t anticipated. Boom! There it was, the right sequel.
When I get to a moment of big emotion, I usually open up a fresh text doc, or use the Scrivener notes panel, and overwrite, just letting the words pour out until I get to a fork in the road and, like Yogi Berra used to counsel, take it. I write metaphors in fast bunches, like candies on the conveyor belt in that famous I Love Lucy episode. (“Speed it up a little!”).
I’ll write 200, 300 words. And then I pan for gold. Even if it’s just one line that sparkles, I’ll polish it up and use it. This is the “work” of a writer, which some sniff at as being too much effort. I choose to go for the gold.
How about you?
by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
We all know that various tasks, assessments, creations, observations, and reactions trigger different parts of the brain. For example, the other day I was driving along on a busy, two-lane street near my home, enjoying the nice day and the classical music station on the radio, when a loud VROOM blasted next to me and instantly put me into “fight or flight” mode, as some idiot in a Mustang shot past all the cars by racing on the median strip, then darting back into traffic like he was playing a video game, then went out again to pull the same stunt. A bad accident waiting to happen, which is old news here in L.A.
Anyway, when it comes to creation, we have a “team” consisting of the imagination group, the analytical staff, and the Boys in the Basement. They band together on our projects, and as we work in tandem with our good ol’ noodle (for you youngsters, noodle is old-school slang for head, which is derived from the 1500s word noddle—which in Old English meant head resting on a neck—and some smart aleck in the 1700s who added the “oo” sound from fool. I also could have chosen nut, noggin, or dome. Take note, as there will be a quiz on this later) we exercise our brains, which is essential for our overall health.
Which is why handing off all creative effort to AI is like preparing for a long distance race by eating Twinkies. The long term effect is horrible, especially in young brains that are still developing. Yes, AI can be an aid in some situations, but there should be a flashing Approach With Caution sign at every turn.
Now, there are different kinds of writing that work out the various parts of the gray matter— fiction, essays, poetry, jingles, marketing copy, letters (remember letters? That you write in your own hand and put in an envelope? That took some care, unlike the emails we send every day and the texts we fire off like so much digital buckshot) and anything else that requires a modicum of thought.
I consider myself a writer. I write. That’s all I ever wanted to do. I specialize in that form of fiction called the thriller. It’s my bread and butter—in fact, it butters my bread—and it is my primary focus. But when I engage in another type of writing I find that my overall creative muscle is improved, and I feel that when I go back to fiction.
That’s why I started a Substack. It’s my foray into a type of nonfiction I call “Whimsical Wanderings.” These are free-range essays without fences. I spend part of my early mornings playing in this part of my brain, and bring order to it later. Ray Bradbury once said of his own writing, “Every morning I jump out of bed and step on a landmine. The landmine is me. After the explosion, I spend the rest of the day putting the pieces together.” I can relate.
And now, gentle reader, I am happy to solve a problem for you. With the holiday season upon us, some of you may be scratching your head about what to get for that certain someone you find it so hard to get things for. What gift is suitable, surprising, fun, and relatively cheap? Now you have it. The best of Whimsical Wanderings is contained in the collection Cinnamon Buns and Milk Bone Underwear, the print version of which is available for purchase at the special intro price of $9.99 (that’s the lowest price Amazon will allow for this book. In a week it’ll go to $15.99, at which time I’ll start announcing it to the world at large, including Albania). You may get it here. There’s also the ebook version at the low end of $2.99, here. If I may offer a blurb:
Every time one of James Scott Bell’s Whimsical Wanderings arrives in my email box, I smile, even before I open it. Each post takes me down a path I am not expecting but am so glad for the journey by the time I reach the end. If you want to lift your spirits while being surprised by how one thought can lead to another, treat yourself to this book! — Robin Lee Hatcher, Christy Award winning author of The British Are Coming series
End of commercial. I’ll leave you with this from Malcolm Bradbury, in Unseen Letters: Irreverent Notes From a Literary Life:
I write everything. I write novels and short stories and plays and playlets, interspersed with novellas and two-hander sketches. I write histories and biographies and introductions to the difficulties of modern science and cook books and books about the Loch Ness monster and travel books, mostly about East Grinstead….I write children’s books and school textbooks and works of abstruse philosophy…and scholarly articles on the Etruscans and works of sociology and anthropology. I write articles for the women’s page and send in stories about the most unforgettable characters I have ever met to Reader’s Digest….I write romantic novels under a female pseudonym and detective stories…I write traffic signs and “this side up” instructions for cardboard boxes. I believe I am really a writer.
Do you do any writing other than fiction? Have you tried morning pages? How do you exercise your cranial creative capacity?
by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself” begins this way (spelling in original):
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
Walt was on to something, namely, it is much better to observe grass than to smoke it. Loafing is not about psychoactive stimulation. It’s about inviting your soul.
Which is exactly what we should invite as writers. It is what makes our writing, our voice, unique. It is what a machine does not, and can never possess.
So just how do we invite our soul? We can practice creative loafing.
I had the privilege of knowing Dallas Willard, who was for many years a professor of philosophy at USC, where your humble scribe studied law. Willard was widely known for writing about the spiritual disciplines, e.g., prayer, fasting, simplicity, service, etc. I once asked him what he considered the most important discipline, and he immediately responded, “Solitude.”
That threw me at first. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Solitude, which also includes silence, clears out the noise in our heads, the muck and mire, so we can truly listen.
“In silence,” Willard wrote, “we come to attend.”
Our world is not set up for solitude, silence, contemplation.
Boy howdy, how hard that is for us! According to a recent survey, Americans check their phones 205 times per day. Further:
Needless to say, this doesn’t “invite your soul.” Loafing, even boredom, does. As one neuroscientist puts it:
Boredom can actually foster creative ideas, refilling your dwindling reservoir, replenishing your work mojo and providing an incubation period for embryonic work ideas to hatch. In those moments that might seem boring, empty and needless, strategies and solutions that have been there all along in some embryonic form are given space and come to life. And your brain gets a much needed rest when we’re not working it too hard. Famous writers have said their most creative ideas come to them when they’re moving furniture, taking a shower, or pulling weeds. These eureka moments are called insight.
Learn how to loaf, I say! And it is a discipline. I take Sundays off from writing. It’s not easy. I feel myself wanting to write a “just a little” (which inevitably becomes “a lot”). I have to fight it. If I win the fight, I always feel refreshed and more creative on Monday.
Try this: Leave your phone in another room and sit alone in a chair for five minutes and don’t think about anything but your breath going in and out. You’ll be amazed how hard that is. But it’s a start. If you’re working on your WIP, take a few five-minute breaks to loaf and invite your soul. You’ll get better at it. And your work will get better, too.
I will finish with this moving story about silence.
A fellow enters a monastery and has to take a vow of silence. But once a year he can write one word on the chalkboard in front of the head monk.
The first year goes by and it’s really hard not to talk. Word Day comes around and the monk writes “The” on the chalkboard. The second year is really painful. When Word Day comes he scratches “food” on the chalkboard.
The third year is excruciating, the monk struggles through it, and when Word Day rolls around once more, he writes “stinks.” And the head monk looks at him and says, “What’s with you? You’ve been here for three years and all you’ve done is complain.”
How are you at creative loafing?
by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
At the turn of the last century, the Second Industrial Revolution was well underway (dating roughly from the mid-19th to the mid-20th). Demographics moved from rural to urban. Cities swelled. And men faced a real problem—sagging socks.
Oh, it was fine back on the farm, when only Bessie the cow and a few scattered chickens were witnesses to sartorial sag. But for the city-dwelling male—businessmen, newspaper reporters, plainclothes cops, or any man going to a public space like a ballgame, church, or saloon—slumping hose was a real challenge. Thus arose the men’s garter business. (It would not be until the late 1930s that synthetic fiber was patented by DuPont and made possible elastic socks.)
Novels can sag, too, in five key areas. Let’s see if we can’t make them tighter and firmer, and eliminate the need for garters.
We talk a lot about opening pages here, for obvious reasons. They can make or break a potential sale. (Search our archives for First Page Critiques.) I’ve written about beginning with a disturbance. This is an automatic hook. The enemy is too much backstory and exposition.
Sag Fix: Act first, explain later. Cut out all explanatory material on the first few pages. But I need the readers to know the circumstances and set up, don’t I? No! “Exposition delayed is not exposition denied.” Readers will wait a long time for exposition if they’re caught up in a disturbance.
The Doorway of No Return is when the Lead is forced into the “death stakes” of the novel. It’s the turning point into Act 2 and the main plot. In classic movie structure, this happens at the 1/4 mark. In a novel, I’ve found that it’s best at the 1/5 mark. But that’s too much to think about! I just want to write my story! I hate outlines!
I hear you, pantser. Keep your pants on. Write the way that makes you happy. But if you don’t know structure, all that happy creativity may be for naught. If a reader is going along and starts feeling This story is dragging, they may not stick around.
Sag Fix: Know how and where to cut or move scenes, so that the battle is joined around the 20% mark. You can look at the total word count of your first draft to figure it out. I use Scrivener with four folders: Act 1, Act 2a, Act 2b, and Act 3. Scrivener shows me the total word count in each folder.
There are times when you slow the action a bit to have the Lead confer with a friend or confidante or potential ally. Often these are “eating scenes,” which has its own fixes (see How to Write an Eating Scene).
Sag Fix: You can always find a way to insert tension into a friend scene. Something inside a character is making conversation difficult. For example, your Lead doesn’t want to fully open up about something, and the friend starts to probe. Brainstorm possibilities.
Oh boy, that sagging middle! It’s a three-bear problem: Is it too cold? Too hot? Just right? Is it too short? Too long? Too boring?
It’s funny (or nerve-wracking) how so many writers report the same problem around the 20k or 30k mark. “Holy Moly! Here I am and I’ve got 60k or more words to go! Yikes! Do I have enough going on? Too much? Is it getting out of hand? Or is this thing I’m writing just a novella? Should I make this a “trunk” novel and put it away for another time? Or should I just junk it? Is this wasted effort? Where did I put the bourbon?”
There are too many ways writers get lost in the Act 2 weeds that it is beyond one section of a blog post to deal with. (Let me modestly mention that I cover the whole subject in my book Plotman to the Rescue.)
Avoid the temptation to add “padding.” By that I mean scenes you conceive just to increase word count, as opposed to scenes that are organically related to the plot.
Sag Fixes:
When the final battle has been won (or in some cases, lost), and the loose ends all accounted for, wrap it up! Don’t give us pages and pages of after-plot.
Sag Fix: Add a scene that adds resonance to the ending. This is a scene that resolves a character issue for the Lead. It should be short and sweet, as it is in my favorite Bosch, Lost Light.
She lets go of her mother’s hand and extended hers to me. I took it and she wrapped her tiny fingers around my index finger. I shifted forward until my knees were on the floor and I was sitting back on my heels. She peeked her eyes out at me. She didn’t seem scared. Just cautious. I raised my other hand and she gave me her other hand, the fingers wrapping the same way around my one.
I leaned forward and raised her tiny fists and held them against my closed eyes. In that moment I knew all the mysteries were solved. That I was home. That I was saved.
This fulfills Spillane’s axiom that “the last chapter sells your next book.” Connelly has sold quite a few. Go thou and do likewise.
What plot sags have you encountered? What do you do about them?
