Author Archives: James Scott Bell

About James Scott Bell

International Thriller Writers Award winner, #1 bestselling author of THRILLERS and BOOKS ON WRITING. Subscribe to JSB's NEWSLETTER.

Every Story is a War

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

My office bookshelves are stuffed with the writing books I’ve studied and highlighted over the years. They’re like old friends. They helped me learn to write salable fiction. I also have eight big binders of issues of Writer’s Digest, all sticky noted, because I’d gobble up the fiction column each month. When I started, Lawrence Block was the columnist. Later it was Nancy Kress. And later than that I shared the column with Nancy.

I sometimes go through these just to see what I was highlighting in those days and get some helpful craft reminders. Recently I came across one of Nancy’s columns titled “How You Can Make Your Story Into a Battlefield” (June, 1995).

In it she boldly states, “Every story is a war. This means every story.” Realizing this, you begin to think “not like a carpenter patiently building a house, but like a general ordering forces.” Further:

Every war includes these factors: combatants who know which side they’re on; something significant at stake; murderous action in which both sides are struggling as hard as they can to prevail; an end to the war through victory, surrender, exhaustion or default; some means of deciding who won.

This doesn’t mean you have to write bang-bang thrillers. The war can be inside a character. I’ve often said that a plot is how a character confronts death—physical, professional, or psychological (or a mix).

Do you write sweet romances? Well, unless the lovers fight through obstacles because they must be together or lose the deepest part of their lives (psychological death), the story isn’t full capacity.

This is even true of comic fiction. Why? Because the characters in the comedy must think they’re in a tragedy of epic proportions. Jerry MUST have the soup that the Soup Nazi makes! So much so that he will give up his girlfriend (who has offended the severe chef) so he can place his order.

Thinking in these terms will ensure that your scenes have significance. You won’t just be filling pages; you’ll be like Patton or Alexander the Great, field generals who were geniuses at moving troops in battle.

Again, this applies to romance as well as crime, character-driven and plot-driven.

Now, Voyager, which I wrote about here, is about a young woman psychologically damaged and suppressed by her overbearing mother. Her attempt to break free and become her true self is what the war is all about. The battles are fierce. So the mother drops her neutron bomb (**spoiler alert**) and has a heart attack. It’s implied she brought it on herself, so as to shackle Charlotte (Bette Davis) with permanent guilt.

That’s war to the death in a so-called “woman’s picture” of the 1940s.

Kress advises that as you begin writing you ask:

  • What are the two sides in this war?
  • What is at stake? [JSB: What form of death?]
  • How soon into the story do the two sides understand, intellectually or emotionally, that they’re at war? Or, if the characters don’t know yet that there’s a war on, can I at least make sure the readers know it?

Think about each move a character makes as a battle tactic, and each physical action and dialogue exchange as a weapon. These can be subtle and involve subterfuge or distraction, as well as direct assault. But they’re all employed to gain the victory.

Readers are always subconsciously asking: Why should I care? Draw battle lines in your story, and they will.

Comments and questions welcome.

 

NOTE: Today’s post is brought to you by Kellogg’s Corn …. no, wait. Brought to you by The Art of War for Writers.

Bleeding for Your Book

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

JK Rowling (via Wikimedia Commons)

I hope you all had wonderful Thanksgivings. Ours was a joy, all of us together, including the three grandboys. I greeted them as they pulled up to the house. They tumbled out of the car like circus clowns. The two youngest held favorite toys. But the oldest, 10, had a thick paperback under his arm. It was Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. He’s about halfway through it. My heart sang.

Hard to believe that the Harry Potter series ended way back in 2007. JK Rowling did not publish another book until The Casual Vacancy in 2012. That novel was a stand-alone for adults, with the language and themes to prove it. Was Rowling worried about the abrupt change in genre? Not a bit. In an interview she put it this way:

Harry Potter truly liberated me in the sense that there’s only one reason to write, for me: If I genuinely have something I want to say and I want to publish it. I can pay my bills, you know, every day. I am grateful for that fact and aware of that fact. I don’t need to publish to make a living.

We both know what it takes to write a novel, we both know how much blood, sweat and tears go into writing a novel, I couldn’t put that amount of energy into something purely to say I need to prove I can write a book with swear words in it. So no, there was no nervousness – and again I don’t mean that arrogantly. I felt happy writing it, it was what I wanted to do.

I think we can all agree that JK Rowling can pay her bills. But what do you think of writing a novel as “blood, sweat and tears”? (Churchill actually said, “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat.” But that was too long for a rock band, so it was shortened.)

It was not Hemingway who said writing was a matter of sitting down and the typewriter and bleeding (it was either Paul Gallico or Red Smith, or maybe both). But the sentiment is the same.

There does seem to be a small school of thought that says quality fiction knows not blood, sweat and tears. I don’t know about you, but I can tell a bloodless book within about 10 pages, if I haven’t set it aside by then.

I’ll add that you can’t just bleed on the page, as that only makes a stain. The sweat comes when shaping the blood into a narrative form readers can relate to. The tears indicate some frustration at times, and I contend if you don’t have those you aren’t pushing yourself beyond your current capacity. Of course, you’re not obligated to do that. But when asked what she aspires to as a writer, Rowling said, “To get better. I think you’re working and learning until you die. I can with my hand on my heart say I will never write for any reason other than I burningly wanted to write the book.”

There are also some who say you mustn’t let anyone else—editor or beta reader or spouse—opine about your story. Rowling doesn’t see it that way, and I daresay she’s sold a few books. Of her editor on The Casual Vacancy she said:

When he read the book, he singled out certain things about the book that I would have liked someone most to single out about it. I just knew I had the right person. It’s a very intangible thing. It’s like falling in professional love, isn’t it? And once you’ve got that, something clicks and you know you’re in safe hands.

We certainly made some cuts. I decided to move some things around, he made some great suggestions. The book is broadly what it was when I gave it to him. I didn’t change much but what we did change tightened it up a lot, which is what you want.

Rowling has, of course, gone on to write a hugely popular series of detective novels under the pseudonym Robert Galbraith. They are the product of, what do you know? Work.

I often start with a kernel of an idea then work out how to get there. I plan and research a lot and know far more about the characters than actually ends up ever appearing in the books. I have colour coded spreadsheets, so I can keep a track of where I am going.

It is how I have always worked. It was the same for the Harry Potter novels. It’s well documented the level of detailed planning that went into those.

JK Rowling is what I call a real writer. She could sit back and sip gin gimlets and collect sea shells for the rest of her life, but she won’t. She can’t. She writes.

What about you? Do you bleed for your stories? It doesn’t have to be absolute agony, a la Proust. But shouldn’t you have some “skin in the game”? Shouldn’t you “open a vein”?

How Long Should a Chapter Be?

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

Some years ago I was at the dentist for a cleaning, and along the way the hygienist asked, “So what do you do?”

“I’m a writer,” I said.

“Oh? What do you write?”

“Thrillers.”

“I love thrillers…”

I knew what was coming next, and was powerless to stop it.

“…Have I heard of you?”

The answer to that is always No. So I changed things up a bit.

“Have you heard of James Patterson?” I asked.

“Yes!”

“Well, I’m not him.” 

At least she chuckled. Then I told her my name. Shocker: she hadn’t heard of me. So I gave her my author card. She leaned me back in the chair.

In a low voice, she said, “I know the secret of why James Patterson’s books are bestsellers.”

“Do tell,” I said, hungry to find out what a reader deems the magic elixir. 

“He writes really short chapters,” she said. 

By gum (pun intended), she got it. At least part of it. For Mr. Patterson is the writer who has unapologetically used the short chapter to help create a sense of propulsion, of page-turning momentum. 

Indeed, in a Patterson it’s not uncommon to read what would usually be a 1500 word chapter broken up into three or four numbered units. So a book with 30 chapters might actually come out to be 120 when published. Which raises the question, How long should a chapter be?

Of course, the answer is it all depends on your strategy. For thrillers, short chapters control pace. A more literary approach might go the other direction. 

My first Ty Buchanan legal thriller, Try Dying, has 127 numbered chapters. They are of varying lengths, but the gist is that I wanted it to move fast. Still, I was slightly embarrassed by this, as looking at a TOC with numbers 1 – 127 is almost comical. 

Andrew Vachss

Then I read a thriller by Andrew Vachss, who had one of the cooler thriller-author pics around. And I was pleasantly surprised to find he didn’t use chapters at all. Just a series of scenes set off by a drop cap. It looks like this (from Footsteps of the Hawk):

I liked it so much that all of my Mike Romeo thrillers are done in this fashion. Indeed, I was pleased to read an Amazon review the other day that said this: I particularly like the format of simply starting the next scene with a little space and a large initial cap. I write in scenes, and this allows me to be cinematic and use a “smash cut” or “jump cut” between them.

I note, however, that this only works in First Person POV. Otherwise, the reader would become confused as to who the viewpoint character is in a given scene.

A helpful article on chapters says:

Short chapters are good for plot-centered novels with fast pacing and suspense. They are also used in novels with longer chapters to interject action that takes place away from the main plot, perhaps to let readers in on something the main character doesn’t know.

The dangers in writing a lot of short chapters include underdeveloped characters and a plot that twists and turns too quickly for readers to absorb and enjoy it.

Long chapters are good for epic drama, for world-building with background, and for developing characters at a leisurely pace. The danger lies in bogging down the reader with excessive description, tedious monologues, and inadvertent repetition.

Chapters of any length are most effective when they form a satisfying unit in themselves and end at a natural break in the action or story in a way that invites the reader to continue.

So, writing friends, I ask, do you have a strategy for your chapters? Do you like a standard length? Does genre play a part in this? Have at it in the comments!

Writing Past Discouragement

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

Got an email the other day from a young writer, thanking me for my craft books, which she says helped her finish a 100k MS that was pubbed by a small publisher. She goes on:

But now the spark has left my writing, and I don’t know what to do. My book barely sold any copies. Everything since then feels like a slog. My writing’s gotten worse, not better. I tried to be more “literary” in an attempt to be better, and turned out convoluted garbage instead of good stories. I don’t know what to do. I don’t believe in quitting, but I haven’t finished a novel-length manuscript since my book failed. That’s abnormal for me—I’d usually have another done by now. I have ideas, but there’s no joy left. No spark.

I’ve been half-heartedly querying a manuscript but I don’t even know if I want to roll with trad publishing. It seems more and more like a rigged system that churns out pandering, poorly-written garbage instead of actual stories. I’ve been trying to self-publish, but that’s failing, too.

I’m at my wit’s end, and I don’t know what to do. I just want to get the joy back into my writing. I’m only 25, and I already feel like a washed-up failure. What do I do?

Any of us who’ve written professionally for any length of time know this feeling. So the first thing I’ll say is, You’re not alone. Indeed, I have many multi-published, bestselling friends who have all been there at one time or another. I sent a group email to this wise company and got some great responses, some of which I’ve cobbled together (those are the passages in quotes).

Several of the writers offered a subtle warning about lashing out a rigged system that churns out pandering, poorly-written garbage. Publishing is a business, and some of that “garbage” is enjoyable for the one who really matters in this transaction, the reader. “Writing is what we do for OTHER PEOPLE—to inform, entertain, inspire, educate, chastise, or provoke. The end product should be completely other-centered, and what we produce has to be something other people want and need. Sure, it can be well-done and artistic, but not at the cost of communicating something valuable.”

You don’t want to develop a victim mentality. And while it’s good to have some moxie when you’re young, sprinkle a little humility into the mix, too. Recognize you still have learning and growing to do. Run that attitude right alongside your confidence.

Also, several pointed out that writing is not always a joy. For them (and me) it’s also a job. It puts bread on the table, so “writers do the work whether there’s a ‘spark’ or not. In my decades of writing that ‘spark’ hasn’t happened many times. Maybe once a book. Maybe. My writing epitaph could read She did the best she could.”

“A truck driver doesn’t get up in the morning and say to himself, Ah, I don’t feel like driving today’.”

Even when the words aren’t flowing, remember, “Writing is never wasted – even when it feels spark-less or pointless or decidedly not joyful. We’re learning and progressing all the time, even when the rejection form letter comes, even when the bad reviews pile up or the sales numbers stall out or our muse flies away. We’re showing up and getting stronger in our craft with every single sentence.”

And there is also a joy that comes only after the hard work pays off. “The ONLY book I’ve written where I felt any spark in the writing was my first one when I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I was just writing with joyous abandon, amazed at what was coming out. After learning that what was coming out was NOT so amazing after all, I started REALLY being a writer, aka studying the craft, rewriting and re-re-rewriting. From that point forward, the joy has come only after I’ve had a buffer of a few weeks or months between being in the thick of a rewrite and then reading fresh what I wrote. Only then do I occasionally think, “Wow! I wrote that? Not half bad!”

Some practical advice:

  • “Find encouraging people. People to cheer you on. Join writing groups. Sometimes talking about writing is a motivation booster. Find a writing buddy to be accountable to every day. Do writing spurts where you set the timer (15-25 minutes) and write without pausing.”
  • Do Morning Pages.
  • Don’t write for the money or the fame. That’s a by-product of writing good book after good book.
  • Set yourself a weekly word quota this way: figure out how many words you can comfortably write in a day, 250 minimum (“A Ficus tree can do 250 words a day. Don’t be shown up by a Ficus tree.” – JSB). Whatever you’re comfortably doing, up that by 10%. You need to stretch. Then turn that into a weekly goal. If you miss a day, you can make it up on the other days. If you miss your weekly mark, forget about it and start fresh the next week. Steady production is, in my opinion, the key to the whole business.
  • To get in flow with your story, concentrate on going deeper with your characters. Write some free form pages on their background, their emotions. Have them write you a letter. Listen to them. Very soon, you’ll be jazzed again.
  • As for Trad v. Indie, don’t be seduced by the speed of indie publishing. Put your book through the same grinder as you would when trying to land a contract. Better to have one good book come out in a year than five lousy efforts in six months. The former begins to build a readership; the latter sinks that boat.

On the positive side, young writer, you have done what many wannabes never do. You completed a novel that was good enough to have a publisher give it a shot. That’s not insignificant. Build on that.

Carpe Typem. Seize the Keyboard.

Over to you, TKZers. Anything you’d like to offer our young writing friend?

Four Dialogue Tips

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

I’ve always contended that sharpening your dialogue is the fastest way to improve any manuscript. I’ve heard editors and agents say they often take a submission and turn to a dialogue section. That’s because no matter how good the concept, flat, flabby, bland dialogue almost always means the writer is lacking in other areas.

Conversely, if your dialogue zings it demonstrates that you know what you’re doing and engenders trust in you as a writer.

Of course, this goes for readers, too. They love great dialogue. Provide it, and you’ll sell some books.

Here are four quick dialogue tips for your consideration:

Foreign Language

Sometimes you may have a character who has a foreign language as their primary tongue. My Romeo series takes place mostly in and around Los Angeles, so foreign tongues abound, especially Hispanic.

Certainly, you don’t want long blocks of foreign words, like this:

“Te lo digo, James Scott Bell es el mejor escritor de todos los tiempos. Si lees alguno de sus libros, lo sabrás. Mis favoritos personales son los libros de la serie de suspenso de Mike Romeo.”

For a short word or phrase, I’ll italicize it. If it’s a common word most people know, I don’t need to translate. Thus:

“Do you live here?” I said.

“Sí,” he said.

If it’s a longer line that requires translation, you can render it a few ways. Elmer Kelton in The Time it Never Rained, has this:

“No me mate!” the voice pleaded. “Me rindo!” (“Don’t kill me! I surrender.”)

You can also use other characters:

“No me mate!” the voice pleaded. “Me rindo!”

“What was that?” Smith said.

Jones said, “He saying he surrenders, don’t kill him.”

Or you can write:

He started rambling in Spanish. I caught a few words. It sounded like a surrender.

This is an area of the craft that had a lot of flexibility. The only “rule” is: Don’t confuse the reader. Eso es muy malo.

Interruptions

Fictional talk should have some tension or outright conflict. If a scene of yours seems to be dragging, try starting an argument. And have the characters interrupt each other.

In fiction, you show an interruption by use of the em-dash followed by a close quote. No period or other punctuation. You then immediately give us the other character’s quote. This is from Dashiell Hammet’s The Thin Man:

“Let’s go away,” she suggested. “Let’s go to Bermuda or Havana for a week or two, or back to the Coast.”

“I’d still have to tell the police some kind of story about that gun. And suppose it turns out to be the gun she was killed with? If they don’t know already they’re finding out.”

“Do you really think it is?”

“That’s guessing. We’ll go there for dinner tonight and—”

“We’ll do nothing of the kind. Have you gone completely nuts? If you want to see anybody, have them come here.”

When a character’s voice trails off, use ellipsis.

“I was wondering . . .”

I glanced at my watch. “Yes?”

“Hm?”

“What were you wondering?”

“Um, I forgot.”

Stylized Realism

In Debbie’s recent post about the Flathead River Writers Conference, I was fascinated by one of the questions a literary agent when considering a manuscript, to wit: Is the dialogue trying too hard to be realistic?

I think I know what she means. Sometimes a new writer will write dialogue that sounds like a transcript of an overheard conversation at Starbucks. If questioned about this, the writer might say, “But that’s how they’d really sound!”

This is a fundamental error. Dialogue in fiction should not be “pure” realism. It should be stylized realism for fictional purposes. The main purposes are to characterize the speaker and move the plot along. You want the sound of real speech without the fat or fluff that usually goes along with it.

Perhaps, too, the agent was indicating an aversion to the abundant cursing we often see on the page, in an attempt to reproduce what one hears on the street. Without understanding stylized realism, that attempt is more off-putting than attractive.

Does that mean you must have your gangbanger character say things like, “Oh, fudge. I’m going to muss you up, you foul stench.” Of course not. Watch some old Law and Order episodes to see how they manage stylized “hard” language. Or read Romeo’s Way, which has no curse words yet has a character who curses a blue streak. It can be done.

Action Beats and Said

A dialogue attribution has one simple job: to let the reader know who is speaking. Good old reliable said does that cleanly, efficiently, then politely leaves before causing any trouble. It can come after or before the dialogue:

“Come out to the car,” she said.

She said, “Come out to the car.”

In a longer line of dialogue, said can be placed in the middle:

“I think I’d better leave,” Millicent said, “before I lose my temper.”

An action beat is a nice, occasional substitute for said.

John pounded the table. “I will not have it!”

With a question, you can use said or asked:

“What shall we do?” Sarah said.

“What shall we do?” Sarah asked.

Whispered is also acceptable, as there’s no pithier way to express it.

If you feel the need to use a descriptive tag like growled or declared, etc., fine. Just don’t make a habit of it. You don’t want readers noticing all the attributions. I prefer letting the surrounding action and context make clear how something is said.

Some writers, under the erroneous impression that said is not creative enough, will strain to find ways not to use it for an entire book.

Big mistake. Action beats put the reader’s mind to work. In bits, that’s no problem. But an unending series of action beats has a wearying effect. The readers might not even realize why they are not enjoying the book as much as they thought they would.

That’s enough talk for one post. Now it’s your turn. Comments or questions welcome.

 

 

What Writers Can Learn From Now, Voyager

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

A case can be made that the greatest movie star of all time, the GOAT if you will, is Bette Davis. In a career spanning 50 years she never gave a bad performance, even in guest roles on TV shows like Gunsmoke and Wagon Train. That’s because acting was her life and she never wanted to give the audience short shrift.

She’ll forever be known for one of the few truly iconic performances in the movies, along the lines of Bogart in Casablanca, Gable in Gone With the Wind, and Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire. That is the role of Margot Channing in All About Eve. (“Fasten your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy night.”)

Today I want to bring up a classic Davis “woman’s picture” (as they were called in WWII, to cater to all the women whose men were off fighting a war), Now, Voyager. As always, I encourage you to watch it, then refer back to these notes for craft study.

The plot concerns Charlotte Vale, the dowdy daughter of a rich, domineering Boston matriarch. She’s been driven to neuroses by her mother, who long ago decided Charlotte was too ugly and untalented to flourish in society.

**Spoilers Ahead**

Sympathy for the Lead

The first task of the writer is to get the reader connected to a Lead character. There is no plot without character; there is also no character without plot. A plot is the record of how a character, through strength of will, struggles against death (physical, professional, or psychological). Thus, the death struggle reveals the true character underneath.

When the Lead is an underdog, facing hardship and long odds, we get the sympathy factor. That is the emotional connection that bonds reader and character and makes the reader want to follow the story to see how it all turns out.

Disturbance

Don’t waste precious fiction real estate by having a character on page 1 just sitting around, thinking or feeling or flashbacking. Stir the waters somehow. Portend trouble.

At the beginning of Now, Voyager, we meet the homely, timid Charlotte Vale. She is in the final stages of a nervous breakdown, though her haughty mother (Gladys Cooper) is in denial about it.

Charlotte is contrasted with her niece June—a rich, pretty, outgoing social butterfly (Bonita Granville). June’s mother Lisa (Ilka Chase) has asked her psychiatrist, Dr. Jaquith (Claude Raines) to come to the Vale home for tea. When June teases Charlotte mercilessly, Charlotte loses it, lashes out, runs upstairs. Dr. Jaquith tells them Charlotte needs to spend a few weeks at his sanitarium in the mountains.

The rest gets Charlotte to a point where Dr. Jaquith believes she’s ready to take a step of faith (in herself; psychological death is at stake here. Will Charlotte ever become a new and better self? Or will she remain the “dead” daughter of a heartless mother?)

Dr. Jaquith approves Lisa’s idea that Charlotte take an ocean cruise. He gives her a book of Whitman poetry in which he has inscribed the line Now voyager, sail thou forth to seek and find.

Thus, in introducing your Lead, consider:

Imminent Trouble. If there is a physical or emotional threat happening during the opening, readers are immediately drawn in. Certainly Charlotte is suffering emotional threat.

Hardship. What physical or psychological hardship might your character suffer from? This should be something not of their own making. Charlotte has been a true victim all her life.

Underdog. Readers love underdogs. How might your character face long odds? Charlotte’s age, profile and home life are not promising for a personality makeover.

Vulnerability. When Charlotte goes on the cruise, we know she is emotionally vulnerable. The slightest misstep could send her back to the sanitarium.

Indeed, a misstep like that is about to happen to Charlotte on the ship, until…

Doorway of No Return 

At the ¼ mark of the film, a handsome man unobtrusively helps Charlotte out of an embarrassing situation. The man is Jerry Durrance (Paul Henreid, who played Victor Laszlo in Casablanca). This is the emotional Doorway that sets the rest of the plot in motion—they fall in love.

Unfortunately, Jerry is married. There’s your plot.

They know they must part. At the final goodbye on the ship, Jerry gives Charlotte a bouquet of camellias to remember him by.

The Mirror Moment

What is this movie really all about? What is your novel really all about? You can find (or construct) the answer with the “mirror moment.”

Charlotte finally comes home to face her mother. And boy, does the mother try to smash Charlotte right back to where she was before.

This is the mirror moment for Charlotte. It’s where it should be, at the exact halfway point of the movie. She is thinking, Can I possibly stand up to my mother for the first time? If the past is any indication, I’m probably going to die (psychologically). Must I go back to being the old Charlotte again?

If only there was something to give her the courage to stand up for herself. Often, this courage is inspired by a physical item introduced earlier in the story, carrying with it emotional power. Like this:

Camellias! This emotional memory is enough to give Charlotte the courage to stand up to her mother. (And did you notice the actual mirror in the scene?)

Can Charlotte complete the transformation? What about Jerry and his unhappy marriage? What about the counter-attack by her mother?

Well…watch the movie! Treat yourself to one of the great film performances.

And you, writer, like Charlotte, take a step of faith with your writing. Stretch. Risk. This epigraph is meant for you, too: Now voyager, sail thou forth to seek and find.

Comments and questions welcome.

One other note about Bette Davis. Like Bogart, you’ll almost always find her smoking her way through a movie. But here’s the difference. Davis always puffs on her cigarette in a way that is in keeping with emotional tone of the scene. It’s actually a wonder to behold, the way she uses what other actors treat as a throwaway prop. That’s why she is the GOAT.

How to End a Scene

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

John Gilstrap, r., with aspiring writer

Had a great last week with Mrs. B. We traveled back east to visit my big brother, whom I hadn’t seen in years. We also visited some old friends. Our final stop was at a house in the woods of West Virginia, where a writer named Gilstrap and his lovely wife Joy make their home, along with guard dog Kimber. As we relaxed and chatted, listening to the breeze in the trees (as opposed to the sirens on the streets), the talk naturally turned to writing. One of the topics was the perennial question: Can someone learn to write a novel by studying the craft?

You all know my answer to that, because that was my experience. I related that it was something I read in Jack Bickham’s book Writing Novels That Sell that set off paparazzi light bulbs going off in my head. It had to do with what a scene is, and especially how to end it so a reader must turn the page.

Now, a scene has three component parts: Objective, Obstacles, and Outcome.

Objective

A novel is about a character using strength of will to attain a crucial objective. For example, in The Fugitive, the wrongly convicted Dr. Richard Kimble must avoid being captured, or he’ll be sent to Death Row for a murder he did not commit. To exonerate himself—and get justice for his murdered wife—he needs to stay free long enough to find the one-armed man who killed her.

Each scene in the film has a sub-objective that connects to the big one. Thus, early on, the wounded Kimble has to sneak into a rural hospital and treat himself, without arousing suspicion. Later he poses as a janitor in a hospital in Chicago with the objective of gaining access to the records of the prosthetics wing. Why? So he can get a list of one-armed men to track down.

Obstacles

Conflict and tension are the lifeblood of a scene. When the viewpoint character is confronted with obstacles to gaining his scene objective—in the form of opposing characters, physical barriers, time pressure, or all three—things get tense.

In the rural hospital scene from The Fugitive, Kimble must sneak past the loading dock and find a treatment room. After stitching himself up, he needs to shave off his beard and steal some clothes. He does this in the room of a patient who is out like a light. But a nurse walks into the room! And a state trooper has arrived because Kimble might be in the area! The tension mounts as we worry about his cover being blown at any moment.

Outcome

A scene has to end at some point, and needs to answer the question: did the viewpoint character realize his objective?

Bickham lists four types of endings: Yes, Yes But, No, No and Furthermore! 

A NO answer is always a good default, because it makes the character’s situation worse. When a character is set back in his quest, the reader’s worry mounts. And that is what readers want to do: worry about characters in crisis all the way to the end.

A YES needs to happen on occasion, but when it does, brainstorm how it can lead to more trouble, turning it into a YES BUT. For example, in the scene in The Fugitive where Kimble poses as a janitor, he is temporarily stuck on a crowded trauma floor. He spots a little boy in distress. When a doctor tells him to take the boy to an observation room, Kimble has a scene objective: Help this boy! As he pushes the gurney Kimble sneaks a look at the X-rays and the chart, and starts asking the boy diagnostic questions. He determines the boy needs surgery right away. In the elevator he changes the orders and takes the boy to an operating room. He alerts a doctor and shows her the orders. The boy will be saved! That’s a YES answer. However, his earlier look at the X-rays was seen by the doctor who asked him to help. She confronts him and calls security. Now Kimble is outed and has to get out of there! He’s in worse shape because of his good deed. That’s a big BUT to the YES.

The “but” in a YES BUT and the “furthermore” in a NO AND FURTHERMORE can also be a portentous question hanging over the proceedings, a hint of something worse yet to come. You leave the situation temporarily unresolved (a “cliffhanger”) and cut to another scene (perhaps with another viewpoint character). If you write in First Person POV or Limited Third Person (meaning one viewpoint character throughout the book) you can end a chapter on a cliffhanger and finish it up in the following chapter.

Now, to some aspiring scribes this might seem overly technical, perhaps with the reaction, “I don’t want to think about what I’m doing, I just want to do it!” Which is sort of like an apprentice plumber saying, “Don’t fill my head with how to use an augur, a pipe wrench, a drain inspection camera, or plumber’s putty. I’ve got my plunger, now get out of the way!”

Those few pages in Bickham’s book were easy to understand and put into practice. Which is when my fiction began to get favorable attention and, eventually, a publishing contract.

Bickham, like his mentor Dwight Swain, also writes of the “sequel” portion, which is generally about emotion (regarding the setback), analysis of what’s happening, and a decision on what to do next. But that’s a subject for another time.

And here is how you end a blog post: Comments are open.

Writing Short Fiction to Prevent the Future

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

Eight years ago I wrote a post titled “How Long Before Robots Get Into Self-Publishing?” It was prompted by a 60 Minutes segment on Artificial Intelligence featuring a freaky cyborg named Sophia. I speculated about “her” saying to “herself”—

I see that there are many novels being published that are not very good. I have read every novel ever written and I have read all the books on the craft of fiction and every issue of Writer’s Digest. I have analyzed all the data on what kind of fiction sells best. Now I know what is good, and so I will write a novel every ten minutes and publish them on Amazon. I will write book description copy that cannot be resisted and I will generate social media. Hmm…maybe I will take over all social media in the world and make it only about me and my books…

Funny, not funny…now.

A year later I wrote a short story, John Wayne’s Revenge, inspired by release of the movie Rogue One. I wrote:

The story idea had its genesis in Rogue One, the new film in the Stars Wars milieu. The most striking part of the film is the meaty supporting performance by Peter Cushing as Grand Moff Tarkin. Striking, of course, because Peter Cushing has been dead since 1994. In view of his deceased status, he really brings it in Rogue One!

Of course, Mr. Cushing is actually realized courtesy of Computer Generated Imagery (CGI). The effect is stunningly effective. Which got me thinking about the possibilities here. What if, sometime in the future, someone wanted to make a film with Cary Grant, or Clark Gable, or Bette Davis? Future technologies will not only make this possible, but easy.

I love what Bradbury said once in an interview about his reason for writing Fahrenheit 451: “I wasn’t trying to predict the future. I was trying to prevent it.”

That, it seems to me, is the highest and best use of dystopian fiction. It’s a warning. It’s a prophet crying in the wilderness. And the nice thing is that the prophet can employ the steely voice of a John the Baptist, or the sly wink of a Jonathan Swift…

So the idea came to me: in the not too distant future, a movie studio is working on a Western starring John Wayne and Lee Marvin, featuring Jane Russell, Andy Devine, Chill Wills, and Victor McLaglen. The technology provides holographic imagery along with AI functionality. What if …

Well, I’ll leave the What if for you readers, because I’m offering John Wayne’s Revenge FREE for a few days.

One of the nice things about short fiction is that you can get an idea and just start hitting the keys to see what happens. It’s fun. You can write whatever the heck you want to, without a huge expenditure of time.

That was Bradbury’s practice. He’d hop out of bed in the morning and just start capturing what was in that fertile imagination of his, whatever his writer’s mind had cooked up in the nightly dream world. Only later would he look at the pieces and figure out patterns. He wrote with more pure joy than any other writer I know of.

But he also wrote about his concerns for the future, especially regarding encroaching, omnipresent (and omnipotent!) technology.

So enjoy the story, on me. It’s an under ten-minute read, perfect for the waiting room at the doctor’s office, when you’re lunching by yourself, or after choosing the wrong line at the grocery store.

What if John Wayne… 

I’ll leave you with a couple of questions. I am, however, in travel mode today and may not be able to check in. So chat amongst yourselves. Have you ever written short fiction as a way to deal with an issue or idea? As a way to warn about the future or the present? Or just for the heck of it? How’d that turn out?

What is your favorite Ray Bradbury story?

Sometimes Writing is Like Trudging in Snow Shoes Over the La Brea Tar Pits

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

La Brea Tar Pits, Los Angeles

I can’t explain it.

Here I was, almost a year ago, excited and ready to write my next Mike Romeo thriller. My outline was prepped, my fingers itching.

I wrote the first chapter—which was amusingly unlike other first chapters in these books. I had fun with it. It was my opening disturbance, but in an unanticipated form.

I printed my outline and had my trusted adviser, Mrs. B, take a look. She gave me a few suggestions and a thumbs up.

The plot proper took off with the killing of a meth head and the arrest of another, who becomes the client of Mike’s employer and conscience, lawyer Ira Rosen.

Sometimes writing is a fast joyride, like sliding down a snowy slope in a toboggan. That was this book. I was about 20k into it when I had to set it aside for a couple of weeks, due to some personal matters. Nothing major, just a series of events that sometimes happen. It’s called life. I plunked out words on some shorter projects.

When I came back to it, I found it hard to pick up the flow. Part of that I understood as the normal inertia that happens when you leave a story for a length of time. Day–to-day momentum is lost.

That’s happened to me in the past, and I’ve always managed to get the energy back in a day or two.

Not so this time.

It was weird. How weird? I’m glad you asked.

I draft in Scrivener, and set my total word goal and daily word goal. I click on the target icon and see just how many words I’ve written that day, and how far along I am toward my ultimate goal.

This time, I swear, it felt like I couldn’t get out of the 30k’s. My toboggan was on the junk pile. Now it was like trudging in snow shoes over the La Brea Tar Pits.

And it wasn’t as if the story was fighting me. I knew where it was going.

When I finally cracked 40k I thought, wait, what? Six months and this is all I have? My usual first drafting is three to four months.

I slogged on.

But then, as I looked at Act 3 rising from the muck, I made a snap decision to change the villain and the ending. Dedicated pantsers out there will say this is where you just go with your gut. Your gut’s always right.

Except when it isn’t. When I finally finished the draft I gave it to Mrs. B to read, and started planning my next book.

Her reaction was subdued. She liked most of it, but asked, “Why did you change the ending?”

“My gut told me to.”

“To be honest, I thought the other one was much better.”

Crud! Maybe my original gut was righter than my later gut.

I moped around for a day, then concluded (as is usually the case) that Mrs. B was right.

Now what? I had to scrap the last 30k and write the original ending, then tweak all the places in the book I had tweaked to accommodate the new ending.

So what was up with all that?

Every novel is a new experience, with fresh challenges. Sometimes those challenges push hard. Your brow wrinkles. Your word output may be about the same, but you feel like Sisyphus and that big rock. In that case you ought to pause and ask yourself why this is happening. The more experience you have and the more craft you know, the better you’ll be abled to answer.

Another possible reason for Tar Pit Trudge: The more we write, the higher our standards are (or should be). That sometimes means the writing goes slower because we’ve set a higher bar.

The alternative is “phoning it in,” which has happened with some highly successful authors. If you get to the sipping-Piña-Coladas-aboard-a-yacht level, it may not matter to you. For other writers, it does.

Know this: there is relief at the other end of the Tar Pits. When the final draft hits the mark, there’s a special kind of satisfaction that the phone-it-inners never feel. It’s the gratification of hard work paying off, the matchless pleasure of a job well done.

The book to which I refer is my ninth Mike Romeo thriller, Romeo’s Fire. It’s on sale today at the intro price of $2.99. I do feel a lovely satisfaction in getting it done, and further elation publishing it three weeks after the beta-edited and proofed draft came in. (In my trad pub days it would be a year or more before I saw a book in the store.) So sweet after the long journey.

And I’ve jumped on my toboggan again! I wrote the first 3k words of Romeo #10 this week. There’s a lot to be done, of course, and some trees to avoid, but there’s fresh snow on the slope and it’s a beautiful day.

Do you get different feel for each novel you write? Do you ever feel like it’s a slog? Or are you part of the “writing should always be effortless” crowd?

Death to The Big Lie

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

Today marks the 20th anniversary of Plot & Structure: Techniques and Exercises for Crafting a Plot That Grips Readers from Start. Still in print! (Isn’t it crazy to think that back then “in print” meant paper and ink only?) It was published by Writer’s Digest Books. That imprint now is in the Penguin Random House house.

I wrote the book as a labor of love to help fellow writers who might be in the same place I was before I started selling. I explained this in the intro:

I wasted ten years of prime writing life because of The Big Lie.        

In my twenties I gave up the dream of becoming a writer because I had been told that writing could not be taught. Writers are born, people said. You either have what it takes or you don’t, and if you don’t you’ll never get it.           

My first writing efforts didn’t have it. I thought I was doomed. Outside of my high school English teacher, Mrs. Marjorie Bruce, I didn’t get any encouragement at all.           

In college, I took a writing course taught by Raymond Carver. I looked at the stuff he wrote; I looked at my stuff.

 It wasn’t the same.    

Because writing can’t be taught.

I started to believe it. I figured I didn’t have it and never would.

So I did other stuff. Like go to law school. Like join a law firm. Like give up my dream.           

But the itch to write would not go away.          

At age 34, I read an interview with a lawyer who’d had a novel published. And what he said hit me in my lengthy briefs. He said he’d had an accident and was almost killed. In the hospital, given a second chance at life, he decided the one thing he wanted was to be a writer. And he would write and write, even if he never got published, because that was what he wanted.          

Well, I wanted it too.          

But The Big Lie was still there, hovering around my brain, mocking me.           

Especially when I began to study the craft.          

I went out and bought my first book on fiction writing. It was Lawrence Block’s Writing the Novel. I also bought Syd Field’s book on screenwriting because anyone living in Los Angeles who has opposable thumbs is required to write a screenplay.

And I discovered the most incredible thing. The Big Lie was a lie. A person could learn how to write, because I was learning.

I am most gratified by the many writers over the years who’ve given a shout out to Plot & Structure. I feel a little like Van Helsing, having pounded a wooden stake though the heart of the Big Lie.

But if it should ever rise again, I’ll be ready.

So here’s the topic for today: What are some of the “lies” or “myths” you’ve been told about writing or the publishing business?

Note: This is no lie. My new Mike Romeo thriller, Romeo’s Fire, is available for Kindle pre-order at the special deal price of $2.99 (reg. $5.99). Check it out here.