“A mental model is a compression of how something works. Any idea, belief, or concept can be distilled down. Like a map, mental models reveal key information while ignoring irrelevant details. Models concentrate the world into understandable and useable chunks.”

This quote is from Shane Parrish who hosts a fascinating blog and podcast called Farnam Street. I’ve subscribed to Shane’s site for years and look forward to his weekly newsletter that arrives every Sunday morning. It’s free, but you can purchase a more in-depth dive for only a few bucks a month. It’s worth every nickel.

An extensive piece that Shane put together is titled Mental Models: The Best Way to Make Intelligent Decisions (~ 100 Models Explained) that deals with thought experiments. He covers a vast array of subjects like Circle of Competence, Reciprocity, First Principle Thinking, Second Order Reasoning, Inversion, Probabilistics, Inertia, Leverage, Compounding, and Entropy. Here’s the link: https://fs.blog/mental-models/

This is a short submission to the Kill Zone today. I’m on vacation and traveling for most of this Thursday. I can’t respond to comments till about noon PST, but I wanted to generate discussion around critical thinking and how it applies to our work as writers.

Who has heard of mental models and the latticework of integration into thought processing? Has anyone else tapped into Shane Parrish and his Farnam Street world? And who develops characters (like Sherlock Holmes) who use woven or latticed mental models in their thinking? Comments, please.  🙂

Dear Readers: I am still in Italy and out of touch. Our Wifi here is almost non-existent! So I hope you don’t mind a re-post. This is one of my favorites. See you soon. — PJ

Paragraphing is a way of dramatization, as the look of a poem on a page is dramatic; where to break lines, where to end sentences. — Joyce Carol Oates.

By PJ Parrish

Yesterday, Sue posted her critique of a First Page submission. On first read, I thought it was pretty good but something about it was bugging me. Then I just looked at it instead of reading it. It hit me that the paragraphing wasn’t quite right.

Paragraphing? Who cares about paragraphing? You just hit enter when it feels right, right? Nope. Proper paragraphing is one of the most underrated tools in your writer’s box. So allow me to wander into the weeds today and talk a little inside baseball. (I worked hard on that mixed metaphor, by the way)

Two main problems with the submission yesterday: The writer had made the common mistake of burying thoughts and dialogue within narrative.

Second problem: All the paragraphs are about the same length. Why is that a problem? Because it goes to pacing and rhythm. No variation in paragraphs is boring to the eye and that translates to boring for the reader’s imagination. But if you learn to master the fine but subtle art of judicious paragraphing, you can inject interest and even tension into your story.

Let’s address problem one first. This opening paragraph is essentially narrative. But inserted within that is both dialogue and thoughts. Here’s the paragraph:

Arizona Powers slammed her palm into the office wall, ignoring the stinging sensation. Unbelievable. “Are you kidding me? I’m not doing that. I’m a federal agent, not a babysitter.” Her boss had clearly lost his mind. She spun on her hiking shoe, locking eyes with Senior Special Agent Matt Updike. Her fingers fidgeted with a button on her shirt. I deserve a second chance.

Dialogue and thoughts are ACTION. They deserve to be lifted out of narrative and given lines of their own so the reader can emotionally latch onto them, and by extension, your character. This opening paragraph would be more effective (and more interesting to the eye) if it were deconstructed with better paragraphing:

Arizona Powers slammed her palm into the office wall, ignoring the stinging sensation, and stared hard at her boss.

“Are you kidding me? I’m not doing that. I’m a federal agent, not a babysitter.”

Matt Updike shoved his chair backward, rose and closed the distance between them in two strides.

“I’m not kidding. You are doing this,” he said. “You don’t have a choice.”

She could smell his stale coffee breath and see a vein bulging in his neck, but she resisted the urge to step back. Her boss had clearly lost his mind. But she wasn’t going to take this. She deserved a second chance.

See the difference? The drama of the scene is enhanced by allowing the thoughts and dialogue to stand out — all by simple paragraphing. Here’s something interesting: The rewrite is LONGER but it reads FASTER. Why? Because the reader doesn’t need to ferret out the important thoughts and dialogue. It’s your job, as the writer, to mine out the nuggets for them.

Now let’s consider the basic question of length of paragraphs and how that affects your reader. How long should your paragraphs be? Sounds like a dumb question, but it’s not. You need to consider it deeply.

Let me re-quote this from Ronald Tobias’s The Elements of Fiction Writing: Theme & Strategy,

The rhythm of action and character is controlled by the rhythm of your sentences. You can alter mood, increase or decrease tension, and pace the action by the number of words you put in a sentence. And because sentences create patterns, the cumulative effect of your sentences has a larger overall effect on the work itself. Short sentences are more dramatic; long sentences are calmer by nature and tend to be more explanatory or descriptive. If your writing a tense scene and use long sentences [me here: or long paragraphs], you may be working against yourself.

I often liken writing to music. Composers use punctuation to speed up or slow down pace and musicians use types of “articulation” to enhance whatever mood they are going for — intense? dangerous? romantic? thoughtful?

Good writers use similar tools — punctuation, length of sentences and paragraphs (short and choppy or longer and measured?) to create an emotional response in their readers. The best writers understand this not only creates emotion, it provides variety on each page and over the whole book.

Pacing is not just aural, it’s visual. How your writing LOOKS on the page is important. Which brings us back to the paragraph. How many you use per page, and how long or short your paragraphs are should be conscious choices you make. Here is the same thought, expressed two different ways:

Fragments, the length of sentences, punctuation, and how often you paragraph can all work to give a particular pace. If you really think about, you’ll realize that you can use sentence and paragraph structure to create a feeling of speed or slowness, depending on what kind of emotional response you want to induce in your reader.

Okay, that gets my point across, right? But what if I structured the same thought this way:

Think of it! You can move a reader through a story fast. Their hearts will race!

Or you can slow them down and make them use their heads.

It’s all in how your sentences look on the page.

The first is measured, more academic in pace, meant to make you slow down and digest the thought. The second is lively and urgent, making you anticipate an important climax-point. Neither is correct. They are just two different styles of pacing, word choice, sentence length and paragraphing to different affect.

I think most of us here, being in the crime business, know we shouldn’t write a lot of long paragraphs. You can get away with some, especially in description. But these days, too many long paragraphs per page looks “old-fashioned” or worse, “textbook.” It worked for Dickens and even for a stylist like Delillo. Not so much for the rest of us today.

Are any of you out there art folks or designers? Then you understand the value of “white space” or “negative space.” Simply put, negative space is the area around and between a subject. It appears in all drawings, paintings and photographs. The “subject” below is enhanced by the negative space surroudning him. (Notice, too, the crop lines that make for an even more compelling negative/positive composition!)

Paragraphing provides white space. Don’t believe me? Go read Elmore Leonard.

Ray Bradbury said that each paragraph is a mini-scene and when you hit ENTER you are helping your reader enter a new scene, thought or action. I’ll leave you with one more example. It’s from one of my favorite opening pages from a novel.

It was a pleasure to burn.

It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.

Montag grinned the fierce grin of all men singed and driven back by flame.

That’s the opening to Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. I love the way the first line sits there all alone, like a roadside sign that you’re entering hell. Then he gives us this amazing loooong graph with gorgeous imagery and the nonchalance of the unnamed man. And then, a third paragraph — BAM! — he gives us our arsonist-star by name.

Bradbury could have made this all one graph. But no, he chose three. Your turn. Choose wisely when to hit enter.

One complaint I often hear about plots is that coincidences come too frequently, or they’re unbelievable. Coincidences in fiction makes readers mad, even though they might have actually happened.

My example: Way back in 1982, my former wife and I were dining with another couple at The Shed, a steakhouse in Dallas. It was the new In eatery that everyone had to experience. Of course since it was new, the place was packed that particular night and we had to wait nearly an hour to be seated in one of the smaller dining areas off the main room. It didn’t matter, I liked the smaller area that wasn’t as noisy.

Even though my friend was a cop, I was sitting with my back against the wall with a view of the door and a dozen tables. A foursome composed of two distinct generations came in, an older couple and a pair of young folks who looked to be around eighteen or nineteen.

The young lady in a cream-colored sweater and her escort sat facing us, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the dark-haired woman. It became so awkward on my part, that I had to purposefully engage those around me so I wouldn’t stare, something that had never happened to me before.

Halfway through the meal, the young woman and her beau had a disagreement that caught my attention. The older man with them patted the air to quiet the young couple down, and the girl rose and walked out. She returned a few minutes later and all was well. The foursome finished the meal in quiet conversation.

I confess, I kept sneaking glances at the dark-eyed young lady until we paid out and left. As we walked by their table, I took one last glance at her when she smiled at the older couple, and we were gone.

Thirty years later, the Bride and I were sitting by the pool one late evening, drinking wine and talking about our past before we met. Since she grew up in a small town about forty miles from where I did in Old East Dallas, the conversation drifted to the Dallas clubs that used to line Greenville Avenue, a hotspot for the Baby Boomers such as us. In fact, I was born on this date way back in 1954, one of the earlier Boomers, and she came long ten years later almost to the day, as the last of our generation, and will celebrate her birthday on the 29th.

WIth this almost exact ten-year difference in our ages, (and by the way, our 26th anniversary is on her birthday, only three days from now) but we’ve found we share similar memories of that time in the ‘80s before we met.

The music playing through our outside speakers helped recall those days and one song reminded me of a place I enjoyed. “Hey, do you remember Spaghetti Warehouse out on I-35?”

Her white teeth flashed in the fading light. “My high school boyfriend took me there before we went dancing at Bell Star.”

“You had to be twenty-one to get into Bell Star.”

She gave me a look over the top of her glass. “I’ve heard.”

“Man, there were some great clubs and restaurants down there back then. The Longhorn Ballroom, Whiskey River, The Western Place. I loved The Old San Fransciso Streakhouse –––.”

“With the girl on the swing over the bar!” Her eyes lit up at the recollection.

“Yep, but my favorite was Baby Doe’s Matchless Mine.” The Dallas restaurant on the only hill in Dallas (and that’s a stretch to say) had a great view of the Trinity River down below, and about a million cars stuck in traffic jams off of I-35.

“I liked it, too. Especially the cheese soup.”

“That reminds me, did you ever eat at The Shed? It was a steak house in North Dallas.”

“I loved that place. My parents used to take me there–––.”

My head spun and my breath caught. I was back in That Place, staring across the restaurant at my future wife. “You were there with them and someone else once. You were wearing a cream sailor’s sweater.”

Her expression was one of shock. “I did wear that sweater when they took me and my boyfriend out to eat one time. We broke up a year later, but how did you know? ”She tilted her head and took another sip. “I’ve never told you that story.”

“Didn’t have to.” I described the scene as she nodded and listened with a frown across her forehead. “I was there and couldn’t take my eyes off of you from across the room. Y’all had a disagreement and you got up and left.”

“We sure did. He was back from college and I’d just graduated. It was the beginning of the end for us.”

For the next hour we talked about that night, how I was taken with her almost to the point of embarrassment, though I have to admit, she hadn’t noticed me at all. We talked of our lives with other people for the next eight years until a mutual friend introduced us in Austin and we married another eight years later.

It was an unbelievable coincidence, and when I used it in a manuscript, my agent urged me to take it out. “I love the story It’s too unbelievable in a book.”

“But it really happened.”

“You readers won’t like it, or believe it’s possible.”

I found out she was right once again as I went down a rabbit hole of research concerning reality and fiction. In real life, coincides are seriously cool, but in the worlds we create, the same rules simply don’t apply. Constant or poor coincidences are startling to readers, and their ability to suspend disbelief (though we always do that in fiction) can draw them out of the plot and drive ’em to complain in two-star reviews. Readers hate sudden, lazy coincides.

However, on the flip side, that interesting confluence of people and events works at the beginning of a novel because technically, all stories start with a coincidence as….

…two men just happen to be fishing under a bridge one night when the body of a woman drops into the water and the story takes off.  (John D. MacDonald in Darker Than Amber). It worked so well that particular Travis McGee novel eventually wound up on the big screen, and I know, because I saw some of it at a drive-in theater one night in 1970…never mind.

But if such a thing happens at the end of your novel, when the antagonist is about to shoot the protagonist under that same bridge and another body falls on his gun hand and saving our hero’s life, then you’ll hear about it. I guarantee.

These Rules That Aren’t tend to apply more to thrillers and mysteries. If you’re writing fantasy, horror, or romance, then you can get away with it, because it seems that readers of these genres are more open to fate and such similar interactions.

Come to think of it, maybe I can go back and dust off that old manuscript and dabble in romance for a while. Anyway, careful what you create in the way of falling bodies or chance meetings, and let reality and past memories rest for quiet discussion some night over wine.