Immediate Fiction (20 page)

There still isn't a lot of direction in this version, but we're getting more of the characters, particularly the man. We still aren't getting as much as we should, because we're not getting into the inner workings of his mind and heart. How to do that was covered in chapter 6 ("The Active Ingredient").

THE WHY TECHNIQUE

This could also be called the why-what-how technique. With this technique, you go through your story and ask
why?
of every single line. Now it won't make sense in some cases, so you just move on to the next line. Fiction is about finding answers, not raising questions. So, we're asking why in order to find answers. And we ask why of things that we would never question in normal society. So, if someone said, "Fred's depressed," we could ask, "What's wrong?" But if they then said, "His mother died," we wouldn't say, "Why does that depress him?" Not in reality, but in fiction we would ask—always.

In fiction, we're looking for the root cause, the deepest level of the experience, the most personal and specific reasons. We take nothing at face value.
Why
does his mother's death depress him?
How
is he experiencing it?
How
is it affecting him?
What
about her death, exactly, depresses him? If we're writing about grief, we want to get to the nature, the essence, of grief. What is it about grief that's painful, that's meaningful?

With Fred and his mother, he might be depressed because he loved her so much and will miss seeing her, miss talking to her, miss getting

her advice and guidance. He might be frightened that he cannot survive without her guidance. Or he could be depressed because she disinherited him, leaving everything to the church two years ago when he was arrested for possession of cocaine and then she was just getting ready to leave everything to him again, but had not yet changed the will. He could be depressed because he'd failed to give her her medication and it killed her. Or maybe he was going to murder her and make it look like his rotten older brother did it, and now he has to find another way to destroy his brother.

And the depression might only be the visible reaction. He could be feeling guilt, anger, fear, sadness, and relief all at the same time. By running through your story and asking questions of every line and answering them, you will be creating a deeper, more dramatic story and a more complex set of characters.

OVERWRITE

When you go back and look at your work and you're not sure what to do with a section or a scene (or even if you are sure), run through it again, staying loose, writing anything and everything that come into your head as you do. In other words,
overwrite.
You're rarely going to be able to change or correct just one thing and nothing else. Trying to be that exact, to get it just right and no more, is a good way to get blocked. So, you need to give yourself enough to work with—to let enough out so you can see what you've got for this stretch. Remember, you make a mess first, then clean it up, make a mess again, and clean it up again, until you get where you want to go.

CUTTING

"Writing is rewriting"
is the old writing rule. To that we need to add,
"Rewriting is cutting."
Cutting is one of your most important skills. Often, cutting alone will reveal what needs to be done. So, what is cutting? What do you do when you cut? And what exactly do you cut? What you do is go through your story and cut every word, every phrase, every sentence, every paragraph you can possibly do without. Now, I'm not talking about destroying it for all time. You're just marking it to see what you can do without if you have to, but saving it in case you need to put it back.

After you've cut paragraphs, then go on and cut every character and every scene you could do without. Then, cut time. Condense it. If your story takes two years, try to make it happen in two months, two weeks, or two days. Cutting is the best skill you can develop, because
cutting is not just cutting.
In order to cut, you have to (consciously or unconsciously) address every story issue there is. When you cut, you're deciding what belongs and what doesn't. Somewhere in you, you have a sense of what fits and what doesn't, what is relevant, what works. You don't have to know exactly what that is or why something doesn't fit, so long as you
feel it,
especially early on. The more craft you master, the more you'll
know why
something does or doesn't belong.

When you cut in this manner, what you end up with is
what works for you.
The material you relate to will stand out from the rest. And there will be gaps, gaps that will make it easier to see where you need to fill in. As when you focus a lens, sharpening the image, what's important to you pops out.

EXERCISE: TO CUT OR NOT TO CUT

OK, it's time to get active—to practice some cutting. Here's a quote from the first draft of one of the most famous writers of all time. See if you recognize it.

To be painfully, torturously alive or not to be painfully, tor-turously, agonizingly alive—that my fretful friend, is the foul, wrenching, damnable question to be answered, here and now, for all God's good eternity.

Recognize it? Shakespeare. But doctored Shakespeare. It's Shakespeare that I've fixed up so you can practice cutting. The original Shakespeare is there, the right words in the right order. All you have to do is to cut until you pare it down and uncover the original. Just get rid of everything you can do without. Here's the full exercise:

The quality of true mercy is not strained, nay not a drop, not a wit. Neither is it forced or pressured or driven. For it droppeth freely and softly as the gentle rain from Heaven above to settle tenderly upon the earth, this thirsty place beneath.

How sharper and more piercing than a festered serpent's venomed tooth it is for a blameless, blemishless, doting parent to have a spiteful, spitful, thankless child next to thy own most tenderest of breasts.

To be painfully, torturously alive or not to be painfully, torturously, agonizingly alive—that, my fretful friend, is the foul, wrenching, damnable question to be answered, here and now, for all God's good eternity. Whether 'tis far far nobler for one, in the mind, to suffer unrelentingly the lashing slings and piercing arrows of this fickle, fiendish outrageous fortune, or take up strong, noble arms against a vicious sea of outrageous troubles. ... To die, totally, completely, finally, to sleep the blessed snooze of the babe, to sleep—perchance to dream the wretched dream. Aye yie, frisky friend, there's the wrenching rub, the harshest, unkindest rub of all, the rub that soothes not, but beats and rends and tears asunder.

When you're done, check your version against the original Shakespeare on the next page.

The quality of mercy is not strained, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath.

How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child!....

To be, or not to be—that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or take arms against a sea of troubles. . . . ... To die, to sleep. To sleep—per chance to dream. Aye, there's the rub.

In chapter 5, on self-editing, I talked about doing the most yourself
before
seeking feedback from someone else. Again, it's important for your own development that you practice
all
the techniques in this chapter
before
you seek outside help.
Get the most out of yourself before you go to someone else.
That means you have to get through these techniques in a deliberate way and apply each one to your writing. If you do, you will solve your problems your way, the best way, and avoid the distraction and confusion that can result from seeking help too soon.

It's time to do some writing. I'm going to give you the same kind of exercises I did last time. If you want to continue what you did last time and go forward with it, then ignore these. They're always here for you to use.

EXERCISES

You now have two full stories to choose from. Here are the next parts of those:

FIRST FULL STORY, PART FIVE:

This is the infidelity story. Confrontation/scene. New things need to be hashed out. The betrayed character wants more answers and something more from the lover (realistic and unrealistic), wants to punish, etc. The scene follows the same form as all scenes: want, obstacle, action (worse at the end, finish in the mind of the character).

SECOND FULL STORY, PART TWO:

This is the late date story. The late partner appears. She makes a series of weak excuses about being late, which the other character deflects. After being nice in order to set her up, he launches his plan and tells her he's had enough and feels it would be best if they split up. To his shock, she agrees, saying that it's never going to work out, so they might as well cut their losses.

Here are two full-scene exercises:

Wedding day doubts. In the bedroom or waiting room with the bride or the groom, who is feeling uneasy and worried, full of doubts.

Different people come in to help out (friends, father, mother, brother, sister, minister). The character asks each about their feelings on their wedding day, trying to get some help without coming right out and saying what the problem is. The advice given is off the mark, wrong, self-serving, shocking, maybe a bit helpful. This could be a complete story if the character struggles enough and makes up his or her mind to go ahead or back out at the end.

Dying and going to hell and meeting the devil.

Here are some three-word combinations:

• Dragon, fastidious, lawyer.

• Quarterback, dandelion, pirouette.

• Butler, truculent, buffoon.

[9]
Method

HOW TO. HOW NOT TO.

Method is the most wide-open part of this. No one can tell you how to approach your story. But they often do. Many writers think that their way is the only way. They find a way that solves their problems and think that it'll work for everyone. They espouse principles like:

• You must plan it out first. If you don't know the end, you won't know how to begin.

• Knowing the ending first takes all the fun and surprise out of writing.

• Don't go forward until you've gotten the beginning down.

• Write a first draft, straight through to the end, then come back and work on the beginning. (Even if you plan it, the ending is never what you expect. Changing the ending requires changing the beginning.)

• Never talk about your story, or you'll lose the energy and desire to write it.

• You must have a premise. Your story must fulfill that premise, or it will never be successful.

• Do all your research first.

• Write first, find out what you know and what you don't, then research.

• Know your characters before you start writing. Write full character biographies for your characters first.

Lots of advice and lots of contradiction. That's because what's right for one writer is wrong for another. So what's true? All of the above, depending on you and the story you're writing at the moment.

Planning:
For some writers planning everything out first works great. It gives them a sense of direction and confidence that gets them writing. For others, who like the adventure, surprise, and discovery they get from
not
planning, planning is cramping, tiring, incapacitating. But it doesn't have to be all or none. Some stories lend themselves to planning, while others don't. Which is which is a matter of what feels right to you at the time. Even if you're not a planner, don't rule it out. There might be times when planning will work for you. And if you are a planner, don't rule out jumping in with no plan. You may plan parts of a story and not others. The only way to tell what's right for you or a particular story is to try it both ways. Respect your impulses and urges.

Some mystery writers say they need to know the end before they begin so that they can move the story to it. Elmore Leonard says that he doesn't know or want to know the ending. That's what he writes to find out—how it's going to end. If he knew the ending, he wouldn't bother. E. L. Doctorow says that, for him, writing a novel is like driving along a pitch-dark highway with only the center line visible a short distance ahead in his headlights. He only knows what he can see at the moment and has no idea where the road will take him. Ed McBain says he starts with a corpse or someone who is going to become a corpse. From then on he has to go on the same clues that the cops do. Probably, the nonplanners or plan-little writers are in a majority. No matter how much you plan, there's going to be plenty of surprises and discoveries. Neither method is better than the other. What's better is what works for you.

Often, if you believe something works, it will work, especially if it feels right. If it gives you a sense of confidence and keeps you writing, it's right.