write like jonq

Verbs Tell Stories

2009-03-11T19:49:00Z

A Story is Characters Doing things To other Characters. A character can be a person, an animal, a thing, or even an idea. Things become characters when they Do things, and doing things requires Verbs.
   Active, transitive verbs tell stories. Passive, intransitive verbs describes things, but remember that they do not tell stories. Linking verbs and their subject complements do virtually nothing. The single most important “rule of thumb” you can ever learn as a writer is simply this: “Every sentence should tell a story.” Like all good rules, it’s okay to break this one now and then, IF you have a Good Reason. But weak sentences are the single most common reason readers get bored and wander off to watch Lost instead of reading your book.
   One reason writers tend to write weak sentences is because no one tells them they’re doing it. In English, we have only two tenses, Past and Present. Constructed tenses, like the so-called Present Progressive, aren’t really tenses. Present Progressive is the worst of all constructed tenses, because it’s really only a linking (“to be”) verb plus a subject complement, in the form of a participle.
   A participle is a verb with an -ing ending. It is not a verb, it is an adjective. The sentence,

   Sarah was running.

is not a story, it’s a description. Running is just an adjective that complements the subject, Sarah, via a linking verb. You can add some interest to a participle by giving it a direct object:

   Sarah was running errands.

but remember—it’s still just a subject complement.
   So what’s the big deal? It’s all too easy to fill up page after page of nothing but linking verbs and passive verbs and intransitive passive verbs. Especially if you don’t realize you’re doing it. Let’s take an example from a typical short story first paragraph:

   The oldest building on Main Street was leaning over the sidewalk. For years, it had been leaning further and further over the sidewalk. It was dangerous to walk in front of it, yet everyone in town had been getting used to it for as long as it had been leaning. There was no real telling when it might come tumbling down, maybe on someone’s unsuspecting head.

   Ho hum. Not only are there no proper nouns, there isn’t one single active, transitive verb. Worse, the building isn’t really a character, just a thing, passively subject to the whims of Nature’s laws. Worst of all, the paragraph employs that most useless of all sentences, the “It was . . .” abomination. Isn’t that okay, though, especially when we and the readers know we’re just describing things as an introduction, before the actual story begins? Maybe we could get away with this paragraph, but just because some retired NFL superstars get away with murder doesn’t necessarily make it a good idea. Let’s see what active, transitive verbs can do for this paragraph:

   The Allerman Building, the oldest on Main Street, strained every nail and joist and stud pushing itself out over the sidewalk. It leaned for so long that the Zimmerman twins, walking their dog Toto to the park, took no notice of the tragedy shadowing their every step. Not even Blind Bob the prophet could foresee the day when the Allerman Building, empty, patient, relentless, finally defeated the petty commercial intentions of its makers and wreaked its revenge on the town’s most innocent or most guilty, each alike daily trusting Luck and risking All.

   Nobel worthy? Maybe not. But at least the building has a name and a story. It actively strains three direct objects. Leaned is intransitive, but at least the rest of the paragraph strongly suggests an object for its leaning, the Zimmerman twins, Toto, and the entire rest of the town, in a way that a specific direct object might fail to convey. The participle walking, used here to modify both the twins and the verb took, takes a direct object within its phrase, making it into an active, transitive verb rather than just a plain old adjective. Of course, took takes a direct object, the subject of the next subordinate clause notice takes a direct object, and the participle shadowing takes a direct object, too. One that portends an interesting turn of events down the road—that all-important foreshadowing that hooks the reader’s interest. The worthless pronoun no one is replaced by another character, who foresees events like, well, the event foreshadowed in the parapgraph, although one of the things now foreshadowed is his failure to see—hello, Tragedy! The direct object of foresee, the subordinate clause about “the day,” contains two active, transitive verbs, each of which again foreshadows the coming tragedy. Lastly, as lame as that final, tacked-on subordinate clause may be, at least the two participles trusting and risking take direct objects.
   This paragraph makes a character out of a building, a character who even appears to have motives and desires, whether “real” buildings do so or not. When it falls, it won’t just be a terrible accident, it will be a Tragic murder/suicide. The paragraph does so by using active, transitive verbs and avoiding weak, intransitive verbs and subject complements. This paragraph also makes the potential victims of Tragedy, including the Zimmerman twins and their little dog, active participants in their own impending doom—they choose to trust and to risk. Gosh, I wonder what will happen next?

What makes a good protagonist?

2008-05-14T14:30:00Z

If you’ve been putting enough effort into your writing to come across this blog, then chances are you’ve already read—and practiced—most of the usual tips on creating “sympathetic” and “compelling” characters. Another exercise you may find useful in creating a really great character is to ask yourself, “Who is my character’s role model?” In other words, who did your character grow up trying to become?
    When I had grown up and started three successful small businesses, I sat down one night to watch a reruns marathon of “WKRP In Cincinnati,” one of my favorite shows when I was a tweener. And I realized, “Omigod, I grew up to be Andy Travis.” Fortunately for my employees, I had picked a decent role model, and I’m still glad I grew up to be a little bit Andy. Of course, my other favorite character was Daffy Duck, so nobody turns out perfect.
    A good protagonist, just like a good antagonist, is trying very hard to achieve something, and that something needs to include a “somebody,” a self-identity that will affirm the character’s self-worth. It’s like Rocky tells Adrian: “I just want to go the distance. That way I’ll know I wasn’t just another bum from the neighborhood.” In other words, Rocky wants to do well against his antagonist so that he can respect himself. Ironically, of course, Apollo himself is Rocky’s role model in many ways.
    The real-life drama between Franklin Roosevelt and Adolf Hitler, two individual people who very definitely affected the course of history, was shaped by their role models and how they each went about trying to become that role model. Like the Batman and the Joker, Hitler and Roosevelt were very similar people.
    Both had weak fathers, and were spoiled rotten by domineering and emasculating mothers. Hitler’s mother died when he was on the threshold of manhood; Roosevelt’s mother controlled his personal finances until well after he became president. Without adequate fathers to serve as role models, both boys turned to larger-than-life exemplars, sowing the seeds of epic narcissism. Typical for boys who need more than an ordinary hero to look up to, young Hitler fixated on the mythological German warrior Siegfried. Unfortunately for history, Siegfried (his name means, literally, “Freed by War”) is a violent and fatalistic character, and Hitler’s narcissism became rooted in a Gotterdammerung fantasy he made all too real.
    Roosevelt, along with the rest of us, was lucky. He found a larger-than-life role model, but one made of real flesh and blood—his cousin, Teddy Roosevelt, who just happened to be President of the United States. Importantly, TR was no ordinary president, but one who believed that Government could be a force for good in society, and not merely a “necessary evil.” For his entire life, FDR wore old-fashioned pince-nez spectacles and used anachronistic expressions like “Bully!” precisely because he spent his whole life trying to become TR.
    Both Hitler and Roosevelt suffered disabling injuries when they were 29 years old. Roosevelt was stricken with polio and paralyzed from the waist down. Hitler, an artist, was seriously wounded twice during the Great War, the first time by bullets that partially crippled his hands, the second time by poison gas that damaged his sight. Such a blow to vanity usually results in a deep, prolonged depression, but in the case of our two characters, Providence intervened. Rather than being “cured,” both men, moping over their infirmities, stumbled over their Destinies.
    Roosevelt, in a desperate attempt to regain the use of his legs and thereby return to his playboy lifestyle, bought a bankrupt health spa at Warm Springs, Georgia. There he helped doctors and therapists invent what we call rehabilitation, and in the process found out what he was Good For. He and his fellow patients recovered very little of their lost physical abilities, but Franklin began to receive dozens, then hundreds of letters from people he had tried to help. The letters ran to a common theme: “My left leg is still paralyzed. But—I don’t feel like a cripple anymore.” Roosevelt had discovered a talent in himself for helping people recover their self-esteem and self-confidence. When the Great Depression came, Roosevelt said to himself and others, “You know what I’m good at? Inspiring people to pick themselves up and try again.” His crucial vanity, the kind of vanity that makes a person think they can be President of the United States, was coupled to his inspirational vision, and he became the great TR-style leader he always wanted to be.
    After the war, Hitler also discovered a latent talent for inspiring defeated people. Under his leadership, Germany willed itself out of the Great Depression and ahead of the rest of the world. Unfortunately, his gloomily unrealistic role model led him and his country down the path of Fatalism. “If we cannot conquer, then we shall drag the world into destruction with us!” He too achieved the status he had always dreamed off: the Hero of Gotterdammerung, the End of the World. Happy ending.
    Who is your hero’s Hero?

How to introduce a new character.

2008-05-13T19:32:00Z

    Action reveals character, not descriptions. When you introduce a new character, that is, when the reader or audience see the character for the first time, that character needs to do something specific that reveals who that person is. In a truly great story, every character is the protagonist of his or her own story, regardless of the role they play in the larger story. But let’s begin with the main protagonist. Later, we can intorduce any new character in the same way.
    In order to grab your audience, it is much better to begin with character than with scene description. Once you have introduced your protagonist, then you set the scene he or she is in. Ideally, then, your very first sentence will introduce your protagonist. (Note: the first character wee see must be the Protagonist, EXCEPT in those rare instances when the Catalyst—or “Monster”—appears first, like in “Jaws.” Never introduce the antagonist first, unless you’ve already sold ten best-sellers and this is your “magnum opus.”)
    What action does the character take in that all-important first sentence? Of all the actions any person takes in a lifetime, which one best introduces him or her to the world? The answer to this question is the answer to another question. If you describe this person to a friend who has never met the character, how could they spot your character? “You’ll know Nancy the minute you see her. She’ll be looking in a mirror.” Of course, in real life, you’d probably be exaggerating a bit. But in your story, the best way to introduce a character is with an action that would make that person stand out in a crowd, something that also hints at the essential action of the entire story.

    Ten minutes late for work, LaRonda Thomas stopped in the hall and checked her Maybelleine lip gloss in a cherry-framed oval mirror, leaning over a cherry-wood hall table she inherited from her grand-mama Lucille.

This is one way to introduce a character who worries more about her looks than her job—and probably anything else. Ideally, the entire story will hinge on LaRonda’s vanity. If not, then you’ve wasted that crucial first sentence.
    Even when the “monster” is the first thing we see, the rule still applies. In “Jaws,” the first thing we see the shark do is eat a human being. That’s the most important thing we need to know about this shark. It eats people. From the first five minutes on, every time you see the shark, you know what’s at stake in the following scene. A human life.
    In Gone With The Wind, the first thing we see Scarlet O’Hara do is complain. Then we see her suck it up and tough it out. And then complain about it. That’s what she does for the next four hours of the movie. She perseveres through every hardship, and never shuts up about it.
    Of course, you will want to complete the paragraph by dinumerating upon the topic “the most essential action.”

    Mrs Elvira Woodchamps took a sip from a half-pint bottle of Old Grandad whiskey and
screwed the cap back on with deliberate, arthritic fingers. Then she slipped the bottle into the jacket pocket of her lime green pants suit. For after lunch.

You have a Who, a What, a When, a How, and a Foreshadowing. Several foreshadowings, in fact. There will be a lunch. Then there will be drinking. And the drinking will, if you do your job correctly, become a Why.
    Ideally, every character in your story will introduce himself in the same way the first time he appears. A group of people can be tough. But start by asking yourself how you’d describe this party over the phone to your friend. “You’ll know Hillary as soon as you hear that cackle of hers. Bill will be the one wagging his finger. Obama’s the one who makes women faint. And McCain will be calling everyone a jerk.” Now, when you work that into the first page of your first scene, you turn it into something like this:

    Barack Obama, Harvard Law 1991, strode confidently into the Hyatt Regency ballroom and three women fainted. John McCain, Navy pilot and former POW, called Obama a jerk. Bill Clinton, former hatchet man for Tyson Chicken, wagged his finger at John. Then Bill’s wife, Hillary, cackled.
    “Race you to Washington!” Obama said to the other three.
    “Speaking of race—” Bill started.
    “Out of the way, jerk!” McCain interrrupted, elbowing his way past both of them.
    They all three tripped over a stand of piano wire strung across the doorway by Hillary when they weren’t looking.
    “Eat Spitzer’s snot!” she yelled, stomping on Bill’s ring finger and kicking Obama in the teeth. Then she cackled again. Then she sprinted down the hall to the elevator shaft.

    You’ve introduced your characters and started the story—in character, triggered by conflicts between characters, and driven forward by actions stemming from character. No wonder you’re so successful.

The five most important elements of good storytelling

2008-05-09T13:40:00Z

    When you read your own work, ask yourself—and then answer—five questions about every single page: Where’s the Conflict? How does Action reveal Character? How does Character drive Plot? How does Dialogue counterpoint Action? What is this story ABOUT?

1. Where’s the conflict? Point to it.

    Janie slapped Johnny. “Don’t you give up on me!”

That’s conflict you can point to.

    Janie hugged Johnny. “Good idea.”

That’s not conflict. Hugs are for happy endings. On the Last Page. Only.

2. How does Action reveal Character? Not thoughts, not dialogue, not summary. Action.

    Janie turned off her cell phone, turned on some sentimental music, opened a bottle of Cold Duck with a bent steak knife, then poured one glass for herself and one for her cat, Beezelbub. Then she ate a pie with her fingers. Beezelbub meowed, hungry. Janie kicked him across the linoleum and under the microwave cart. She wiped her hands on her pants, grabbed another bottle of Cold Duck, and headed for the living room to watch “Desperate Housewives” and polish her nickel-plated Desert Eagle “Point Five-Oh.”

And so on.

3. How does Character drive Plot? In other words, things happen because people MAKE them happen. Right?

    Janie finished cleaning her Desert Eagle, popped in a fully loaded clip of soft-nosed shells, polished off the second bottle of Cold Duck, took aim at a spot on the wall a quarter inch above Beezelbub’s head, and fired. The bullet passed through the wall and made a meaty slapping sound on the other side.
    “Ow!” her next door neighbor, Johnny, shouted. “My kidneys!”

4. How does dialogue COUNTERPOINT action? Dialogue that just narrates action is wasted words. Good dialogue is always contrasted against action. One example is irony.

    Johnny banged on Janie’s door with rapidly diminishing energy. Janie flung the door open and stood there, without speaking, while Johnny’s blood dribbled like urine on the hallway carpet. Beezlebub rushed to the growing puddle and lapped at it hungrily.
    “No pets in this building,” Johnny said, woozily. Then he passed out, falling half-in and half-out of Janie’s door.

5. What is this story about? If this story is about “True Love Conquers All,” then how does each and every chapter, episode, or scene add up to prove that?

(The next scene, where Janie gives Johnny one of her kdneys, proves that she loves him so much that she is willing to give up a kidney, and doing so makes it possible for them to unplug his dialysis machine, fly to Bali, and get married in the last chapter.)

Wonderful.

    If, on the other hand, the next scene is about Janie winning a Nobel Peace Prize for making commercials about global warming, just to prove to her brother that she’s not lazy, then your audience is going to get lost. And then they’ll watch SOMETHING ELSE.

What makes a good antagonist?

2008-03-30T22:27:00Z

    First, let’s define antagonist. An antagonist is a character who embodies the protagonist’s main obstacle to getting what they want. An antagonist can be a monster, but a monster is not always an antagonist. A good antagonist is the biggest challenge the protagonist will ever face, someone that will challenge the protagonist to be the very best he can be. A great antagonist is also a reflection of the protagonist. A classic antagonist is one for whom the protagonist is also a great antagonist, bringing out the best efforts of both.
    One classic example is Batman’s Joker. Arresting purse snatchers and sub-prime lenders would be a waste of Batman’s extraordinary skills. There would be no opportunity to show off. Only the Joker gives Batman the opportunity to really be The Batman. And vice-versa—Batman brings out the best in the Joker. That’s why they seem to almost seek each other out, because all human beings need challenges.
    They also have a lot in common. They’re both vain. They’re both moody, intelligent loners. They’re both carrying around old grudges. They both like to hide behind masks. And they’re both drawn to the Good vs Evil way of life. And just as the Joker is always the fly in Batman’s ointment, so Batman is always the biggest the obstacle in the Joker’s way. But what makes the Joker a truly great antagonist is the fact that he can blame Batman for making him into the Joker. The Joker is a reflection of the potentially destructive vanity that haunts Batman as his potentially fatal character flaw.
    Another classic antagonist appears in the first Rocky movie. Apollo creed is talented, smart, and undefeated. He overlooks Rocky. He doesn’t train as hard as he could. Rocky, as Apollo’s antagonist, lures Apollo into indulging in his own greatest flaw—hubris. But Rocky is an antagonist unlike any Apollo has fought before, a kind of human bulldozer who doesn’t know when to quit. And Apollo happens to be Rocky’s life-defining challenge, something that Apollo should have understood, as a fellow boxer, but to which he is blinded by his own overconfidence. In the ring, Apollo faces the toughest fight of his life, partly due to his lazy vanity, and partly due to Rocky’s own greatest character asset—his determination.
    Like Rocky, Apollo—who has everything to lose in this fight—must also reach down deep inside and find something in himself that he never had to use before. Superior talent alone will not defeat Rocky. Apollo’s victory dance, when the fight is finally over, is not one of a vain superman triumphing over “the bum of the month,” but one of a person who has earned victory through overcoming a tough personal challenge.
    The richness of this relationship between protagonist Rocky and Antagonist Apollo is one of the big factors that made Rocky the number-one box office draw in history up to that time and made it a shoe-in for an Oscar or two. It’s now considered one of the best movies ever made. Filmed in 28 nights on a shoestring budget, Rocky shows how far good writing, including a good antagonist, can carry a movie. Or a book or a TV series.