Writing Theme: Finding a Reason to Believe

I've never been much of a Rod Stewart fan, but I recently heard his classic "Reason to Believe" on Pandora. I forgot how much I used to like that song, its not-so-subtle anger, and the authenticity of the lyrics:

“Someone like you makes it hard to live without
somebody else ...
Still I look to find a reason to believe.”

Funny how a person’s perception changes over a few years. When I first heard the song, I was the lovesick puppy anxious to strike back at a failed love interest. That vengeance-fueled fathead eventually gave way to the more philosophical fathead who more than a momentary significant other wanted something solid in his life, something unchangeable, something dependable to believe in. 

Looking back on that time, I think maybe the desire for a moral lodestar is an age thing. Maybe it’s an evolutionary thing. Maybe it's indigestion. Whatever it is, the inclination is real and often all encompassing.

It’s true for people in general. I suspect it is also true for writer and readers.

Before you get excited, know that doesn’t mean writers should specialize in sermons, especially not in their fiction. Most people read for entertainment purposes. Few read to be preached at. However, people do want to be a part of the human community. They do want their values affirmed. Yes, they want to read an exciting story, but more than anything they want to come away from that story with a sense of worth, not wondering “What was all that about?”

What the reader wants—nay, demands—is theme, a reflection of themselves, a lesson on the human condition, an insight into an all-too-confusing world. Therefore, the writer's job is to craft a story around a theme, rather than concoct a theme from a story. To do this, authors must tap into their readers’ passion for a "reason to believe."

Shadow, the protagonist in Neil Gaiman’s American Gods, explains: “People believe …. It’s what people do. They believe ... and it is that belief, that rock solid belief, that makes things happen.”

That is the purpose of a story’s theme: To make things happen. Open the readers' eyes and let them see. Stir up the readers' conscience, ignite their passions, steel their resolve. Compel the readers to believe. Give them faith to trust themselves and their instincts. Show them the world exists in them and through them.

Is writing theme simple? Of course, not. In fact, it is downright terrifying. It means revealing your deepest thoughts, your guiding principles, and your bedrock emotions. Unless your convictions are strong, your defenses are impregnable, and you have the tenacity of a bulldog, such disclosures will threaten your security. They will pull down the walls and destroy the masks you’ve painstakingly created.

So writing theme-based fiction makes the writer vulnerable. Vulnerable to criticism, to disdain, and to ostracism. That said, it is more important to be honest and open with your readers. More important than simply entertaining them.

Donald Maass explains in his book Writing the Breakout Novel. The writer, he says, “needs courage ... the courage to say something passionately. A breakout novelist believes that what she has to say is not just worth saying, but it is something that must be said. It is a truth that the world needs to hear, an insight without which we would find ourselves diminished."

So the reader wants and needs theme, but that’s not the only reason to concentrate on it while you create your story. A clearly conceived and stated theme (at least stated in your organizing notes) will make the whole writing process simpler and more focused. Earlier in his book, Maass said, “If a powerful problem [conflict] is a novel’s spine, then a powerful theme is its animating spirit.” 

Now, Maass was referring to the theme’s relationship to the conflict, but it's important to realize that a story with a goal, a controlling vision, in which the writer is emotionally vested will virtually write itself. 

The way to make the reader believe, then, is to believe in yourself. Maass further says, “Cleave to your convictions. Cherish them …. Let yourself care because that is to live with passion—and it is passionate stories that your readers crave.”

In other word, find a reason to believe, write what you believe, and write so your readers believe.

No more moping around like a love-sick puppy. Be a dog … er… man … uh … woman… something!  Something to believe in.

I wonder if Pandora has a Rod Stewart station.

Before Writing Dialect, Earn Your Uffda, Eh?

Remember the first time you read Huckleberry Finn? High school English class? Your excited teacher nearly wet herself writing the title on the chalkboard. 

The story, she said, is about a boy running away from his foster home and taking on the whole adult culture. You were fifteen. It was the 60s...Okay. That was just me. Sorry.

Anyway, your adolescent rebellious nature salivated at the idea. Mrs. P had you hooked with her opening lecture.

Then you opened the book.

It ... wasn't what you expected. It was all right. In fact, everything was fine until Huck found Jim hiding on an island. At first, your young mind glommed onto the conflict. Will Huck help the  escaped slave or not? Will he bow to the slave-state values with which he lives? Will his innate humanness overpower the river morality? That part was easy to engage.

And then Jim spoke.

I don't know about your class, but those of us in our rural, northern Minnesota classroom had no idea what he was saying. We were pretty sure it wasn’t English. Our engagement level with “The Great American Masterpiece” dropped to zero.

Mrs. P frantically explained that, indeed, Jim did speak English, that Twain simply wrote the words as Jim would have said them. "He was employing literary dialect,”she said. One classmate innocently opined, “Yeah, well, that may be so, but it ain’t good English.”

We unceremoniously spit out the hook. Few of us actually finished the book, just reading enough to pass the test. Nor did we care to. If we couldn’t understand it, we figured, there was no sense reading it.

It wasn’t until years later that a lucky few of us learned the important technique of reading dialect as it is pronounced, not as it is spelled. We learned not only to see the words on a page, but also to hear them in our heads. That was a great discovery. Huck Finn made sense! It WAS a masterpiece! Mrs. P was correct!

Unfortunately, not everybody learns that technique. Too often people see dialect and/or foreign words in a story and turn off the internal translator. They close the book and hide it under the stack beside their bedside table, never to be seen again ... until a neat-freak spouse commands, "Either read it or dump it."

As a writer, then, it is important to consider the danger of using dialect before writing conversation. It is also important to ignore the admonition of lazy readers to never employ literary dialect.

To evaluate whether to use dialect or not, consider these advantages:

1. Used correctly, dialect establishes time, place, and character background without tedious description which interrupts the flow of the plot and bores the boogers out of the reader.
2. Effective dialect gives characters depth, dimension, and life.
3. Rather than creating a flat background, dialect adds to the realism of a scene, story, or novel.

If your use of dialect doesn’t do any of those, fix it or dump it. Why? Because poor use of dialect has the following disadvantages:

1. It destroys authenticity. The words are just there and become rather annoying. Annoyed readers are unhappy readers.
2. Bad dialect diminishes your characters from people into mere stereotypes.
3. The worse your portrayal, the greater chance of distracting your audience from your story and its theme. You had a purpose when you started writing. Make sure your audience is still around at the end to understand it.

So how does one write effective dialect? Consider the following:

1. If you have no experience with a particular dialect, avoid imposing it on your story. It is important to realize there is more to writing dialect than simply spelling words as they are pronounced. There is a rhythm and phraseology that is also unique to the way people speak. Unless you have been immersed in a particular dialect, it is difficult to recreate it on the page.
2. Although each dialect has its own cliches and idiosyncrasies which demand to be used, avoid trivializing them by overusing trite conventions. For example, dropping hard h sounds and changing all long a sounds to long i's will not make your dialogue more Cockney. Sprinkling your conversations with an excess of ehs does not make them more Canadian. Yes, both dialects have those respective traits, but their overuse creates more  of a caricature than an accurate portrayal.
3. Whatever you do, be real. 

When the Coen brothers filmed Fargo, they used the Minnesota dialect more effectively than I had ever seen. Some audiences heard it and laughed. Others heard it and doubted. Those who speak it as part of their normal existence disputed it. 

Despite their protestation, I can assure you it was real ... at least for a segment of our population. 

When I left the theater in my small lutefisk ghetto town, two locals ahead of me discussed the merits of the film. One asked, “Vell, whadidja t’ink den?” 

His friend answered, “It vass pritty good, but we don’ talk like dat dere den.”

I wanted to say, “Oh, yah, you deeooo.”  However, valuing my years of orthodontia work, I resisted the temptation. One can take this whole realism thing too far.

The point is this: Dialect well-used enhances a story. Do not simply recreate the sounds; recreate the culture in which the story resides. Use it to endear the characters to the reader. Use it to make your work memorable. Use it to sells the story.

The key to all three is to make your dialogue real.

If you can’t, uffda! Don’t use it den.

Writing Fiction Violence: Beware the Hockeyfication of Your Story

I love to watch hockey. I love the sounds. I love the speed. I love that fact that anything can happen at any time. 

Seriously, no other sport demands such a wide-range of physical, mental, and emotional involvement from its players, coaches, and fans. Not football. Not basketball. Not baseball. Certainly not golf. 

Hockey is simply awesome!

"What about the fighting?" you ask.

Okay, so there's a downside.

“Downside?" you counter. "No. No. No. Fighting's not a downside. I love the fighting. Without that, hockey's just a game.”

Excuse me while I slap your forehead.

To be honest, the game is a fight just waiting to happen. Ten guys with sticks chasing a hard rubber disc around a sheet of ice, attempting to slam, cram, jam, or doink it past a heavily padded guard who looks like the Hulk with a thyroid condition ... Well, that is just a recipe for fisticuffs. If the game didn't deteriorate into a brawl, there would be a bright star shining in the East and the heavy odor of frankincense, myrrh and stable dooty hanging in the arena.

But that's incidental, not the heart of the game of hockey, despite what too many players, teams, coaches, owners, and fans would have you believe. Too often nifty stick-handling, impenetrable goalkeeping, and a powerful slapshot take a backseat to the crashing, pounding, and wicked left hook of the enforcer/intimidator/GOON who can guarantee a game will descend into chaos. 

Why? According to the sports pundits, “The fans love it!”

To which I reply, "Oh, please! Once in awhile maybe, but not all the time. Not every *$%@-ing game!" 

You know what? If you were to peruse ProHockey-fans.com's list of top 10 hockey goons (Top Ten NHL Goons of All Time), you would notice that nobody other than Gordie Howe approaches the fan loyalty of that has been lavished on the Mario Lemieuxes, the Bobby Orrs, or the Wayne Gretzkys of NHL lore.

No, the players that make a difference are those who can skate, the ones who can pass, and the ones who can shoot. The ones who can fight have an effect, to be sure, but not always positive.

So it's analogy time: Just as physical "play" can wake up a slumbering crowd, fictional violence can stir your plot. However, the characters that make a difference to your reader are the ones with brains, creativity, and sometimes just plain luck to escape or triumph over whatever adversity besets them.

In addition, if every chapter is a gunfight, a deluge of razor sharp steel and shattered glass from exploding car bombs, or a wild chase involving cars, trains, hovercraft, and a rabid armadillo named Ralph, you will tire your audience quicker than thought of Ashton Kutcher reciting the periodic table to the accompaniment of a kazoo rendition of "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall."

Here's the major tip for the day: Instead of allowing violence to overwhelm your reader, use the threat of violence to entice them.

One of my favorite novels ever, The Count of Monte Cristo, is an excellent example of how to do this. Alexandre Dumas could have had his protagonist Edmond Dantes exact his revenge on the people who betrayed him with flashing swordplay, well-orchestrated gunfights, and a well-placed rock upside the cranium as the movie version does. He could have, but he didn't.

Instead, Dantes honors the pledge he made to a benefactor that he would never spill blood. All through the book, he has the opportunity and the reader wants him to. Still, he never commits violence himself. Rather than descend to their level, he becomes a psychological jiujitsu master, turning their own wickedness against them.

The resolution of each subplot then becomes a triumph of intelligence, manipulation, and sheer will, all the more satisfying because Dantes could easily have overpowered his persecutors purely with physical force, but he didn't. Throughout the novel, the reader is mesmerized by his ability to avoid the violence they would love him to use.

When the last vengeful act takes place, the reader can easily excuse the sappy ending and the lack of bloodshed that takes place. Dantes' victory against wealth, power, and his own demons is far more memorable and satisfying than any amount of death and destruction could provide. 

Therefore, remember: Your characters need not be Olympian. They need not bring down countries with a nuclear blast. They do not need to be thuggish goons! The fact that they could be and aren't will create greater conflict and tension, as well as a more satisfying resolution.

Hmmm ...

A satisfying resolution ...

Like if the Minnesota Wild score a winning goal on a last-second penalty shot caused by ... somebody else's chief enforcer in the seventh game of the Stanley Cup finals. That would be sweet!

There you go! 

Use fictional violence to your advantage. Hockey-ify your stories in the best way possible. Make them sweet!

Craftsmanship to Artistry: Little by Little

To become an author means moving beyond the simple process of putting words on paper. However, as much as we're all looking for shortcuts, to speak truth, there aren't any. 

One could go to countless writers workshops and book fairs, read every novel on every “Best Literature” list imaginable, and consume every how-to manual, article, and brochure from every famous, near-famous, and infamous author in Mosquitoville, Vermont, to no avail. 

Oh, you are sure to find something useful to make the composition process easier, but to actually complete a work of art requires work. 

And lots of it. 

I've always known that, but I didn't expect to have the fact reinforced at a guitar concert.

Friday night, guitar legend Tommy Emmanuel played at the Burnsville (MN) Performing Art Center and gave not only a concert, but also a very instructive writing lesson.

It was meant to be a guitar lesson, but the similarities between creating an artistic guitar composition and writing an artistic novel are quite evident, at least as Emmanuel explains the process. 

After playing his medley of the Beatles’ “Daytripper” and “Lady Madonna,” he asked somewhat rhetorically if the audience wanted to see how he created the arrangement where he not only plays the iconic instrumental foundation of both songs, but also plays the vocal-melody lines as well—simultaneously. It didn't take much to convince him that the lesson would be appreciated.

He broke down the process thusly:

“You don’t learn the two lines separately, then put them together,” he said. “You learn and put them together at the same time.”

The silence following that revelation spoke a resounding, "Uh ...wha' ... you learn them at the same time? HUH?!?!?"

First, he explained, you need an idea. His original idea was simply doing "Lady Madonna." Then, he developed the notion of doing both the bass and lead not by the use of electronics, but by playing both parts at the same time.

"Oh, sure," we thought. "Sounds simple ... if you have three guitars, a piano, and twelve hands!"

Nobody said it aloud, but Emmanuel obviously heard our thoughts. He smiled.

With the goal firmly in place, he explained, he decided to break the project into manageable components—two measures at a time. He began slowly, note by note, until those two measures matched his original conception of how it should sound. Then he repeated those building blocks ... and repeated them ... and repeated them until his fingers played them automatically, until the skills and techniques took over and playing those two bars required no mental effort at all.

Then he constructed the next two measures, replicating the process until he matched the proficiency he had gained with the first two bars. 

Satisfied that he had mastered that piece, he joined it with the original measures, repeated the process, developed two more bars, added, perfected ... and so on.

Sound like a lot of effort? That was his point: To create good work takes effort and lots of it.

While he demonstrated, the thought struck me, "The process is the same with writing. You take a basic idea, develop it, then refine it bit by bit, slowly adding the pieces until you have a whole."

The most important part of Emmanuel’s mini-lesson, however, was still to come. 

When you have the whole, you’re not finished, he said. What you’ve done is simply craft a piece by honing your skills and connecting all the elements. The heart of Emmanuel's lesson, therefore, was, "Then I took that collection and added my own ideas to it to make it art." In other words, the next step is turning craftsmanship into artistry.

Again, the audience breathed a silent, "Huh?" Again, Emmanuel smiled. Then, he continued with the concert, allowing the next hour of music speak for him.

The best way for those reading this blog to see how Emmanuel's process works is to watch his medley on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cPkQn5nDTZs or listen to it on his The Journey Continues album. As the songs unfold, you immediately realize this is NOT what Lennon and McCartney had in mind when they originally wrote these songs. This is something entirely different, something that exists in its own universe. 

Not better. Not worse. Just totally unique, not even to be compared. Both the Beatles' and Emmanuel's versions stand alone as works of art.

Yes, the original songs are there, but Emmanuel takes all the skills and techniques he has learned and developed over years of playing, and he utilizes them to develop something even he didn’t hear when the project first occurred to him.

The same is necessarily true of fiction writing. Rather than allow your story to appear fully formed like a marble statue sculpted by a stonesmith with only two chisels and a ball pein hammer, permit your concept to grow, to develop, to discover its unique personality.

Your work will multiply exponentially. Your stack of revised hard copies will grow to resemble a Devil's Tower rising from the center of your office floor. The neon yellow highlighters you use to mark areas of concern will wear out by the crate. Apple will revise OSX so many times, they'll run through every species of animal that ever existed in reality and JK Rowling's imagination. 

But, Lord, it will be fun!

Tommy Emmanuel's creative process—conceive an idea, compile small components into a basic expression of that idea, and shape the resulting craftwork into art—is foundational to any artistic expression ESPECIALLY writing. 

Work? Of course, it's work. Hard work. But work that is ultimately fun and satisfying. Kind of like watching a musician like Tommy Emmanuel.

For more videos and music, as well the URL address for the official Tommy Emmanuel website, see the "Recommendations for All Things Tommy Emmanuel" page.

Get Real: Originality Sans Clicking, Shoehorning, and Overstuffed Cats

Yesterday on Facebook, the latest trend of status posting made me want to play Whack-a-Mole with a sledgehammer.

The issue? Countless posts telling me: "Express your undying love for your spouse, siblings, children, parents, pets, and basket-weaving pilates instructor by clicking 'Like.' If you sincerely cherish them and desire an eternity of celestial bliss, click 'Share'.”

I appreciate the sentiment, but, seriously, when did we lose the ability to express our emotions in our own words or physical contact? When did the depth of our feelings begin to be measured in the sheer numbers of mouse clicks we make? When did we lose the ability to express ourselves without the urging, direction, and/or coercion of others? 

Maybe my consternation comes from being a child of the 60s. One of the greatest adages of that time was "Get real!" and we tried. Boy, did we try!

We did all we could within reason and our own quest for sanity to be unique, to be genuine, to be authentic in our personal expression, particularly our writing. When I became a teacher, that was the lesson most important to convey to my classes.

It was the lesson most rebelled against as well, most notably on essay tests. Rather than engaging in original thought, students found it far easier to regurgitate information from the textbook or the lectures. 

Finally, in a pique of frustration that caused the veins on my face to resemble a relief map of the Himalayas, I exhorted, “Don’t tell me what I think! I know what I think. Tell me what you think.”

Those who did always garnered the best grades because they wrote with the most life and passion, their life and passion. Even if their position differed from mine, the strength of their words and thought stood out in contrast to those students who wrote in parrot mode.

Not surprisingly, this emphasis on originality enhances not only academic writing but also fiction writing.

One need not–in fact, should not–write what others demand of you. The topic–what you want to explore–should be yours. The characters–how they talk, how they act, how they feel–should be yours. The theme–what you want to say–should be yours. Anything else is false and virtually guaranteed to fail. It also will make your reader want to stick a moldy pickle up your nose.

A good place to begin is to examine how your characters relate. For example, take the Facebook trend. Maybe instead of having a mother sitting in front of her 27-inch desktop monitor sharing a status to tell everybody she loves her daughter, perhaps she could–I'm just pulling this out of the dark recesses of my cranium here– she could kiss her child on the head and say, “This is the most precious wilted dandelion bouquet I’ve ever seen! Let’s go eat ice cream!”

Maybe instead of having your pet-loving protagonist liking a picture of a dog chomping on a banana, your sympathetic human could give his canine a funky name like Pheideaux.

Maybe instead of following the movie quest formula of story plotting, you could find your own ways to twist it, embellish it, or even abandon it for something uniquely your own.

What you must never do is allow others tell you what your subject should be.

This brings me to the most disturbing piece I read on Facebook yesterday.

Yesterday. 

September 11.

A day rife with possibilities for writers, artists, newscasters... However, one blogger decided he should tell one of the most successful syndicated cartoonists how his comic strip should mark the day.

My first response was to agree that anybody in mass media would want to commemorate the events nineteen years ago. The attack was too monumental not to acknowledge, especially for somebody as renowned as Garfield creator Jim Davis. The fact that Davis has never observed the occasion is a bit disconcerting, compounding the perception that now is the time.

So, the critic Virgil Texas had me until he/she advocated not only that Davis change his habits, but follow the lead of another comic strip, stating, “It even would not have had to take up the entire strip. Witness how the creator of Luann tastefully shoehorns in a poignant tribute on the tenth anniversary of 9/11….”

My mouth twitched. A quiet gurgle in my stomach swelled into a deafening rumble. My favorite Minnesota Twins scorekeeping pencil snapped between my clenched jaws. I broke out my Nerf rockets ready to attack anybody whose parents even entertained the idea of naming their child Virgil.

I'm sorry, but first of all, from a strictly word-choice stance, tastefully and shoehorns just don’t work together. The mental images evoked by conjoining their respective definitions ...? Tasting and shoes?

Really? 

Blech.

Secondly, shoehorns are used to force you feet into a pair of shoes, particularly somebody else's shoes. Metaphorically, I guess, the words work if the writer meant that Davis should force himself to acknowledge the date in his comic strip, no matter his sincerity. However, the fact that anybody would advocate forced observance of one of history's greatest tragedies, particularly in a prescribed manner is detestable and worthless.

Compelled actions, half-hearted words, or enforced cartoons would not honor those lost on that horrible day. Rightly or wrongly, these "creations" would only qualify Davis to join the ever-increasing list of hucksters and opportunists who constantly abuse the memory of that day by saying, “See how patriotic I am? Here. I have something to sell you.” They would have no more effectiveness or genuineness than liking somebody's post on Facebook. 

Anyone alive on that fateful day has his/her own distinct memories—the fear, the confusion, the rage. At the time, those emotions were real, not posturing. Because they were, all the politicians, religious leaders, and avaricious twits who used, misused, and abused the tragedy to make a buck rightfully received more scorn than any amount of money could ever compensate. 

Even a nineteen years later, those feelings endure—just as real, just as raw, just as excruciating–immediately below the surface. People feigning reverence only to achieve the approval of self-appointed judges rip the scab off the old wounds renewing the pain and anger.

In addition, they do a disservice to anybody who died that day, anybody who lost somebody, anybody who bears the emptiness of a world now devoid of its innocence. Everybody. The self-righteous judges forcing their behaviors on others bear the stigma of being posers and charlatans who capitalize on the pain of others. And deservedly so.

If I were as rich and widely-read as Davis, would I use my platform to mark the anniversary of September 11? I’d like to think so.

But I hope I would not do so because somebody told me I should, not because I was shamed into "liking" somebody's status, but because the words inside me demanded to be spoken in the way only I can say and feel them.

The words of an inspired writer—real words speaking real emotions and original thoughts—have far more impact than those shoehorned into the thought bubble of a cartoon cat, far more than can any "shared" status on social media. So the lesson of today? Get real. Be original. Write it your way. 

Just sayin’.

Sorry for the rant. Going upstairs for a cookie now. 

Oh. One last thought.

Love you, Garfield.

Character Development: Get Off Your “Buts”

Midway through the process of creating The Great American Novel 2 (GAN 1 being Huck Finn...or Gatsby...or Wrathful Grapes…or...), the realization strikes the writer that the story lacks something, that the story which should stir a nation can barely stir a weak cup of coffee.

Consequently, you examine the developing plot: Exposition? Check. Conflicts? Check. Rising action? Yep. Complications? Planned. Climax and theme? I know where I'm going….

Then the truth bubbles over and threatens to drown you in its obviousness. “The characters are really...meh.” Yes, you have a clear protagonist (the perfectly adorable, abused waif), a recognizable antagonist (the really rotten, evil-personified underling of Beelzebub), and a boatload of supporting characters on both sides. 

Somehow, though, they’re not what you want nor are they what the story needs.

You search your library of writing manuals. You google article after article, blog after blog. How can you make the characters better? 

Nothing.

You call your ninth grade English instructor away from his reruns of Wheel of Fortune. You call your yoga instructor. You call the guy who fills the bins of oranges down at the grocery store. 

They are all sympathetic and very helpful. Each has concrete constructive answers, but none of them gives you the solutions you want to hear. They all make sense, but...

There's the problem! 

Somewhere, somehow, you’ve developed that dreaded debilitating disease Massive But Syndrome (MBS) where each suggestion from accomplished writers, teachers, and plumbers is met with a defensive “but” statement that turns off your spigot of inspiration. Three of the biggest BS (but statements, not the other BS. Then again...) “But sap sells,” “But reality bites,” and “But this is fiction.” Each of the three excuses has the disadvantage of being partially true. 

One need only look at the financial success of romance novels and inspirational books featuring o shallow idealized characters, wildly optimistic resolutions, and selective favorable advice/outcomes to realize that indeed sickeningly sweet sap sells.

Secondly, with over 7 billion people on earth, it’s safe to assume that the overwhelming majority lead quiet, undramatic lives that are as engaging as broccoli flavored oatmeal. Henceforth, it is logical for writers to avoid mirroring this reality.

However, authors can take reality avoidance too far by creating the ultimate protagonist, dauntless and fault-free, and pitting him/her/it against the supreme villain who is so evil she/ he would make Lucifer blush.

The attributes that raise a character from meh to MY! are not what set him apart from the reader, however. No matter  the conflict, no matter the situation, no matter the person, the traits that most engage the reader are those that make the character human.

“But my character isn’t a human.”

Please note the following: To be human, the characters don't have to be humans.

However, a human–the reader–must relate to the characters on a human level. For example, the way one can with one of literature's most moving protagonists, Jack London's Buck in his novel The Call of the Wild. A dog. Canine. Not homo sapiens. A dog with amazingly human feelings and reactions.

Portraying humanness is the key to developing great characters, not listening to your contrary but voice. 

For example, it’s not Jane Eyre’s sappiness that makes her memorable. It’s not the reality of Forrest Gump’s existence that endures. It’s not the perfection Anne Lamott achieves after her conversion that captivates her fans. It’s not Buck's canine body that appeals to human readers.

It's that every person can recognize him/herself in these characters' victories and failures, emotions and reactions, inspirations and aversions. In every case, the writers find the link between fiction and life. In every case, the writers got off the buts that weighed them down.

They got up, shaped up and developed their characters, like going to a literary Snap Fitness. Before long their buts wore down to nothing. No more MBS.

Okay. Enough but jokes. I’ll be better next time, or you can slap my ... never mind.

Revision Issues? Roll with the Changes

“So, if you're tired of the same old story, turn some pages….
Roll with the changes.”

Kevin Cronin of REO Speedwagon 

Revision can be a bear. It hurts to delete material on which you’ve contemplated long and hard. It's painstaking labor to search out that "just right" word or phrase. I know, if the delete button were an eraser and the screen merely paper, there'd be a hole the size on Montana in your screen.

However, every chapter, essay, novel, or love note you write can improved. The question becomes "Just how much revision is the right amount?" The key is to find the happy medium where you can objectively look at your work and say, “This is better. Any more would be too much. Any less would be too little.”

Writers can obsess incorrectly two ways when it comes to the revision process: 1) To the point where you won’t change a thing, or 2) To the point when you can’t stop changing things. You don't want to be the lazy ferret content to let the reader do your editing, nor do you want to be the person who can't stop finding new ways to say the same thing. John Howard Griffin commented at a writing workshop years ago that he never would have finished Black Like Me if his publisher hadn’t given him the instruction, “You’re done!”

Both habits are to be avoided, but how does one do that? The main way .... seriously ... is to simply relax, take a breath, maybe step away, and get a new perspective on your piece and life in general.

Now, I could get verbose and expound a few hundred more words on the subject, but I think it’s more important today to guide you to that upbeat attitude that simply shuts off the stressing brain and allows you to feel good. So I’m leaving you with a YouTube link to REO’s appearance on Midnight Special oh, so many years ago.

Crank the bass and volume. Step back from the keyboard and watch Cronin, Richrath, and company lift your spirits. Editorial changes will never agin feel quite so daunting.

And remember: "You can tune a piano, but you can’t tuna fish.” 

Liberation 101: 5 Areas to Set Your Fiction Free

Tomorrow marks my wife and my fifteenth wedding anniversary. What does that have to do with writing? Absolutely nothing.

Except that people often ask how we found each other, especially since we worked in different professions, lived in different parts of the city, and traveled in the different social circles. The answer is simple. We found each other because we stopped looking for what we thought we wanted.

Similarly, writing fiction needs that same liberation philosophy. Instead of following  conventions established by others, it is better to jump in line ahead of them ... or at least crunch in beside them at the front of the queue. 

How do you do this with your fiction? Simply this: Your satisfaction level will be higher if you establish your own subjects, create your own settings, mold your own characters, confront them with your own conflicts, and generate your own plots.

Subjects

Really, there is no sense writing what has already been written. The more innovative a book or story, the more impact it will have ... for better or worse. Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris stepped beyond horror to the grotesque with his grisly profile of a psychotic cannibal. In Fahrenheit 451 Ray Bradbury exposed a world where censorship exists not by government edict but by indifference and boredom. Robert James Waller’s Bridges of Madison County turned a simple story of a magazine photographer shooting a photo essay on a rural landscape into a moving story of love and sexual tension. 

Settings

Perusing the bookstores or watching television, one could reach the conclusion that certain settings are mandatory. Crime takes place in New York, Los Angeles, or London. Fantasy must occur in mountainous climes where the social norm dictates dress akin to a Pasadena Renaissance festival a la Big Bang Theory. Political thrillers use the exclusive location of Washington, DC.

If one looks objectively there are notable exceptions to these strictures, however. Stephen King uses Maine as the backdrop for many of his stories, while Carl Hiaasen uses Florida. In A Thousand Acres, Jane Smiley resets Shakespeare’s King Lear in Iowa. For these authors and many like them, the conventions of the marketplace do not apply. What matters is the story and the story is better told in the settings the author knows or creates him/herself.

Characters

When writing a novel, one can worry about stock characters and archetypes, but more important than which standard role to use is what kind of character does the story need. Stereotypes need not apply. 

For example, female detectives need not be svelte blondes who excel in martial arts. An intelligent protagonist need not be educated or teaching at Stanford. If your story needs a special profession that you don’t know or can’t find on Google, you can create it.  Dan Brown did with his professor of religious symbology Robert Langdon. Slate magazine says such a position does not exist at Harvard where Langdon works or at any other real educational institution. It’s simply a job Brown developed for his protagonist, one that created its own possibilities for storytelling.

Speaking of protagonists, you might want to consider that sometimes your protagonist need not even be human. Some literary critics claim Huck is not the main character in Mark Twin’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, contending that the Mississippi is actually the protagonist. I disagree, but the case can be made. A better example might be Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. Many an hour is spent arguing about who qualifies as the protagonist of this futuristic novel with many reaching the conclusion that one does not exist. A stronger argument, however, claims society as a whole fulfills that role more than any individual human in the book does.

Conflicts

This is closely connected with your choice of characters. What people do, who they are, how they act and react affect logical conflicts they will encounter with others, with nature, or themselves. But then there is the totally illogical conflict that arises when a character and the reader is least expecting it. It could be a sudden inheritance, an act of God, a new alliance, a runny nose...anything. Those twists are really fun to write and to read.

Plot

Plot conventions can be death to a story. Literally. A teacher told me once that if one of my characters doesn’t die by the fifth chapter, something is definitely wrong. Other advisers advocate the old adage “Sex sells,” and point to Fifty Shades of Grey as a prototype. Still others instruct you to emulate television and movies and add gratuitous gunplay, car chases, and explosions.

While these elements can all enliven your story, it’s important that they be integral to the story, not simply present a visceral appeal to your reader. 

While one can argue the literary merits of the work shown here, one cannot argue their success in finding an audience. I would wager that each was a liberating experience for the writer as well. Perhaps even life-changing.

Kind of like finding a spouse. Happy anniversary, wifey mine. :)