Tangling with writing structure

The issues around structure are anathema for some writers and an obsession for others. I’ve written in this blog before (March, 2017) about how people who write ‘by the seat of their pants’ (pantsers) often see structure as a straitjacket, constraining the flow of ideas and creative development. People who prepare detailed plot outlines and character arcs (planners) see structure as a way to corral and harness their stampeding ideas. However, planners can find that the exhaustive world-building and development of character background stories can take years (I’m looking at you, George R.R. Martin) and run the risk of the creative spark fizzling out before they pen their first paragraph. On the other hand, for pantsers, the upside of understanding structure is that it can provide an invaluable diagnostic tool when revising that first unwieldy draft.

(Cartoonist: Tom Gauld, https://www.tomgauld.com)

By nature, I’m a planner but I treasure those moments of flow when the story and the characters take over and write themselves. However, most of all, I love revising (yes, strange, I know). That hankering to revise is often what motivates me to push past my writer’s blocks since, without text, there’s no diagnostic problem-solving. When getting that first draft out, one of my frustrations is that my default structure is ‘And then … and then … and then’, which makes for dull reading. To try move past this, I’ve been reading a range of books about writing structure that are often recommended by other writers.

The following books are interesting and inspiring, so I’ve given a brief snapshot review of each of them.

Brooks, L. (2011). Story engineering. Writers’ Digest Books.

The central messages in this book relate to what Brooks describes as the ‘Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling’.

  • Concept—‘what if?’ idea that sparks your story and which your story answers
  • Character—who are we rooting for?
  • Theme—what take-home message will we take from your story?
  • Structure—what comes first, second and so on?
  • Scene execution—how does each step play out?
  • Writing voice—who is telling the story?

Interestingly, Brooks suggests that there is no particular order in which you might work on each aspect of the story. However, when it comes to structure, knowing something about each of the other aspects helps ‘engineer’ your way through each pivotal plot point and the key stages of set-up, response, attack and resolution.

Larry Brooks is a successful author who is very experienced in running masterclasses on writing. He also hosts a useful website http://storyfix.com/ which is full of information and resources. ‘Story Engineering’ is very accessible. The experience of reading each chapter is like doing a mini-workshop. As I read, my mind was flooded with ideas about work-in-progress. For a taster, you might enjoy a video interview with him that is available on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGq84WOQfqM

McKee, R. (2010). Story: Style, structure, substance, and the principles of screenwriting. Harper Collins.

McKee’s book first came out in 1997 and is quoted by just about all the other authors who followed him into this topic. The information and ideas have a wide application beyond screenplay writing. There is an extended interview with McKee on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_s8wIOMAU0 .

Pierre, D.B.C. (2016). Release the bats: Writing your way out of it. Faber & Faber.

Punchy and inspiring, Pierre urges us to ‘write in a fever, rewrite in a cardigan‘. Pierre is a highly successful satirical novelist (Man Booker prize winner). His book is more memoir than a writing manual, but his incisive wit skewers many of the myths about writing. In essence, this book is a call to action—just write! There is a serious (though lengthy) interview with him on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hYt-KCLtnU4 , and some lighter moments at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtqNwhMlcG4 .

Truby, J. (2008). The anatomy of story: 22 steps to becoming a master storyteller. Farrar, Straus & Giroux.

Truby’s book is, paradoxically, formulaic as well as subversive. Truby is, like Brooks (above), an experienced workshop provider and so the book leads you through 22 specific steps to developing your story. However, at the same time, Truby explodes the idea of the traditional three-act structure and explores multiple examples from film and literature to show how master storytellers exploit or defy traditional story structures to surprise and intrigue. Truby emphasises how structure is intrinsically driven by the themes and characters.

The book is very easy to read and highly entertaining because of the frequent use of familiar examples. I found myself mapping out ways that I could radically alter the way I had conceptualised my work-in-progress as I read it. For a short taster, see the YouTube clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S5-9cOZps44 .

Yorke, J. (2014). Into the woods: How stories work and why we tell them. Penguin.

John Yorke has a wealth of experience in British television (BBC) and writes insightfully about how structure works and why it warrants study beyond the ‘how to’ approach. Like Truby (above), he integrates examples from many familiar stories from literature, television and film into his discussion of what works and why. Yorke provides a fascinating analysis of the Russian-doll nature of story structure. Within the overarching story structure, there is a nested structure of each act, and within each act there is a structure within each scene, and within each scene there is a micro-structure. In particular, there is a mirroring of scenes between the first and last acts that brings the story to a satisfying resolution. One of the examples he provides of this will be familiar to those who enjoyed the film, Strictly Ballroom.

(from Yorke, 2014, ch.10)

First Act

  1. Scott dances his own steps selfishly.
  2. He refuses to dance with Fran.
  3. He chooses to dance with Fran.

(other intervening Acts)

Last Act

  1. He chooses to dance with Fran.
  2. He dances with Fran.
  3. He dances with Fran to the rhythm of his own heart.

To get an idea of the depth and gentle humour of his approach, you might be interested to listen to the 45-minute seminar available at https://vimeo.com/70034237 . For a short taster, see YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsUNJ9OAbdk

 

Whether writing structure is a helpful tool to identify where our stories flag or whether it informs our first jottings in a story outline, it is of some comfort that others have struggled before us. At the same time, perhaps it is salutary to consider Yorke’s warning (Introduction):

‘Is this therefore the magic key to storytelling? Such hubris requires caution — the compulsion to order, to explain, to catalogue, is also the tendency of the train-spotter. In denying the rich variety and extraordinary multifaceted nature of narrative, one risks becoming no better than Casaubon, the desiccated husk from Middlemarch, who turned his back on life while seeking to explain it. It’s all too tempting to reduce wonder to a scientific formula and unweave the rainbow.’ 
Yorke, 2014

Hunt for treasure no more

I’ve been going through a writing lull, so that means that I’ve been making the most of my subscription to Audible. Here’s a brief review my latest find.

‘Treasure Island’ by Robert Louis Stevenson, An Audible Original Drama, adapted by Marty Ross. Length 6 hrs and 26 mins. Performance release date: 17-08-2017 Publisher: Audible Studios

I’d tried reading ‘Treasure Island’ as a child, of course, but never got past the first few chapters. With my writer’s hat on, I can see now why I struggled. The story initially came out in serial form in 1882, so perhaps that explains the long first six chapters to finally get into the heart of the story to set sail for Treasure Island. Even though this dramatised version is an adaptation, I was well and truly over the rum-swilling Billy Bones by the time we heard the sound of Blind Pew’s stick approaching with the doom-laden ‘black spot’. However, this time I stuck with it, largely held by the broad accents of Catherine Tate as Jim’s mother. Her talents alerted me to the usefulness of minor characters in providing humorous commentary on the dramatic action. Another favourite minor character, old Tom Redruth—faithful retainer to the foolish Squire Trelawney—provided a similar commentary on his master in this version.

Catherine Tate

Despite my failure to finish the book in my youth, the rest of the story was familiar through movies and television. However, none of those versions had illuminated the central theme of the story. Typically, the story is told as a coming-of-age journey for Jim who sails as cabin boy on the Hispaniola commissioned by Squire Trelawny, to find the treasure on the map uncovered by Jim and Dr Livesey (played by another very recognisable actor, Philip Glenister). However, just as pivotally, the story unpicks the threads of greed through the portrayal of both the pirates and the more socially-condoned actions of the characters who represent the higher classes (the Squire and the Doctor).

Philip Glenister

Throughout this audio adaptation by Marty Ross, it is this social commentary that is emphasised. It is, of course, very much a 21st century ‘reading’ of the text, but I think it gives the story an intensity that illuminates why Jim’s allegiances shift so often by suggesting something beyond simple adolescent uncertainty or gullibility. In this version, the character of Long John Silver is not only frighteningly charismatic in his machiavellian strategies but also the sower of doubt in Jim’s understanding of right and wrong. For example, it is Silver who points out to Jim that the castaway Ben Gunn won’t receive a fair share of the treasure despite finding it and safeguarding it from others because the Squire and the Doctor will take it from him, under the guise of paternalistic benevolence. By the end of the tale, through his relationship with Silver and his experiences, Jim’s moral compass flickers with questing indeterminacy—he has become his own man.

 

Added note: A version of this appeared in the June newsletter for members of my writing group: Lake Macquarie branch, Fellowship of Australian Writers, NSW.

Lost in time

For those of us interested in Australian colonial history, the Australian National Library’s online Trove collection provides an easy way to avoid getting on with the job of actually writing. I found the following little gem under the column heading of ‘Sundries’ on page 3 of The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser (NSW: 1803-1842) for Thursday 31st March 1825.

FEMALE COURTSHIP.

Two or three looks when your swain wants a kiss,
Two or three noes when he bids you say “yes,”
Two or three, smiles when you utter the “no,”
Two or three frowns if he offers to go,
Two or three laughs when astray for small chat,
Two or three tears tho’ you can’t tell for what,
Two or three letters when your vows are begun,
Two or three quarrels before you are done,
Two or three dances to make you jocose,
Two or three hours in a corner sit close,
Two or three starts when he bids you elope,
Two or three glances to intimate hope,
Two or three pauses before you are won,
Two or three swoonings to let him press on,
Two or three sighs when you’ve wasted your tears,
Two or three hums when the chaplain appears,
Two or three squeezes when the hand’s given away,
Two or three coughs, when you come, to “obey,”
Two or three lasses may have by these rhymes,
Two or three little ones,—two or three times.

I particularly liked the ‘coughs’ in relation to the marriage vows. The blue-stockings of the late 1700s were clearly having an effect.

This poem may well have been familiar with the paper’s readers.  With a little more foraging about online, I found it on page 52 of ‘The Humourist’s Miscellany: Containing original and select articles in poetry, on mirth, humour, wit, gaiety, and entertainment’ which was published in London by Crosby and Letterman in 1801.

Diversion done, it’s time to get back to it. Or, perhaps I could work on a title suitable for the 1800s?

Cat Writer (photo by Fazelrodrigues1)

Genre, genre, what’s the genre?

I am busily writing historical fiction but reading an alarming amount of science fiction/fantasy. However, it strikes me that they share many issues related to the notion of ‘genre’.

The complexities of written genres provide fiery debate among critics and readers alike. The greatest heat is generated by those who pit literary fiction against ‘genre fiction’—no prizes for guessing which holds the greater cachet. Literary fiction is typified by the depth of its thematic concerns (e.g., loss, love, humanity) and the quality of the writing style. In contrast, genre fiction is marked by its content matter (e.g., scientific possibilities, historical events, espionage, crime) and the writing structure associated with each sub-genre (e.g., first person narration for hard-boiled detective fiction). Of course, within every type of writing there are opportunities for the writer to subvert the genre (e.g., fun ‘mashups’ such as Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, as well as more serious works such as Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?). Of course, the reason that it is possible to play with genre in this way depends crucially on the assumptions around the structures of types of novels.

Even in the recent obituaries for the redoubtable Ursula Le Guin I was surprised to see that the authors felt they had to defend her literary standing against the slur of being labelled as science fiction/fantasy. Le Guin herself argued against the dichotomy, calling instead for the recognition of the literary merit of any work, regardless of genre. One of the obituaries alerted me to her essay—the delightfully titled, ‘From Elfland to Poughkeepsie’ (1973), which I tracked down in a collection, The Language of the Night (Berkley, 1979).

In this essay, she writes, ‘Let us consider Elfland as a great national park, a vast and beautiful place where a person goes by himself, on foot, to get in touch with reality in a special, private, profound fashion. But what happens when it is considered merely as a place to “get away to”?’

Le Guin throws down the gauntlet to genre writers to share the ambitions of the writers of literary fiction—i.e., to not only engage readers but also open them to opportunities to transform their understanding of themselves and others. The fundamental themes of such works, she suggests, involve shifting focus from ‘daydream’ to ‘dream’ through exploring the far reaches of the society’s shared unconscious workings. The acceptance of genre and cross-genre writing is greater today, perhaps in part because of her own brilliant demonstration of literary fantasy in books such as The Left Hand of Darkness (1969).

Le Guin raises another issue which, I think, is less sustainable. She argues that the journalistic style that is often employed within the ‘Poughkeepsie style of fantasy’ is inappropriate as, in its objective stance, it fails to evoke the depth of imaginative writing needed for fantasy. She is not arguing against clear writing—for example, she holds Tolkien up as a writer of plain, yet evocative, English—but rather she suggests that adopting a journalistic style is ‘a refusal to admit what you’re in for when you set off with only an ax and a box of matches into Elfland’. Surely a similar argument can be put in relation to styles of writing as she puts for the themes—that the demarcation lines between genres need not limit the choices of the writer about what they are saying and how they say it?

Perhaps questions of genre all boil down to the comments made by currently acclaimed author of Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell:

‘It’s convenient to have a science fiction and fantasy section, it’s convenient to have a mainstream literary fiction section, but these should only be guides, they shouldn’t be demarcated territories where one type of reader belongs and another type of reader does not.’ (The Guardian, 2015)

So, from this practical viewpoint, the genre of a novel may be roughly where you’re most likely to look for it on the shelves of a bookshop.

History Fun

What is it about history that insists on slipping out of your mind (or out of my mind, at least)? History at school was never fun because of the stubborn way that only the most trivial information presented itself at times of crisis, such as during exams.  As a child, I consoled myself with the observation of Sellar (Aegrot: Oxon) and Yeatman (Failed M.A., etc. Oxon) that:

“History is not what you thought. It is what you can remember.”*

Perhaps this is why we enjoy historical fiction so much—it helps bring the past alive in stories that stick. Some writers of historical fiction are so proud of their research that they desiccate their tales to the point where we might just as well read non-fiction (not mentioning any names).  Thankfully, some writers mix and bake their tales with the lightness of a soufflé and Jodi Taylor, author of the Chronicles of St Mary’s, is one such writer.

 

The St Mary’s series (nine novels and numerous short stories by 2018 and still going) is sometimes located within the science fiction genre but it has only one sci-fi premise: that time-travel is possible.  The only other general assumption is that, if anyone is going to do time-travel responsibly, then it’s an historian. The fun comes when we learn that the historians employed at St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research are entirely irresponsible in their all-consuming passion to find out what really happened. They specialise in exploring times that involve historical controversy, anywhere from the time of the dinosaur to recent World Wars. With just a soupçon of romance and sadness, these novels provide an easy way to become absorbed in the past.

They are available in hard and paperback as well as ebook and audiobook (which is how I became acquainted with them—great narration by Zara Ramm). The first of the series is titled, Just One Damned Thing After Another, although there is a short story prequel available, The Very First Damned Thing.

 

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*If you haven’t had the pleasure of reading ‘1066 and all that: A memorable history of England, comprising all the parts you can remember, including 103 Good Things, 5 Bad Kings and 2 Genuine Dates’ then I recommend the experience. Amazon has it available very cheaply and there are some free pdfs floating about the internet too.

Best audio books 2017

Redphones: Listening to music while waiting for a friend, Garry Knight, Flickr, CC2.0 licence with attribution.

While cleaning out my father’s flat after his death earlier this year, I came across the notebooks in which both my parents kept a listing of the books they had read each year. My own reading habits are not nearly as methodical.  However, new ways of consuming books do such cataloguing work for us.  I have become addicted to audio books as it allows me the chance to read and knit at the same time (unlike my mother who learned to do both simultaneously to defend herself from my grandmother’s accusations of ‘wasting her time reading’).  I subscribe to audible and they sent me a summary of my own (well-spent) 20,250 minutes of listening time this year. Apparently, my favourite genre was ‘crime & thrillers’— which suggests some new writing directions for me later.  I entirely agree with their analysis of my ratings that showed that my favourite author was Philip Pullman and my favourite narrator was Kobna Holdbrook-Smith (narrator for the delightful PC Grant detective series by Ben Aaronovitch, but I’m saving a review about that series for another post).

my top three audiobooks for 2017

 (in no particular order)

Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

by Gail Honeyman (hard cover and paperback published 2017 by Harper Collins). Audio book released 2017, read by Cathleen McCarron.

Written in the first person, we are taken inside the character of a fascinating woman who leads a highly circumscribed life.  This is a novel about small moments and their effects. The narrator fully captures the tension between Eleanor’s self-awareness and her lack of insight. The newspaper reviews of the book are very positive but often contain spoilers, so if you like to know more about what’s ahead have a look at these: from the Guardian, or from the Washington Independent Review of Books. Reese Witherspoon’s production company has apparently optioned the book for a movie so you could wait till then or, best of all, just dive into the book and find the treasure there.

A Legacy of Spies

by John leCarré (hard cover and paperback published 2017 by Penguin Random House). Audio book released 2017, read by Tom Hollander.

Peter Guillam is called back by the Circus to account for the past Cold War operations of George Smiley.  The reviews of the book have been unanimous in their praise, see the review by the New York Times for example.

Actor Tom Hollander is exactly the right person to read it – a master of restraint in the context of overpowering emotions. (You may remember Tom Hollander from the TV mini-series ‘The Night Manager’, and the TV series ‘Rev’, amongst many other roles.)

 

 

La Belle Sauvage: The Book of Dust, Volume 1

by Philip Pullman (hard cover and paperback published 2017 in association with Penguin Random House). Audio book released 2017, read by Michael Sheen.

Philip Pulman takes us back to the very beginnings of Lyra’s life and the disturbance she brings, even as a baby, to the control exerted by The Magisterium. The heroes of the story are Malcolm and his daemon Asta who must save Lyra when the flooding of the Thames brings both corporeal and magical threats.

Actor Michael Sheen is a captivating narrator. (Michael Sheen was recently seen as Dr Masters in the TV series ‘Masters of Sex’, and you might remember him as David Frost in the film ‘Frost/Nixon’ back in 2008).

 

This is the first of three planned prequels to ‘His Dark Materials’. I, for one, will be lining up for the others. The reviews have welcomed the return to Lyra’s world, for example see the review in the Sydney Morning Herald. Like the reviewers, I look forward to the next instalment in this series.

 

Mission accomplished: 50K words in 30 days!

 

There is nothing like the behavioural reinforcement of posting your daily word count to maintain writing momentum. Thirty days after setting myself the NaNoWriMo challenge, I’ve hit 50,894 words and have a completely new way into my embryonic novel (NB: very long gestation period…but I won’t go there…just enjoying the moment).

Click on this link for a taster of where it’s all going:

Ferguson, A. (excerpt of work in progress at 20171130)

 

 

Just released: ‘A Gentleman’s Daughter’

 

“. .  the Destiny of my life was cast on seeing for the first time an ‘Apollo’ in the handsome Captain Cowin of the 73rd Regiment. Even at this long period I blush to make this romantic confession, nevertheless the age of 12 may offer an excuse. ”

Lady Dowling: Daguerreotype photo print of carte de visite, around 1860.

2020 CORRECTION!! Unfortunately the daguerrotype that I thought was Harriet Mary Dowling is an image of her niece, Harriott Mary Norton (nee Walker). Many thanks to the reader who alerted me to my error! I have now updated the biography to remove this error! 

I was reading the memoir of Lady Dowling*, a very distant forebear of my husband. I was already intrigued, but this was the passage that captured me. Three years later, I have finished putting together a short biography of this flighty, restless woman (for details, see under Publications on this site). What I’ve learned in the process includes:

  • Never believe a memoirist (they leave out all the interesting parts),
  • Never trust a man who keeps a journal (they put in all the interesting parts), and
  • Never think your research won’t be contradicted by your next search of Trove.

I’ve also learned that I’m not alone in grappling with a million writing dilemmas. With this knowledge, I’m continuing to explore the border zones of creativity in the portrayal of historical people and events.

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*Dowling, H. “Memoir of the Early Life of Harriott Mary Dowling Nee Blaxland: Or Sketches of India and Australia in Old Times.” In Dowling family papers 1767-1905: Manuscripts, Oral History & Pictures, State Library of New South Wales, Catalogue  DLMSQ 305, Item 5, 1875.

The Blank Page

Pantsers and Planners and the Blank Page

There I was — frozen — staring down a course requirement to produce a 30,000 word collection of short stories. The keyboard stared right back, as keyboards do, the indifferent sods. As the days till deadline diminished, my calculations generated predictions of having to generate 1,000 words a day, then 2,000 words, then 3,000. When the target of 5,000 was on the horizon, I panicked. I raced to find my lecturer. He wasn’t in his office, nor in the coffee queue.  Peering through the small window set in the door of the lecture room, I spied him. As he paused for breath, he glanced in my direction — perhaps it was something to do with the wild gesticulations of distress.

He came to the door and, opening it a crack, snapped, ‘What?’

I began to gabble about my plight.

‘Stop,’ he hissed. ‘Listen carefully. You will type the word the over and over again. I don’t care if there are 30,000 thes. If, perchance, you start to find the word the becomes boring, then do feel free to use some other words as they occur to you.’ He closed the door and turned back to his class.

It was novel advice and, desperate as I was, I followed it. It only took a paragraph of thes before I was so bored that I began to write.

I’ve never heard anyone else prescribe similar measures but the experience meant that I am intrigued by the distinction that is often drawn between pantsers and planners. Both terms describe ways in which writers tend to go about the writing process.

The term pantsers is said to come from the expression ‘fly by the seat of your pants’ which originally arose to describe a pilot flying without instruments. Pantsers write their first draft in a flow of ideas, possibly guided by some overarching theme or end-point. Pantsers are open to following new thoughts and directions as they arise during the writing process. Stephen King, in his fascinating book, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, describes a similar drafting process he calls ‘writing with the door closed’, i.e. getting the ideas down while leaving your inner critic outside (the inner critic is allowed inside the door when re-drafting). The advantages of this approach include that it’s a faster way to get the ideas out from between the ears and on the page.

Artist: Serena Snowfield (Creative Commons Attribution 2.0) https://www.flickr.com/photos/serena_snowfield/32230739846/in/pool-600501@N20

Planners (or plotters) prepare detailed outlines for the overall structure and individual sections of the work ahead before they begin. Planners tend to build their first draft in layers, i.e. outline, more detailed outline, even more detailed outline, and then the writing within each section. The advantages of this approach include that you know what’s ahead. When planners get a new idea, they down tools and test the potential new direction by revising their outline before they proceed.

Public Domain CC0 http://maxpixel.freegreatpicture.com/Leave-Hand-Marker-Mark-Production-Planning-Control-516278

Both pantsers and planners extoll the virtues of their processes in reducing anxiety in facing down the blank page, which probably tells you more about the mental health challenges of writing than the relative efficacy of either approach. However, as for most false dichotomies, there need be no opposition between the two approaches. No doubt, many of us adopt these processes at different stages and for different works. For example, author, Victoria Strauss, describes her transition toward a hybrid approach in her blog — ‘Pantser to Planner: How I changed my writing style’.

Luckily for me, while I’m by nature closer at the planner end of the continuum, so far I haven’t had to resort to the the strategy again.