Here's a September story about Mitchell, Eve and a dead deer, told in seven scenes:
1. Mitchell meets Eve at work. He admires Eve, who seems daring, adventurous and outdoorsy.
2.Eve suggests they go deer hunting. On a misty late-September morning they drive through the countryside in Eve’s truck.
3. In a tangle of forest Eve spots a deer, and together with Mitchell they approach.
4. Eve shoots the deer.
5. Then she approaches the deer’s body and shoots it again, needlessly, another six times.
6. Mitchell realises there is something seriously wrong with Eve.
7. They get back into Eve’s truck. Eve chats casually as they drive home; Mitchell is silently terrified. It’s awkward.
This sequence of events, adapted from an example in Jerome Stern's Making Shapely Fiction, is a really useful way of drawing a distinction between the story as it happened and the story as it's told. We know the story as it happened - we have it there in seven bullets. Pun very much intended.
But what about the story as it's told? A useful activity with first-time writers is to ask what the opening scene of this story might be. Which number would make a good starting point? I've had writers give compelling reasons for why it should be 3. Or 4. Or 7. Other numbers, by contrast, are rarely suggested. 1, for example. Or 5 - perhaps because, to quote Stern again, "tension is the mother of fiction."
I might finish by discussing which scenes can safely be omitted altogether or referred to only obliquely. What are you putting on the cutting-room floor, folks? There are certainly two contenders here, possibly more. Sure, there are no wrong answers. Though Stern might agree with me when I contest that some answers are certainly... wronger than others.
For more on story shape and structure, check out Storycraft, available now from wherever you get your books.
Movie criticism, huh?
I gave myself a wry smile when I saw this recently. Crawl is a fine film; a solid survival actioner and proud upstanding member of the 99-Minute Movie Club (more about this mysterious organisation in the coming days.) I'll make no claims that it's perfect, but it is claustrophobic, tense, and frightening - a fabulous way to kill an hour and a half. I loved it.
So why the yawning gap between their take and mine? Downton Abbey - the receiver of a four star review in the same paper on the same day - is apparently twice as good as Crawl. That's how star systems work, right?
Most movie reviews don't tell you how good movies are. Even ones like this are a delicate negotiation that have to pay sufficient homage to...
(i) current concensus (aim: have broadly the same opinion as others)
(ii) fashion (aim: look current, cool, part of the right gang)
(iii) intelligence (aim: appear clever)
Perhaps the feral gator that is Rotten Tomatoes is eating newspaper film-criticism... or perhaps newspaper film criticism is eating itself.
I recently listened to a panel discussion in which one contributor described Stranger Things as 'nostalgia-porn.'
This phrase bugged me somehow as I drove home from whatever school I was visiting that day. Why nostalgia-porn as opposed to 'nostalgic'? If Stranger Things is nostalgia-porn, is Super 8 nostalgia porn? Is Rim of the World nostalgia-porn? Certianly not every novel, movie or TV show set in or celebrating the recent past would qualify - the suffix '-porn' is pejorative, I'm guessing, and suggests viewers are there more for the pleasure of the nostalgia rather than anything else. At least I think that's what's implied.
Plus, since the setting only speaks to people of a certain age, Stranger Things must qualify as nostagia-porn for me, but not for someone ten years younger. Which surely makes the phrase pretty useless. Anyways, I don't watch Stranger Things for the time it is set, I watch it for the cool characters, deft plotting, elegant script and... monsters.
What if we tried to extend the use of the '-porn' suffix? Is The Walking Dead a zombie-horror soap... or zombie-porn? Is the Match of the Day Highlights show football-porn? Or is it goal-porn, since all the other stuff is taken out? Set-piece porn perhaps? Would more people tune in if we refered to it as corner-porn?
Then there's Sanditon. History-porn, Gerogian-costume-porn, Austen-porn or just - ahem - porn?
I first saw this in a Product Design classroom. Since then I've played with it so that it helps me improve narratives. You could probably do better!
Swap the roles of two characters – their positions or status. Or swap their genders or ages – see what happens. Swap the locations in which things happen to see if it feels fresher.
Clean up Cliché
Examine your work for anything familiar or expected – a setting your reader will have seen before, a character they’ll be familiar with, a conversation or line of dialogue. Remove your clichés – then try and use ‘reverse’ or ‘swap’ to produce something more interesting.
Take a section of your work you feel is weaker (a character? Plot point? Location?) and adapt someone else’s idea into your work. Borrow a character from somewhere else and adapt them to fit. Borrow another location and adapt to fit… and so on.
Take something – a character, a place, an event – and make it twice-as-much as it was. Or ten-times as much. Magnify its drama in some way.
Take two characters and turn them into one – pairing up their characteristics into one person. Does this give you space to add another character? Are there other characters who could be combined?
Take out an element of the story out and check what happens. Persist with this, checking elements and removing them. Does the story improve as a result of eliminating something?
Take an event or plot point and try and reverse it – make the opposite happen. Or take a character and make them the complete reverse of what you might have planned. Something entirely unexpected might emerge.
From Storycraft, by Martin Griffin and Jon Mayhew, coming September 2019
When my little girl was three or four we did a lot of painting. Here's what happened. She'd start carefully, holding a brush in a tiny fist and slashing a colourful line across the page. Then a second and a third. It'd be looking pretty good.
Then she'd go back for more paint, splotching blue, red and yellow together; more lines, blocks of colour bleeding into each other. She'd add some black, throw some more purple down. The paper would begin to soak and wrinkle. Eventually every painting ended in the same place: a deep brown splat, utterly indistinguishable from every other splat she'd produced.
Art is as much about knowing when to stop as it is about knowing how to start. As much about what you leave out as what you put in. Guess that goes for stories too.
In my copy of Stephen King’s The Green Mile, King writes about how he structures stories as he’s trying to go to sleep each night. Here he is: “I tell [them] as I lie in the dark, writing them in my mind just as I would on a typewriter… Each night I start over at the beginning, getting a little further before I drop off.”
That’s me too. It was only recently, though, that I heard the phrase alpha state to describe that relaxed, almost dream-like frame of mind in which we are more creative and receptive; less critical and convergent in our thinking. Finding out that something you do - a place to which you go as you drop off - has a proper name and everything... well that somehow gives it credence.
At the moment I'm starting each night by conjuring up an imaginary pine-locked mountain town called Navigation, for a project that may or may not ever emerge from its chrysalis. It seems, for me at least, that this alpha-state pre-sleep stage is a sort of testing ground for ideas. If it's not a pleasure going to sleep thinking them through, or if they quickly become tiresome, they're returned to the netherworld from which they came.
Fingers crossed for Navigation. I like it a lot.
As a kid I used to pick up my Dad's thrillers, skip to a random page and start reading, trying to figure out what might have happened a hundred pages in. I wasn't one for let's start at the very beginning, it's a very good place to start.
Guess it's a habit I've yet to break; I skipped two seasons of Fear the Walking Dead and jumped straight in at four because I saw Lennie James looming over the other characters on the ensemble artwork. So I came for Morgan, but stayed for John Dorie. ("Like the fish, but with an 'ie' instead of the 'y'," he drawls, shy and embarrassed.)
Opening the season in episode 1, and at his best in episodes 1 through 8, John Dorie is a character so clearly delineated you could use him in a screenwriting class. He's got a clear want - he's desperate to find the woman he loves and will stop at nothing to seek her out. He has a rich and complicated background; first cop, then gun-toting country fair entertainer, a sudden change in direction that's the consequence of a tragedy. He's complex - wanting isolation, fearing it and seeking out friendship. He loves language, playing scrabble alone; a man of practical routine in the flashbacks. Then there's the boiled sweets he offers as a sign of friendship and trust... and the showground pistols he keeps so carefully locked up.
Dorie got me thinking about talismans. Fascinating characters often have some sort of talisman - either physical or metaphorical. Dorie has his sweets and guns (a complex and counter-intuitive juxtaposition.) In The Poison Boy, I gave Dalton Fly a lucky playing card that sorta made decisions for him. At the moment I'm writing about a character with a log book of stolen items she obsessively updates.
If I'd felt the obligation of chronology, chances are I'd never made it to season four. And never met Dorie, therefore. There are advantages to skipping forward.
‘The best kinds of failures,’ note Tom and David Kelley in Creative Confidence, ‘are quick, cheap and early, leaving you plenty of time to … iterate your ideas.’
Software engineer and project management guru Steve McConnell echoes this sentiment, refering to ‘thrashing’ early, that is, doing the difficult creative decision-making upfront: ‘you explore all of the ideas for a project at the beginning, when it’s most cost-effective’, he says.
Thrashing is arguing, debating, questioning, failing, disassembling, ditching and reconceiving. In essence, thrash and fail early, and your project is likely to emerge the better for it.
Otherwise you end up in Rogue One territory.
Screenwriter Tony Gilroy was paid a reported $5,000,000 to fix the Star Wars movie months before it was due to be released. It was allegedly confused, difficult to follow and varied wildly in tempo and tone.
Speaking about the experience to the Hollywood Reporter, Gilroy said of the project: ‘they were in terrible trouble’. Gilroy needed to do a complete overhaul – to find the heart of the story in order to fix it. ‘If you look at Rogue, all the difficulty … all the confusion … in the end when you get in there, it’s actually very, very simple to solve,’ he says. ‘Because you sort of go, “This is a movie where … everyone is going to die.” So it’s a movie about sacrifice.’
I love Rogue One. Still, $5 million dollars – that’s the high cost of thrashing at the end, not the beginning.
Back in August I read and photographed this op-ed in the paper. The economy is slipping towards the inevitable recession that everyone except the 52% that mattered knew would come with Brexit, and this dude - along with many others - is frothing at the mouth about it. We need to be consuming more, he argues. We should be earning as much as we can then shelling out the lion's share. Spend, spend, spend; it'll liberate us, right?
His beef is degrowth, which is being discussed in - as he puts it - 'juice bars.' Quite who he imagines frequents these juice bars is left to the readers' imagination but they sound like my kinda people. Because degrowth is the deliberate management of the economy to reduce rather than encourage unnecessary consumption even at the expense of GDP.
It made me think of my jeans policy. Whoa. Wait a minute - I've not mentioned my jeans policy before? I've been remiss. My jeans policy is so simple it can be expressed in seven words. Never buy a new pair of jeans. Boom, there you go - eight words, boom included.
Why this approach to denim? Well, I like Nudie Jeans; handsome Swedish pants that cost £120 new. I can get a second-hand pair on eBay for about £30. Because of the water-intense production-process for cotton, I'm saving further unnecessary environmental costs. And I get to pocket circa 90 sheets of savings and wear jeans that look like they've seen some action; sorta vicariously borrowed action courtesy of the previous owner... who prob'ly also bagged them second-hand. Heritage jeans, man. Jeans with terroir. Denim with wabi sabi.
It's not just jeans. I'm trying to be as economically inactive as possible these days. Earn less, spend less. Basically, I'm doing on an individual scale what a Tory government does on grander scale. Less in, less out. Plus the irony's pretty sweet - what they do on the macro is the reverse of what they want on the micro. We're allowed to spend next to nothing, leaving you with dog-eared towns and crumbling public services but you guys? You need to be shopping your arses off.
Except those of us in the juice bars, presumably.
Ever tried googling “the scientific method”? You get over 12 million hits including Wikipedia pages, articles, definitions, images, beginner’s guides and introductions.
If you google “the creative method,” on the other hand, you get less than 100,000 hits; that’s 8% of the pages dedicated to the scientific method. (Many are dedicated to - note the caps - The Creative Method, a Sydney-based design agency.)
Why the difference? The characteristics of the scientific method have been established for nearly 500 years. You have a hypothesis which generates logical predictions. You then test these, gathering evidence. The experiment must be replicable and peer-approved. You arrive at a greater understanding having deconstructed something.
But the creative method is about construction, not deconstruction. Moving from having nothing, to having something you have conceived of, crafted and built. And the trouble is, when it comes to method, every creative seems to be doing something different. Some writers aren’t sure where their ideas have come from, or how they arrived where they did. Some ascribe spiritual significance to them. Others claim to ‘hear voices’; some explain that all we have to do is ‘listen to the characters telling us their stories’. Not everyone has the same level of awareness.
Case in point: one of my favourite film-score composers is Thomas Newman. But can Thomas Newman give us a cogent and replicable insight into how his creative process works? Hmm. I very much enjoyed this interview. He's a charming, honest and up-front bloke. I'm just not sure I got a strong sense of - y'know - how the magic works.