Stories without an End
by Cash Anthony
How does a writer tell stories about untellable events? How do we represent the “non-experience” of undisclosed trauma?
In the midst of the current turmoil, some American writers face a decision about whether to bypass the #MeToo movement by testifying to their trauma in a manner that far exceeds the limited character rules of Twitter, well beyond what a Facebook page offers. They find their writing goes farther than merely reporting events of such profound significance. Try as they may to disentangle their stories from their trauma, the aesthetic focus remains on such experiences, because they feel a deep need to finish responding to them, in fiction or non-fiction.
They often repeat these themes through an examination of human motives. Unconsciously or not, they re-enact their memories and re-probe their wounds until the need to witness is satisfied.
At a psychological level, this effort of, as Freud put it, remembering, repeating, and working through a traumatic event can transform the search for catharsis through action – commonly known as “acting out,” a compulsion to repeat the trauma in another form – to a preference for making emotional associations as a mechanism to come to terms with the past and move on. In the case of an individual’s attempts to work through events that have become internalized into her identity, the goal is not to abandon memories of the event but to uncover the ways they have become problematic.
For fiction writers, the connection between the past reality and the present attempt at representation raises this issue: when the trauma was incomprehensible at the time it occurred, such that the event is hard, even impossible, to narrate, writing a redemptive story can mean changing the common narrative paradigm of (1) a seeming paradise, or at least the world in stasis at a story’s beginning, when the trauma is not remembered or cannot be described, (2) a call to action that results in a fall or disruption from that status, (3) a struggle to change or solve the problem of the character’s history, and (4) redemption and re-integration into current reality. However, an insistence on reaching a complete solution at the end of the story tends to minimize the trauma and its pervasive effects. So, a modern narrative structure could well add a fifth element to the paradigm, one that takes into account the individual’s post-traumatic reactions even after redemption and admits that the conclusion is not the end of the story.
As an example of this new paradigm, one can look at recent testimony presented in the U.S. Senate to illustrate that the effect of trauma can persist for decades despite attempts to work through it.
“If it was that bad,” said President Trump about the alleged sexual assault on a 15-year-old girl, “why didn’t somebody call the FBI thirty years ago?” (The FBI would have referred the complainant to state authorities, as such offenses are normally not within their jurisdiction.) It’s a perfect example of the reason two out of three women who are sexually assaulted in America do not come forward with their stories. They fear retaliation, shaming, and trivialization of the event–and above all, that their stories will not be believed.
Now, I feel, is the time to come forward with mine.
In the fall of 1973, I came back to the U.S. after living in Europe five years. During my time away, I had decided to change my major at the University of Texas, where I had already advance-placed 21 semester hours and completed, in two years, three plus years of undergraduate studies in an interdisciplinary honors program called Plan II.
While I lived abroad, I had the opportunity to work in the obstetrics department of a hospital four days a week for two years. I chaperoned innumerable examinations of female patients and took mothers in labor through their admission to the hospital and into the birthing zone. It was work I loved.
I came to feel that my true calling was to go to medical school and become a gynecologist. My previous focus had been on foreign languages and English literature, but having to take advanced science courses before applying to Texas medical schools – a daunting proposal at first – wasn’t going to stop me.
By spring I had made the transition and completed many of the medical school entrance requirements. I had even passed the first semester of “the Big One,” the course that “separated the men from the boys”: organic chemistry. I was living alone in a small apartment while my then-husband served a military tour, which gave me plenty of time to study.
Before my morning classes, it became my habit to arrive on campus early and head for the UT Athletic Center for a hot breakfast. The cafeteria there offered inexpensive food of a much higher quality than other eating places on campus. This was no surprise, given the support provided to a varsity football team that was one of the best in the country.
There I met a fellow pre-med student named Dave Small. He had observed the load of science books I carried and introduced himself as a returning student like me, but some ten or fifteen years older. His background was in opera, and he said he had sung in distinguished productions in Germany, in cities I had visited.
We struck up an acquaintance. After a while, Dave would seek me out at the cafeteria at breakfast and sit with me, often three days a week. We didn’t really study together, but we had conversations about the lectures and lab sessions both of us attended. So I knew him slightly more than casually, but not well.
March arrived, and my organic chemistry professor scheduled our mid-term exam. It was imperative that I do even better in the second semester class. I holed up to get ready for it.
The night before that exam, I got a call from Dave, who asked if he could come over and compare notes from our genetics class. I told him I couldn’t give him that much time and why, but he soon showed up at my door anyway. He wasn’t carrying books or notes.
I was irritated and somewhat confused, but he came in, saying he would be brief. We talked for a few minutes; my irritation grew when he didn’t seem to pick up on my urgent desire to get back to my exam prep. I left him briefly to go to the bathroom.
When I came out, he tackled me and threw me onto my bed.
Dave lay on top of me and held my hands tight so that I couldn’t fight him or push him off. He began to fumble with my clothes, intent on removing them. He said not a word.
I was 26. I was terrified.
I kept saying, “Dave, you don’t want to do this. Whatever you want, it isn’t this.” Clothing askew, I struggled to get out from under him. Finally he relented.
Without a word he went back through the kitchen to the front door, unlocked it and left. When he was gone, I sat there, dumbfounded, shocked, and trembling.
It took a few minutes before I realized that he had planned the whole thing: while I was in the bathroom, he went around my apartment and double-locked the doors, unplugged the phones, and closed the blinds.
The only person I knew who might listen to me was my organic chemistry lab instructor, whose name I don’t recall. I had never spoken to him outside of class, but he seemed smart, reasonable, and kind. I had no phone number for him, but I called the lab, where I knew he often worked late, and I asked if he could come over right away. I must have sounded hysterical. I gave him directions.
When he arrived, I told him what had just happened and said I wanted to call the police. He convinced me not to do so. He said – what else? – that it was a “he said-she said” situation, and that the police probably wouldn’t believe me because I had opened the door to let Dave in. And I hadn’t been raped.
Confusion. Rage. Shame. How had I missed observing this potential danger? Why was my judgment that bad? I knew that Dave would likely pass his pre-med requirements and go on to become a practicing physician. What might he do to some female patient when he got her alone, a woman who trusted him to examine and treat her? More immediately, how would the university authorities deal with him? And what would he say or do to avoid the consequences?
My instructor friend convinced me to keep this to myself and go back to studying. He said the ordeal the police would put me through wasn’t worth it. And my organic chem exam was the next day.
After he left, I cried, but not much. I slept not a wink that night. I tried to focus on the formulae and characteristics of the substances we’d studied, but it was impossible to concentrate. By morning, exhausted, embarrassed, and wretched, I realized I couldn’t possibly take the exam. I approached my chemistry professor and pleaded for a few more days to study, but I couldn’t tell him why. I was given an additional two days.
The event affected me not just that night and the next morning, but for the rest of my life. Eventually I took and passed the exam, but barely; and I knew the schools to which I had applied wouldn’t admit me with a low grade in that course, because the composition of many medications included organic compounds. Always an honor student, I was also ashamed of having that grade on my record. My plans crumbled. I was a mess. Course by course, I lost interest. I got my lowest grade ever, in genetics, but I was numb.
Bad enough, yes? But the situation wasn’t over. It wasn’t over for months.
For the rest of the term, Dave stalked me. I would glance at the door to the chemistry lab, and he would be standing there watching me through its window. I told my lab instructor each time I saw him there, but Dave would disappear by the time my friend went out into the hall to confront him. I would sit on the grass in the spring sunshine to study near the life sciences building, but, feeling uncomfortable for some reason, I often looked up from my books to find him standing not far away. Watching me.
I began to assess my surroundings all the time for vulnerabilities that would give him a chance to silence me permanently.
I developed a phobia about going out on the balcony of my apartment or even having the drapes open, for fear that he could access an apartment across the pool from mine and take aim from its balcony, where I would be an easy target if he wanted to shoot me. This was Texas, after all.
I started the rounds of interviews at medical schools around the state, but it was a half-hearted effort. It was no use. My confidence fell, my GPA was trashed, and none of the schools wanted to admit me in that shape.
By May all I wanted to do was to graduate and go. Get on with my life, figure out what to do next, and never see Dave again.
Fortunately, I had far more credits than necessary to get my bachelor’s degree. My Plan II advisor assured me that I could graduate if I wanted to, without completing any other courses. Any way to avoid being on campus sounded good to me.
Somewhere out there, I suppose Dave Small finished his pre-med work, went through medical school, and became a physician. I would never know if he attacked others, but I dwelled on it anyway.
I never told anyone else what had happened. Not my parents, not my husband. What was the point? Texas had no anti-stalking law. Nothing good could come of it. I would be even worse off if I spoke up.
I swallowed my rage and disappointment. Six years later, after my marriage to a sweet man ended, I entered law school instead. But I never forgot.
Oh, and here’s the kicker. Thirty years later, in a conversation with my next-door neighbor, I learned that she had had an experience that was so similar it was stunning.
She had been in a pre-dental school program when her stalker began to follow her. She not only dropped out of the program but also moved to another city to get away from him.
He followed her there. She reported him. Nothing happened. She moved again.
She’s married and lives in Houston now and works as an investigative reporter. But he’s found her again. He parks in front of her house and watches so that she can’t miss seeing him from her kitchen window. He leaves her notes telling her how much happier she would be if she were with him instead of her spouse.
Unlike me, she wasn’t silent, and she still isn’t. She’s called the local constable so often about him, though, that the constable’s staff has informed her the deputies will no longer respond to any call from her number. She knows they don’t believe her. They think she’s crazy. He’s always gone by the time they arrive.
It’s unfair… that one allegation, purported to be unsubstantiated, can ruin a man’s life. But how fair was it that my neighbor never became a dentist, and I never became a gynecologist? That my marriage failed, that I developed a years-long eating disorder, that my silence and guilt ate me up?
A Stanford University study says that only about two per cent of cases involving a woman’s report of a rape or sexual attack are determined to be false. Still, most women don’t report this kind of trauma, knowing what kind of response they are likely to get. No. These events remain buried, and their power to lacerate endures. The stories seem untellable and unending, specific to each but familiar to many. Ho-hum. Booor-ing.
The #MeToo movement may have started shifting society’s attitudes, but the narrative paradigm hasn’t yet changed to consider how the happy conclusion may not really be the story’s end.
Oh, yes. The President says, “If it was that bad, charges would have been filed immediately….” Nearly forty years ago, on the word of a 15-year-old girl?
Pardon my prejudice. I believe it’s well-earned.
PLANNING A NOVEL VS. SUNDAY BREAKFAST
By Laura Elvebak
Sunday breakfast at my house has become a tradition that my adult son and I anticipate at the end of each week. It has taken me a long time to realize how to perfect my method. One Sunday morning as I put together the ingredients, bought in advance, I compared meal preparation to writing.
Our Sunday morning menu is always the same, even though our meals are different. We each have varying tastes and appetites. The two separate meals have to be ready at the same time. Just as in writing, the motivations and actions of two opposing characters will end at the same time, but with their own separate results.
Both of our Sunday breakfasts involve eggs and meat. He gets six eggs scrambled with diced red onion and red and green peppers, and a third of a Jimmy Dean regular sausage roll. He folds this mixture in four flour tortillas, with a bacon strip thrown in. For his beverage, he drinks sweet tea.
My meal consists of three eggs scrambled with the diced onion and pepper mixture, with added mild shredded cheddar cheese. Plus, two bacon strips and two slices of rye toast on the side. And, of course, coffee.
The trick is to get all this cooked and ready at the same time. Like writing, you want to present a variety of flavors to the reader—dialogue, description, action, etc. This is where organization, timing and preparation are critical. First I make the coffee. Then I make sure all the ingredients are on the counter for easy access, and so I don’t forget to add them. The frying pans are lightly sprayed with oil. The rye bread goes into the toaster to be toasted at the last minute. Four tortillas are ready on a plate while the pan is pre-heating. A mixing bowl, a whisk, a cutting board and a carton of eggs are nearby.
The sausage and bacon are cooked in separate frying pans. While the meats are cooking, I chop and dice the red onion and peppers on the cutting board. Six eggs go into the mixing bowl and are whipped with most of the diced vegetables. These ingredients get added to the pan of cooked sausage.
Meanwhile, the bacon strips must be regularly turned so they don’t burn, but still get crisp. While they cook, I scramble three eggs with the whisk and add the remaining vegetables. When the bacon is done, the strips are put on paper towels to drain. (Like editing, this leaves the bacon crisp without all the unnecessary and unwanted grease.) The bacon grease is then poured into a jar to be set aside and the egg mixture is added to the pan to be lightly scrambled. At the last minute I add the cheddar cheese. The lever is pushed on the toaster.
By this time, the six-egg mixture has been stirred regularly under low heat so they turn out soft-scrambled, not hard and tasteless. They are emptied onto a plate. The tortillas are heated separately in their own pan and placed on top of the scrambled eggs to keep them warm. Four crispy bacon slices go on top.
The three scrambled eggs are poured onto another plate. The toast is lightly buttered, coffee is poured. The sweet tea is iced.
The meal is served.
Compare that to writing your novel. The ingredients you need to have in the beginning are the characters – their differences, motivations, beliefs, strengths and weaknesses, and their goals. Also the setting and the time period. This is not necessarily a fixed outline, although it could be. But these are the ingredients you need while you plot and before the story takes shape. A blank page is like an empty plate. You can stare at it forever, hoping it will one day satisfy you. But like every good meal, it needs a variety of ingredients to add flavor and spice to the meat of the work. Then mix it all and let it cook, until your book, like your meal, ends up at the right time and place.
The Writer’s Toolbox
Timeline: A Writer’s Best Friend
Every writer develops stories in different ways. Some outline, some write from scratch. Some let the characters develop, and the plot emerge as they write. Others might draft three or four chapters before they decide it’s time to step back and determine the flow of the story. I’ve tried all of the above and other approaches too, but always come back to, and finally settle on, outlining.
In a perfect world, my ideal story will be mapped out with all questions and issues resolved before I write the draft.
Regardless of your approach, you will need to validate the events in the lives of your characters. Your main characters have background events that may or may not be included in the final version. These events are important, regardless of inclusion. You want to ensure, for example, that your antagonist (let’s say he or she is a serial killer) was in a certain location at a certain time when he or she claimed their first victim. You also want to make sure he or she was not six months old at the time of the murder.
Adding a timeline at some point in your story’s development can be most useful as part of the writing process. What you use to create a timeline is a matter of choice.
I’ve used a Word document in the standard outline form and Post-It notes on a whiteboard, but a template I created (and am continually “tweaking”) in Excel has proven its worth and stood the test of time. If you Google the phrase, ‘Timeline in Excel,’ you’ll find more examples than you’ll know what to do with. The truth is, figuring out which one best fits might be the greatest challenge.
I hope to spare you that research time.
I’m a proponent of providing examples because I believe giving advice without suggesting how to implement that advice falls well short of being effective. It’s like your doctor telling you to lose weight before sending you on your way without recommending the best approach.
For the moment and the sake of this blog, consider me a caring doctor.
Here is my “prescription” – the columns in my timeline template:
- Event Month
- Event Day
- Event Year
- Time of Day (Estimate)
- Time of Day (Precise)
- Event Character
- Event Character Birthdate
- Event Character Age
- Details (a short summary of the event)
- Event Location
- When does the event become known?
- Notes (a free form column to expound on event details, ask questions, or brainstorm
If you’ve used Excel, you’re likely aware of its flexibility and power. Using drop-down lists, tables, and calculations, I’ve saved considerable time by filling in the columns in my template.
For instance, I created a character table in a separate sheet and use a drop-down to select the Event Character. This keeps me from having to refer to a separate source of characters. I use drop-down lists to select Event Month, Day, and Year.
You’ll notice I listed two Time of Day columns. In the Estimate column, I use a drop down list of 24 values corresponding to the hours of the day. This is a ball park time for when the event might occur. In the Precise column I enter the actual time the event occurred, because multiple events are likely to occur within a given hour and it’s essential to list them chronologically. Are both necessary? Perhaps, perhaps not, but to each his own, and in the words of actor Fred Dryer who starred in the TV series, Hunter, “works for me.” I’m probably dating myself but you get what I mean.
The character name table includes birthdate, which allows me to set up the calculated column to show the character’s age at the time of an event. This allows me to verify that the CEO of a company is not four years old, for example.
Before I progress too far into the story development phase, I like to create a drop down list for my scenes or chapters. This allows me to select from the list to enter it into the column showing at what point in the story the event become known. For instance, the event date and time our serial killer won’t become known until later in the story, after the protagonist investigates (and hopefully finds and stops the dude).
The Data –> Filter tool in Excel is a powerful and valuable assistant.
Once I fill in as much of the timeline sheet as I can, I can select a certain value or values from the column and display them.
- Filter by character to track the events in their life.
- Filter by date to see what events occurred on that date.
- Filter by scene or chapter to isolate the events that will become known at that time, which allows me to start drafting that particular scene or chapter.
- Validate that my character’s age jibes with the event, and check the time to ensure the facts of the story are presented at the appropriate points; . . . all at the touch of a button!
Another benefit to this timeline manifests itself during the brainstorming phase. By filtering on an event for a certain character, I can create previous and/or subsequent events for any character I believe will contribute to the plot. This determines the flow of the story.
For example, I might have an event, ‘John discovers a dead body.’ From this I can brainstorm and create previous and subsequent events for John as well as other characters. Who is the person? Who killed him or her? How did the body get there? When was the person killed? Did anyone witness the murder? Placing characters in a location and time will help to determine hints, clues, and witnesses.
I find using the timeline approach to be more fun than, and almost as creative as writing the actual story.
Isn’t it “time” for your timeline?
Fine Tuning POV through Choosing a Perspective
One way to increase the power of your fiction is to limit the point of view (POV) by adopting a specific perspective. Seeing the action through the lens of a particular character can add emotional depth and immediacy that might otherwise be lacking. Or it can increase the distance between the reader and the action. Choosing a perspective can alter the theme of a story, turning tragedy into comedy or the commonplace into mythology.
Perspective is technically a slightly different concept than point of view. POV is about choosing first person, second person, third person limited, or third person omniscient. Skilled authors can play with these, say by switching between these points of view in alternate chapters. But if you choose anything other than the omniscient POV another choice immediately presents itself: to whom do we limit the perspective?
Try to imagine To Kill a Mockingbird told by Atticus Finch. It would be exceedingly difficult to achieve Harper Lee’s objectives from Atticus’ perspective. For one thing, it would be difficult for him to adequately portray his own heroism and nobility without seeming to be vainglorious. The novel’s satirical and critical examinations of the systemic racism, injustice, and seemingly arbitrary customs of a tradition-bound Southern town works best from the perspective of six-year-old Scout who questions everything.
Often the central character of a story is complex, mysterious, driven by atypical and powerful forces. He is as different from the common reader as possible. Even partially unravelling the central character’s mystery and personality will take an entire book of observations made by a far less complex everyman character with whom the reader can identify. To understand Sherlock Holmes, we need the bridge character of Watson. To understand Doctor Who we need his Companions. To come to grips with the grand movements and machinations of Middle Earth—the awesome battles, the mystical plots, and the ironic twists of fate—we need witnesses who are closer to our own level. We need Hobbits. And if a Hobbit like Frodo becomes heroic and larger than life, we need a further step away to the perspective of the pragmatic Samwise Gamgee. Mythopoeic writing needs a surrogate for the reader who can bear witness to the awesome. The bridge identifier perspective becomes the paper and pinhole by which we can “see” the too bright Sun.
Tragedy is a particular form of mythopoeic writing that benefits from the offset perspective of a bridging identifier. We need Nick Carraway, the narrator of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, to witness for us the unfolding tragedy. Nick gives us an objectifying distance. We who are incapable of being participants in the tragedy, being too cynical or too dispassionate, or just not capable of loving so strongly, have our function: to bear witness and to be appalled. Jay and Daisy are too swept up in the forces leading them to disaster to evaluate what is going on.
But perspective is a versatile tool. Sometimes we want the opposite effect, to bring us closer to what was originally myth, to make it more personal, as with John Gardner’s Grendel. The Beowulf myth told from the monster’s point of view allows Gardner to explore the nature of myth and storytelling from the inside out. In Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal, Christopher Moore tells the missing thirty years of Jesus’ life through the caustic wit of Jesus’ horny, pragmatic, but fiercely loyal friend, Biff. Humanizing the myth allows Moore to humorously explore the nature of our relationship with the divine while making issues of sacrifice, friendship, and loyalty all the more poignant.
Another good example of choosing perspective for comedic effect is Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard. It is Shakespeare’s Hamlet as seen through the perspective of two minor characters. As the main characters of Hamlet leave the stage, our characters emerge to give their unique take on the drama they inhabit, a drama they come to suspect is designed for their destruction. Just as Hamlet uses metatheatre to further his quest for vengeance, Stoppard uses metatheatre to comment on how everyday folk become disposable pawns in the arbitrary and senseless conflicts of their “betters,” in just the way that writers invent and cruelly use characters for their own artistic purposes.
Perspective can be used to allow us into the minds of characters very different from ourselves so that we can gain insight into their own unique forms of despair, triumph, and heroism. In The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night, Mark Haddon allows us to vicariously identify with an autistic narrator trying to cope with a mystery despite a vastly different way of perceiving and interacting with the world around him. In Flowers for Algernon, Daniel Keyes allows us to experience the world from the perspective of a mentally challenged man who is given an experimental procedure that vastly boosts his IQ. He then makes us feel the tragedy of realizing that the effects are only temporary.
As a writer we must choose the POV and perspective that allows us to convey what we want as effectively as possible. Sometimes this means shifting the perspective away from the center of our tale to someone more peripheral and with whom the reader may more easily identify. Sometimes it means thrusting the reader into a perspective that he is uncomfortable occupying or that stretches his imagination around different ways of thinking and perceiving. If the story you are trying to tell is not working, consider a change of perspective. There may be some character at the edges of your story who will bring the whole drama into just the right focus.
An editorial in the Houston Chronicle on March 23, 2018 described the conditions that female (and only female) firefighters in Houston have endured over the years. Career professionals are being harassed like this: male firefighters have taped fireworks on the inside of a toilet in the women’s bathroom; they have spit tobacco juice in the drawers of women’s desks; they have disconnected the speakers in the women’s dorm so that the woman on duty misses emergency runs; they have sprayed urine around the dormitory on the walls, sinks, mirrors, carpeting, and countertops.
This set of facts could be the background for an interview of the aggrieved or the HFD, or both, if a journalist wanted to get at the truth. (Though these behaviors seem so juvenile, they wouldn’t warrant much attention from journalists until the reaction of higher-ups and multiple lawsuits made the news.)
To a writer of fiction, as repulsive as this behavior is, it brings up several interesting questions: How bad is your villain? Can he or she carry the story? Does this story have emotional strength and compelling action because the hero has no choice but to deal with the villain? Have you created a worthy opponent for your hero?
The villain you choose for your story may be one evil individual or a group of people who act in common with evil intent. That character gives your readers the opportunity to observe and experience transformation as the story moves through conflict to resolution.
Villains sometimes exhibit unusual attributes that mask their intentions, so that a murderer may sing while he stalks, and a kidnapper may pat the hand of the child he snatches and may even try to amuse her. This does not diminish the reality that the villain is evil through and through, even if positive attributes show up and the villain takes pains to seem charming and benign. Inferences about a person’s motives are usually based on observed behavior, but with an evil character, the observations of others can be manipulated to hide malevolence if the villain is very clever.
From one culture to another, what is “bad” can change in type and degree. “Evil” behavior in one religion is acceptable in others. Context is important: who is making the judgment, against whom, can be determinative of the degree of “bad” the audience expects. For example, in the thriller Se7en the villain will never feel shame or remorse; he thinks he’s doing the world a service.
What is called “bad” also depends on the time and place. In modern countries of the Far East, it’s still forbidden to leave home without wearing underwear. One who does so is hardly a monster that will hold the attention of the audience, though; readers want to be taken on a journey with real challenges. In the U.S. in the ‘40s and ‘50s, women who smoked, wore pants, or spoke their minds were considered scandalous, but today they aren’t out of the ordinary at all.
There are plenty of examples in literature of men (not usually women) who lead a life without moral sensibilities, not restrained by even the most basic rules of society if a rule gets in their way. Shakespeare’s villains have set the standard, and we easily think of Richard III, Cornwall, Cassius, and Iago as being utterly without scruples. Their perspectives and arguments are sometimes slow to emerge but they are prize roles for actors and beloved of audiences everywhere for the evil they try to do and the tension their actions create.
Contemporary villains whose context is part of what makes them distinctive include Norman Bates, Hannibal Lecter, Lord Voldemort, Annie Wilkes, and Nurse Ratched, all of whom come across as profoundly malevolent. A reader can predict bad behavior from such characters, but when their intent is revealed, the depths of degradation associated with them may still surprise. They usually attempt to live a life that looks ordinary to outsiders, keeping their real feelings and plans secret except to their victims, but they are completely aware of the immoral choices they make. They find them justifiable, if not commendable.
These short lists of exceptionally bad people offer clues on how to construct the villains in our work. First, writers can have confidence that they need not restrain themselves: audiences everywhere love to see the schemes and plots and murders and betrayals that villains bring to the story; so while the evil-doer may not be the character with whom the audience identifies, he or she could be the most intriguing person in the story—morbidly fascinating.
TV audiences of a certain age may not remember all the beautiful women who breezed through South Fork, but they will never forget J.R. Ewing. “Who shot J.R.?” was an icebreaker for months, and the mystery brought in an even bigger audience to Dallas at the start of the next season, to see what the answer was.
J.R. is also an example of a second observation: it’s clear that these characters are evil, through and through, and always. If they smile, they are calculating how to defeat others who stand in the way of their objectives. If they show a weaker, more vulnerable side, it’s more likely to be a play for time or a trap than a sincere invitation to relate. They see other people only as obstacles to their success or as tools to be used. To survive them, others must never let their guard down or get in their debt.
There’s a third similarity among the best-known villains in literature: they positively enjoy their status in life. They plan to win at all costs, especially if it means destroying order and structure and predictability.
So how do we pick what kind of villain we want for our story? First, we analyze the primary conflict. What is the basic story we want to tell? If there’s already a theme, an argument to examine that the characters will debate among themselves, then the protagonist may take one side and the antagonist the other. But one antagonist may not be enough to show all the ways a belief or value will fail. To satisfy the reader’s rational engagement with the story, it’s important to show the reason every plan won’t work, by coming up against people who are not the main, evil one. If these issues are not addressed, the reader may go off on a rabbit trail wondering why the hero didn’t try X, when it seems so obvious. A plan’s failure is frequently because the hero underestimated the villain or the opposition from others, or had bad information that was taken as true. It’s only after every conceivable ploy has been considered and tried, but failed, that the main character will have to confront the source of evil in his world and come up with something new (to him or her), or die.
Finally, a villain may lie within the main character himself. That Shadow may be what prevents the character from maturing, and what slows or stops the hero’s progress along the story arc. One such character is Hamlet, endlessly debating what to do and finding excuses not to murder the King after deciding he should.
A writer’s own Shadow side sometimes emerges in retrospect, if all his stories seem to expose the same private struggle, coming at it repeatedly and from all sides. A character’s internal conflict can be the central problem in the story, or in a subplot, and sometimes both.
A story that features monsters, demons, and seductive evil can get readers to explore and redeem the darkness inside themselves. It may actually protect an individual if taken as a defense mechanism. Deathbed conversions are familiar, where an evil character finally asks for forgiveness. Evil can also trigger destruction, which can have a positive effect in the long run. Struggles over conflicting ideas can be the most injurious to a society; and an embodiment of evil can be used to illustrate the superior power of a belief and the futility of hoping to eradicate it.
A balance of inner and outer obstacles can create a fascinating story, helping readers and audiences see that our natural impulses toward indulgence of Self can justify sacrifice or demands.
A last thought in passing: it’s important to align your characters’ outer obstacles with their inner flaws. Use a sliding scale with extremes at each end, then work your characters along it, from evil to good, or from wounded to healing. If a character clearly finds evil attractive, it often begins with very small steps, starting with curiosity, moving to fascination, then to endorsement, and ultimately to happiness or sorrow at carrying out evil acts.
I worked in an art studio for almost a decade, a haven for creativity, wisdom, and expression. We exchanged profound words over coffee as we took a moment to distance ourselves from the canvas. And now, with some modification, I apply my teacher’s wisdom to writing.
- “Learn what you love to paint write, because if you create it and others love it, you will be painting writing the same style for the rest of your life.”
- “Paint Write every day. There is no day off when you choose an artistic field.”
- “Even if the brush isn’t on the canvas you aren’t writing, everything you view will become to be broken down into shapes and color story fodder.”
- “A child, when taught piano, is given old masters to learn from before s/he is expected to understand techniques and compose on his/her own. A painter writer is given a brush and a canvas pencil and paper. Their teachers fear squashing their creativity, and end up hobbling them.”
I learned my painting had no voice. I could recreate others’ ideas, but composition lay beyond my grasp. Then I found writing. And my voice.
When you go to a gallery and see a Renoir, you can identify it, as easily as Sinatra on the radio. Likewise, you expect a certain language, genre, and tone when you pick up a book by Shakespeare or Agatha Christie. In the arts, most beginners are given basic rules and tools with little instruction on how to create outcomes in a misguided attempt to prevent crippling creativity that often becomes a shackle to growth.
We have a voice. Our goal as writers is to uncover our best voice and share it with others through our writing.
Other art fields are good examples of how to hone our own unique voice. Music education stands out from the others on how musicians and composers are trained to find their voice. They have a process to follow in order to compose, however there are exceptions. Teachers do not expect 5-year-olds to sit down and create masterworks (though many may dream of finding Mozart). They show their students how to evoke emotions with techniques and tools.
Voice, piano, or oboe, all musicians must be familiar with their tools and aware of when they need to be maintained or updated. The same holds true for artists, who should stay knowledgeable regarding their canvases, brushes, and mediums available.
Writing tools are in an era of transition. We no longer sit and write by candlelight with a sharpened quill pen and inkwell. Vocal software allows you to speak your words onto the page. Scrivener is one of many new writing software programs that help format your words for certain sales venues and can help organize your books by scenes. There is an ever-expanding need for knowledge of social media for a writer’s platform, and methods of honing your craft. There are blogs devoted to writers’ tools. A few posts to get you started:
Like a clarinet player with a cracked reed, don’t focus on the search for a new tool. Know where to look, fix the issue, and then move on. Educate yourself, but don’t let it take time away from creation or creativity.
The devil is in the details. Those little dots and lines of black tell the musician when to play what note, for how long, and how loudly. The notations tell us what the music is supposed to evoke and separate the choppy from languid.
Writers have their own theories. We call them grammar and the rules of writing. Two of the most famous references for these are The Elements of Style and The Chicago Manual of Style. Of course, we can play with and push these boundaries – after we understand what we are breaking, why, and to what effect, just as music students can push the boundaries at competitions. They may play beautifully, but how they push those boundaries will determine if the audience and judges think they are masters making the music their own – or just sloppy. It’s a tricky dance, in rhythm or grammar. If your critique group thinks it’s a typo, your audience probably will as well.
Play the Masters
Teachers make musicians play Beethoven, Chopin, Bach. They slip them some Gershwin, John Williams, and Guns N’ Roses. They expose their students to composers, to learn and expand their repertoire. As writers, we do this through reading. Read quality literature often.
As an exploration, I challenge you to write practice sentences, paragraphs, or short stories in the style of your favorite greats. Then review.
- Who was the easiest to mimic? Tolkien? Twain? Woolf? Dickens? Hemingway?
- Who was the most comfortable? Why?
- What made you uncomfortable?
- Was a specific genre and voice painfully hard to write?
- Is there a genre you are drawn to read?
- What were the most powerful moments in your favorite books?
- Did your writing bring those same feelings to the fore? Why or why not?
- What image and style do you want to pass on to your audience?
- What kind of word, grammar, plot, and character choices will make that happen?
Short exercises show how, why, and when the Masters used the words they did to evoke images and emotion and may lead to the style that will define you to your readers.
Write frequently, strive for improvement, and you will find your voice along the journey.
The credit for the terms pantser and plotter traditionally goes to NaNoWriMo or National Novel Writing Month (which, incidentally, can be pronounced either Na-No-Wree-Mo, or Na-No-Rye-Mo). Pantsers write by the seat of their pants, as if by magic, while Plotters plan every detail and can’t write a word without an outline. Serious writers usually know who they are—pantser or plotter. It’s like knowing which political party you belong to. Well, the Snowflake Method is for undecideds, who kinda/sorta do a little of both and usually end up with a mess.
Donald Maass in The Fire in Fiction says “a method that’s mysterious cannot be repeated.” He agrees that every novel can be inspired, but he draws the line at a brilliant flash of insight that last four hundred pages. If he’s right, then, being a dedicated pantser, I’m in big trouble.
All of which leads me to How to Write a Novel Using the Snowflake Method. I reached an impasse with Book Two of a trilogy, which does NOT lend itself to my usual freefall, come-what-may style of writing. Plotting an outline was out of the question—I equate it to writing with manacles on my wrists. Then I heard about an alternative method of writing proposed by Randy Ingermanson. Aside from being one hysterically funny read, his book offers a step-by-step guide to truly rev up writers who find themselves in between styles and generally stuck. It came highly recommended by a close friend who exhausted nearly every method out there, over a period of two years, and swears this one works.
The book begins in third person, with Goldilocks searching for a way to write her novel. She attends Papa Bear’s conference for pantsers and Mama Bear’s workshop for plotters, and finds true happiness at Baby Bear’s class for other-thans. Trust me, it’s the only how-to-write book that made me laugh out loud the whole way through. But, I digress.
Since Goldilocks already has an idea for her novel, Baby Bear begins with the basics, like what the story’s about, what genre it’s in, and who’s the target audience. From these three questions, Baby Bear helps Goldilocks develop a marketing plan with her target audience already in mind—before she starts to write.
Then, with the help of the rest of the class—can you say Three Little Pigs?—Goldilocks learns how to summarize her book, with concrete description and plot, into one 35-word sentence: “This is a romantic suspense novel about a woman in Nazi-occupied France who falls in love with an injured American saboteur who wants to blow up a key ammunition depot at Normandy just before D-Day.” By forcing Goldilocks to think it through aloud, Baby Bear leaves her with a focused plot for her novel.
By now, you probably want to know why it’s called The Snowflake Method, how the paradigm works, and what it looks like, right? The shape begins with two triangles superimposed on each other and ends up like…a snowflake. It can be as simple or as elaborate as you need, adding layer on top of layer, a paragraph at a time, until so much of your novel is laid out, it’s no longer a daunting task. Baby Bear leads Goldilocks through settings, disasters, characters, decisions, names, goals, and more, all interwoven into the pattern until the paragraphs equal a page, and you’re on your way. Each step is explained in detail, all while Goldilocks helps solve a classroom mystery concerning Big Bad Wolf. Have I mentioned it’s one hysterically funny read?
Time doesn’t permit more than I’ve already divulged, but if you think this method might be the one for you, check out https://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/articles/snowflake-method for more in-depth information. Ingermanson calls his Snowflake Method “a battle-tested series of ten steps that jumpstart your creativity and help you quickly map out your story.” Like me, you may find that, as in all things Baby-Bear, it’s just right.
Note: Caden St. Claire will present “The Snowflake Method of Writing” at our April 7th meeting! For details, please refer to the Meetings page.