Maintaining Focus With Big Stories

For those expecting something about New Year's resolutions, what to do going into 2025, or some other thing about the changing of the calendar, you're in for a disappointment. (If you really need some writing advice for the New Year, I recommend my "Writing Resolutions for 2023" post, which should quench your thirst.) I am actually going to talk about what not to write about when you get a big story in mind.

For those who do not know, today marks the 121st anniversary of the Iroquois Theater fire, a disaster here in Chicago that took over 600 lives (including two of my great-aunts) and set into motion massive regulatory changes for public buildings. While this tragedy has been overlooked as the years have gone by (the location is now the Nederlander Theater, once also known as the Oriental Theater), it's still an incredible study into how buildings worked and failed back at the turn of the 20th century, the state of Chicago politics, the collision of errors that brought about such a horrible event, and why people are reluctant to refer to a new place as "absolutely fireproof."

Looking back, any one of these subjects could be fertile grounds for an entire story. Simply telling the story from the perspectives of my great-aunts, Edythe and Ella, and speculating as to their experience, could be an amazing piece of work. However, the big mistake writers often sweep themselves into is trying to include as much as possible in the story. At this point, such a dramatic event actually loses some of its drama and drifts toward becoming a news story. As tempting as it might be to do a full dive into researching everything about the fire then pouring it into a story, you aren't doing the readers any favors.

As I mentioned, the number of problems were legion. The fireproof safety curtain used to drop between the stage and the crowd was not actually fireproof, and it got stuck anyway when they tried to use it. The fire extinguishers meant to put out fires with stage lighting were useless in fighting fires on the curtains or up in the rigging, which allowed things to spread real fast. The fire escapes were problematic, many safety doors were locked and difficult to open, and the narrow exits became choke points when people tried to leave in large numbers. Oh - and there were over 2,000 people in a theater able to seat 1,600, so there was that as well. All these are important facts, but do they belong in the story?

Going back to my great-aunts, how much of that would be known by Edythe and Ella? Would they have known that the backstage exits (which actually worked) caused a fiery backdraft to feed the fire on the stage? Did they know how many fire codes had been overlooked or shrugged off when the "absolutely fireproof" theater opened to great fanfare just six weeks earlier? Or were they two young women (23 and 17, respectively) excited to see Eddie Foy onstage, only to be swept up in the horrors when the high curtains caught fire and flames swept across the upper gallery? If I was ever to write a story of their experiences, I would focus on what they felt, what they likely saw, and keep it as a witness to terror. And given how many of those victims were trampled, crushed, or asphyxiated, I would probably not speculate into how my great-aunts actually died. (Those details are deep in the archives and might be best to stay there.)

Big events demand big stories, but they also demand tight focus to do the story justice. If you take on such a task, tell a specific story, from a specific perspective, and keep the reader in that zone of intense focus. Other stories can look at other angles, but containing the experience will also intensify it.

Happy New Year...                

More About, "A Dark and Stormy Night"

I know I have discussed certain aspects of this infamous story opening before, but I really want to dive into a couple of very specific points. There are many angles of attack to choose from, and there is even a reason to defend this generally poor first line, but this time I have a purpose other than to once again disturb the spirit of Edward Bulwer-Lytton. So if you will indulge me for a moment, maybe we can salvage some perspective from this otherwise forgettable bit of verse.

For those who do not know the full story here, Edward Bulwer-Lytton is responsible for opening his book, Paul Clifford, with the line, "It was a dark and stormy night..." which has become synonymous with wordy, ornate, sprawling and excessive description, or "purple prose" as the kids call it these days. This was back when authors often wrote very expansively (many were paid by the word), and went on about things that had little relevance to the story (sometimes because it padded the word count). However, that's not what I will be discussing.

My point comes from something that came up in a writer discussion. Someone noted that as an opening book line, it does create an image, a mood. It does set the stage in a very visual way, offering the reader an immediate gaze upon the setting. Well, that's fine... for a screenplay to a movie. Think of how many movies that have opened on the stormy night in downtown wherever, traffic splashing through the shadowy streets while the title and opening credits appear. There's a lot of mood-setting there, mostly because the actors and director need their names up front. In that environment, let there be weather, wind, mood and music. It's a movie.

In writing, however, the reader needs to know why they are there. Mood is fine, but the reader isn't going to spend the first few pages settling in, setting up the popcorn, and waiting for the story to start. The story needs to claim the reader very quickly and place them into the mind and body of its character. Sure, mood is important, but it is more important that in writing, the lighting, weather, sounds and sights are things shown as character experiences, not just environmental variables or mood placers. The dark and stormy night can mean many different things depending on whether the character is running across the street, looking outside from their hotel room, or trying to stay warm and dry in an alley for the night. The storm only matters as it relates to the character.

If I spend my time writing about this dark and stormy night (and what night isn't dark?), it creates environment but I am still lacking the meat of the story, which is the character. Let's say I write a paragraph of the storm rolling through the streets. I then go to the character, who is sitting at a bar, listening to the storm and tending to his gin and tonic. The reader's interest goes to the character, and the storm feels incidental, even useless. However, let's instead start with the character, sipping their drink and listening to the storm outside. Now that storm makes a difference because our character can respond to it in some manner - happy to not be out in it, not looking forward to going outside, worried about other people getting drenched, etc. The storm and the character have intersected into an actual moment that informs us about the scene, surroundings, and character all at once.

So, with full respect to the Right Honorable Lord Lytton, your infamous sentence will serve as a great object lesson for generations of writers to come. But of the many phrases you coined in your years, this will not, however, be a great example of your wordsmithing. Just be happy people will still pick up your book hundreds of years later just to see those seven words.              

Political Correctness vs. Accuracy

I could not think of anything more appropriate for the holiday season than a good, robust discussion about political correctness. (Full disclosure: literally anything would be better, but work with me on this.) It seems that not a day goes by during this time when someone points out some detail about Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa and starts a big argument during this season of peace. Of course, it's all done in the name of being more understanding, so people go with it. As writers, however, how far do we need to go with it? More importantly, do we need to care about it at all?

Let's take my old standby for an example: A guy named Tom. Tom is a white, thirty-something Chicagoan with a suburban upbringing, a college education, a reasonable amount of street-smarts (and street-stupids as well), and a stubborn streak. Now, if I write a piece about Tom's attendance at his company's Christmas party, how politically correct do I have to be to make the reader understand Tom?

Well, let's offer some background pieces. Most companies that try to be "with the times" no longer call it a Christmas party but rather their "holiday" party in order to be inclusive. This is a gesture to political correctness and religious diversity, and as a writer I might feel compelled to change "Christmas" to "holiday" in order to satisfy that audience. However, I have options since, after all I am the writer, and I do control the world.

Now, if I want Tom's company to come off as traditional to the point of old-fashioned, then you know it's going to be a Christmas party replete with helpers decked out as elves, some mock reindeer, and someone in upper management dressed as Santa Claus. That's the way the company's done it for generations, and they'll be damned if anyone is going to stop such a good thing. A more progressive company might have the holiday party instead, with very sterilized holiday symbols such as snow, snow-people, and "Happy Holidays" signs in a very gender-neutral font. It's very politically correct, which would match that kind of company.

But let's talk about Tom. I know Tom very well. I know his ins and outs, his preferences, and how he would respond to anything. I know that he doesn't want to downplay any holiday or belittle any group but dammit, this is Christmas. December 25th every year. It's the foundation of our economy, and it's existed in this country since the pilgrims first arrived. (He's actually wrong about that last part, but hey, that's Tom.) As a writer, we have to be true to our characters, and understand that our readers might be put off by such attitudes. If we are worried that the reader will lose interest, we can always have Tom engage with a pro-holiday person and flesh out Tom's ideas so the reader understands them and can be sympathetic, even if they don't fully agree with the position. The important part is that the character remains consistent. We reserve a character changing their opinions or positions for the main arc of the story, because ultimately that is their growth arc. If the character is inconsistent, that loses the reader every time.

So when it comes to trying to be "correct" and "proper" about things, just keep a few things in mind. Some people swear, and some readers won't like it. Some people are abrasive, some have bad habits, annoying qualities, and stubbornness that gets in the way of growth. Plenty of people, places, and things are far from PC, and that's okay. If you are worried about these things turning off your readers, then offer context so the reader can at least see where they're coming from. It doesn't fix anything, but it gives you a chance to explain their side.

And of course, cover all bases when you can. And on that note, have a Merry Christmas, a Happy Hanukkah, a festive Kwanzaa, and have a good time during all the other holidays I clearly overlooked.       

Take A New Look at Things

As the end of the year approaches, I go through a time-honored ritual: getting all my medical stuff out of the way before the new year and deductible kick in. So yes, I have all kinds of doctor appointments to entertain me through these last days of December, including my eye check-up. Frankly, I probably didn't need it - my sight is fairly stable and I could've just renewed my contacts prescription. However, I was getting all that stuff out of the way, so why not my eyes as well?

Here's the fun part. After spending one day in a very blurry, dilated-eyes kind of place, I got to try on my new contacts. Wow! I didn't quite realize how sharp and crisp the edges of things were until the new pair went in. Now, it's like a whole new world has opened up before me. Tree branches actually have individual shape and texture, as opposed to being just the basic idea of a tree off in the distance without much definition. And clouds - well, let me tell you about clouds. It turns out they are quite detailed if you have a good prescription (or normal eyes). You just need to look at them closely.

Of course, this is where things turn toward writing. Any writer has their favorite thing to write about, their special stories they love to tell. My friends and I have a whole package of them: The soup-or-salad/Super Salad incident is one of my faves, as is the miscalculating of a tip at Red Lobster, mistaken identity at the pool hall, and any story about one of my epic car accidents. These stories stood the test of time, and they never fail to amuse. However, every now and then, I dig one out of the memory pit and give it a fresh look. Sometimes I see something new.  

I recently spent some time exploring one of those car accidents I mentioned. I have been in some bad ones, but I try not to live in the past and dwell on the stupidity of my actions when I was eighteen. After all, it's not like I can change anything, right? Well, as it turns out, when I revisited one of those stories, four decades later, I found it oddly discomforting. I even felt edgy, as if I was disturbing some evil spirits. This was the moment I realized that all my storytelling about that moment might have blurred out some of the details, washed out some of the facts, and just left the amusing story of a stupid teenager flipping a 1976 AMC Pacer. 

Looking back on that night with fresh eyes, the writer in me sensed the fear I felt that night. My personal terror of the crash dissociated me from the entire situation, and I "remembered" it mostly in a third-person view. Now that I could look at it again, it wasn't a very funny story at all. It was traumatizing. It left me in a state of shock. The injuries weren't horrible, but in a different sense, I carried the damage of that accident with me for years, just never looking at it with any clarity of vision. The gift of time, emotional distance, and personal healing let me face up to it eventually, but I realized there was an entirely different story that I now had to confront.

Time is a weird thing. Its passing can change things in our memory, and the world can seem very different - though it never actually changes. So, sometimes, give yourself a chance to look at things with fresh eyes, without the biases and beliefs you might've been dragging around for decades. With a new look, you might see things you've totally overlooked.        

The Curious Gift of A Broken Heart

The human heart is quite impressive when you think about it. For the entirety of your life it keeps on flexing, rhythmically pumping blood through your body while adjusting, as needed, to the body's demands. It never takes a break, never gets a timeout, only slowing down periodically before another day of full-time work. And yet, when people sing its praises, they connect it to all these emotion-things that somehow got tied into that blood-pumping dynamo that keeps you alive. Doctors might find this a bit of a snub, but writers know exactly why, so let's play around with that process piece for a bit.

When our heart speeds up, slows down, pumps stronger or weaker, we feel the effects throughout our body but also right there in our chest. These changes are put into motion by chemicals produced within our body, but we know what sets those chemicals going in the first place. All the emotional triggers we have, all those big and small feelings that course through us, they all help produce those chemicals that make us feel different all over - and we feel something in our chest as well. That's how the workhorse of our body became tied into love and joy instead of life flowing through us - merely by association. However, writers and other creatives saw the emotional connection and ran with it.

If someone with no knowledge of human physiology tried to learn about the body through poetry and expressive writing, they would come to the conclusion that the heart produced our emotions. After all, a heart can feel full or empty, it can overflow with every wonderful feeling, it can blacken and shrivel from a lack of use, and it can even harden into a cold, stony rock in our chest. Now, none of these things can actually happen, but when we feel such things, we identify with the emotions and that pain or exuberance just underneath our ribs. There's reason and purpose for this, and it is very much to our benefit to explore this - particularly as those feelings strengthen.

As anyone can tell by reading my past year of posts, I have had a lot of heartache this year. I have lost four inspirational people in my life in 2024, the most recent and by far most important being my mother. Would anyone be surprised if I said my chest hurts? Doubt it, although they might expect something more than just describing pain. At that point, I see why those metaphors have lived on over the years. A heart can overflow with joy, but when a heart gets broken, emotions just leak out through every crack, every fracture pouring feelings all over the place. To me, this is why people are such a wreck after experiencing heartbreak - their emotions are everywhere, untamed forces flooding into every part of their life. I feel that pain in my chest and in my mind's eye, I see wave after wave of love, joy, anger, and everything else just spilling out, unchecked, as they soak into every aspect of my existence.

And how is this a gift? Well, think about it. In its normal state, a heart doesn't leak anything. Everything is contained, it flows as expected, almost to the point where we no longer appreciate what a quiet little miracle it is. The same goes for emotions: How many times do we fight with our loved ones and not feel that love that fills us? We have all these feelings but we rarely tap into them - maybe because they are just that strong, that important. When a heart is broken, we hurt, but more to the point, we feel. We feel everything, possibly all at once, and feel it everywhere. Some things we don't even realize we felt until they spill out and we have to acknowledge them. It's brutal, it's painful, and it's honest because we feel things in their raw form. No filter, no containment, there it is all spilled out. 

If you go through an episode of a broken heart, give yourself a chance to feel more than just the pain. Embrace everything that comes out because at least you are feeling something. As overwhelming as it may be, you are living in the most human, most honest moment we can experience, and you will learn more about yourself in those times of pain than you ever will when everything is contained. Let that pain in your chest be a signal that you are growing.

(Unless it's a shooting pain that hurts your left shoulder as well. That might require a trip to the ER.)    

A Failure to Communicate

I was having a very enjoyable conversation with a friend recently when the subject drifted toward the art of communication. This is something that people very much take for granted, we discussed, but something they never really explore. The prime example came up with the discussion of those moments that seem to be the common denominator in all tense relationships: when there's a breakdown in communication.

We brought up the typical examples of how one person will do something, then expect the other person to derive a specific meaning from that action. The trouble begins when the second party doesn't actually pick up on that meaning, misinterprets it as something else, or otherwise fails to take in what is being put out by the other person. The tension then builds as these misunderstandings compound upon each other, one missed signal leading to another, and each party not really understanding why the other person isn't really responding to them because they are clearly saying something that the other one should know. Great for armchair discussions of why relationships fall apart, but also a significant warning for writers as well.

Usually, a good relationship consists of two parties who are able to express themselves to each other with complete understanding, and take in what the other person says. Now think of that relationship as it relates to a writer and their audience. This is one-directional - the writer puts out their message, builds upon those little cues and hints, and develops a greater discussion that the reader is supposed to ride along with. However, without any feedback, the writer never has any clue if what they are discussing is being taken in, understood, and accepted for exactly what it is supposed to mean. If a writer fails to do this, they lose the reader, and the reader is kind of the most important part of this relationship.

This is why it is so important for writers to get feedback when they are first learning the art of telling a story - particularly stories that are close to them. Feedback is a good check-in to make sure that when a writer pours their heart onto the page, they do it in such a way that the main points are appreciated, the connections are clear, and the stepwise development of the story is done in a way the reader can experience.

Is this really that hard? After all, when I tell a story about something I went through, how could it not be a proper, full explanation of the events? And as for fiction, if I know the story inside and out, then telling that story is a simple process, yes?

A-ha! That's when communication can break down. If I know a story inside and out, it's very easy for me to just assume certain factors. If I tell a story about a friend of mine and say he's always been mad about that time the damn cops arrested him back in 1990, then you get a sense of a person feeling victimized. However, I might have left out that he was caught looting after a disastrous tornado destroyed a nearby down, and those damn cops caught him walking down a destroyed street carrying a television he "found." That bit of information - one that I know by heart and often don't drag out whenever I mention him - is very important information because it really turns that victimization mindset on its ear. If I leave out that information, you might not understand why I learned to steer clear of that guy, and might feel that was a harsh response to someone already feeling victimized. With that information, my motives become much clearer.

With writing and relationships, a little check-in on the details can always go a long way, and feedback can play a big role in developing the art of using details to create the substance of a discussion. And as a side-note, if you are one of those people who loots places after disasters, maybe don't read this blog anymore.        

A Little Comment About Poetry

Don't be alarmed - this won't be a post discussing the fine art of writing poetry, or about meter, what a sonnet is, or how many words can be rhymed with "orange." Rather, This is just about what poems are and aren't, what they have to be or don't have to be, and what they can become even in the most simple ways. To do this, I will be bringing up a simple poem. No riddles here, no nature-based subtext, no describing a sunset across twenty lines. It's fairly straightforward, but yet it leaves a mark:

Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
I wish, I wish he'd go away... 

When I came home last night at three
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall
I couldn't see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don't you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don't slam the door... (slam!) 

Last night I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
Oh, how I wish he'd go away...  
-- Antigonish, William Hughes Marnes

This poem is presumably about an encounter with a ghost. However, it is a playful approach, never actually showing us a ghost nor ever intimating any detail other than that this ghost might be a small man. But throughout the poem, we sense confusion, bewilderment, and even surprise when the man who wasn't there supposedly slams the door. The narrator acknowledges the man isn't there, yet has no way to describe him other than to say that he "isn't." In the end, we get the narrator's sense of frustration and dread at the presence of this man, even though he is literally not there.

This is a poem merely because it rhymes, it presents an experience, and communicates a feeling about the world as sensed by the author. It isn't about nature, romance, flowers, longing, or any of the usual poetry tropes. If anything, it a poem/ghost story without conclusion, just the feeling someone might have if they discovered they lived in a haunted house (if you believe in those things).

I've had this poem going through my head for two days now. (Full disclosure: I originally thought it was by Ogden Nash.) Now what does that mean? Just like any piece of quality writing, the only thing it means or needs to mean is that it is good writing, and that's because it sticks. I don't need to agree with it, sympathize with it, or anything else. The poem found a place in me, and that's what good poems do.