Stories Can Turn With One Swing

I am not a big fan of boxing, nor do I follow it on a regular basis, but one of the best lessons I ever learned about writing actually came from one fight. I know a good story when I see it, and dissecting it reveals what makes it good storytelling. In this case, it's a good story turn - where the hero, facing insurmountable odds, every possible obstacle in their way, turns the tide and wins the day. That turn is critical to the entire story. If it isn't believable, if the writer doesn't sell it, the whole story is ruined.

The fight was the 1974 Ali-Foreman bout in Zaire - The Rumble in the Jungle. (Expertly discussed in the Academy-Award-winning documentary, When We Were Kings.) You don't need to know about boxing to understand why this story is such a great example. It's the story of Muhammad Ali, a boxer trying to reclaim the heavyweight title. However, the reigning champion is George Foreman, seven years younger and far stronger than Ali, with a reputation for utterly destroying his opponents. Ali was the underdog, with Vegas odds sharply against him. It's amazing that he won.

Or was it?

While everyone enjoys the underdog story, the victory needs to be for a reason the reader can buy into. If the underdog just wanted it more, do we buy that? Whatever the goal is, clearly everyone wants it. The reader has to feel the struggle, fear the inevitable defeat, and then buy into when the story turns.

In the Ali-Foreman fight, Ali started out aggressively, trying to use speed and dexterity to dance around Foreman's devastating punches. A nice start, but then Foreman stepped up and started showing why he was the champion. He cornered Ali so all that speed meant nothing. Ali made it through the first round, but we fear all his talent might not be enough.

When our story places the hero against the ultimate adversary, we just need a seed of hope to keep the reader excited. The story can beat up the hero for a while, but as long as that seed exists, the reader presses forward. The reader wants that victory as much as the hero does, and it's that bit of hope that gets them there.

In the second through fourth rounds, Foreman went after Ali. Ali gets pressed against the ropes all the time, Foreman swinging away but not landing any good shots. Ali was on defense, deflecting the swings then getting a jab or two at Foreman. Our underdog faced three times more punches than he threw, but got out every time without taking a bad hit. Ali wasn't winning, but he's already made it through four rounds. Foreman's last two opponents were gone in the first two rounds. That hope grows.

When our hero turns the tide, it should be something that was quietly evident all along. If they figure out a puzzle, it should be from a hint they got several chapters back but didn't think about for a while. If they track down the criminal, it should be a clever analysis of evidence already presented. If things just change without a reason, the reader feels cheated. They want to know there is a purpose for the shift.

In the fifth round, Ali started landing a few punches, and Foreman wasn't moving as quickly (plus he had a cut above his right eye that Ali kept targeting). In round six, Ali let Foreman put him against the ropes, but Ali was resting while Foreman was exhausted. By the seventh round, Foreman's punches were weak and Ali turned aggressive. That's when the turn hit. We realize Ali had been playing defense all those rounds to sap Foreman's strength and energy. This strategy, known now as the Rope-A-Dope, had played out before us for the whole fight but we only realize it once Foreman was staggering. Then Ali's eighth-round, five-punch combo put Foreman on the canvas, and our underdog is victorious.

When it's done right, a reader feels excited with the outcome - they enjoy the entire experience and feel it is a genuine, complete experience. There is a sense of satisfaction in a proper turn, and the story will stick with the reader long after they put down the book.

The Rumble in the Jungle was 45 years ago and people still talk about it. What does that tell you?

How Believable is Your Reality?

The other day I went into the city for a few errands, and you will not believe what happened! Actually, that's the problem - you might not believe my story. It can be a word-for-word explanation of the crazy and inexplicable events that led to a completely amazing conclusion, and yet in the end, the reader might say, "I'm not buying it." Perfect truth, unconvinced reader. A terrible combination.

Think about when your friend told you a story about that thing that happened the other night at that bar with the two ex-Marines and the karaoke contest, and that woman with the service dog and everything that went on in the parking lot... on and on, and at the end, your friend has to insist, "But that's what happened!" Maybe it did, maybe it didn't. Something about it wasn't convincing, and you wrote it off. Was your friend lying? Well, first and foremost, your friend might not be a good storyteller, and we can learn from their failure.

When we hear a story too amazing to be real, we subconsciously analyze it. The story itself is not the subject; we start to pick apart the details. We look at the actions and reactions, the character response, the cause-and-effect actions, the sequencing of events. We quietly look for inconsistencies to disprove this wild story. As writers, this is what we need to think about when we tell our tale.

Here's what we need to remind ourselves: First, are the actions consistent with the character? If we tell that story about when we were nine and spent a terrifying night alone in the upstairs bedroom of our grandmother's house while hearing all those noises from the attic, the actions need to build out from there. If we then explain how we decided to examine the attic in the middle of the night, well, why the change of attitude? Do scared nine-year-old children suddenly decide to face their fears and go into the attic after midnight? I'm not buying it. However, if that is what happened, then the storyteller needs to explain how this child found bravery. The reader needs that justification, and with it they will embrace the story.

Consistency of character and of action require attention, but so do believable responses. Let's look again at our nine-year-old venturing into the attic after midnight. Assuming we have adequately explained why this child took this brave step, we still need to make sure their response is believable. If, in this story, the child ventures forth with the flashlight from the kitchen, looks around and sees a ghost in the corner of the attic, the response is everything. Now, we know that children are capable of doing anything in weird situations, but the foundation must be established for the response to be believed. In this little story, we've established the child's fear of the unknown. If the child tries to talk with the ghost, we do not understand where all that fear went. The credibility feels as fake as that ghost.

It is very apparent that the moment the child sees the ghost, we need to have a framework that justifies the next step. If the ghost looks like his grandmother in her nightclothes, this could ease the fear enough for the child to talk, to ask why she is in the attic. Familiarity creates a believable response, and the story moves forward. Then, when the figure in white turns, looks at the child, smiles, and vanishes... now we can move the story along with the reader still interested.

Lastly, the conclusion needs to fit; the culmination of all past events and nothing more. That's when the panic-stricken child runs from the attic, dives back to the room and hides under the covers. His parents come in to check on him, and calm him down for being so scared about nothing. They tell him it's natural to be scared when he sleeps in a new room, but his grandmother has to sleep downstairs because she is too sick to climb the stairs. They take the child downstairs to show him that his grandmother is sleeping comfortably, but find out that she is no longer breathing - she passed away. Now it all comes together, and while the reader may not believe everything, that inner critic has nothing to use to tear apart the story.

So, about the other day in Chicago... I now realize that's not a very interesting story, and you wouldn't believe it anyway. Maybe we'll go with the grandmother story - that one's pretty amazing!

How Real Is Your Fiction?

The other day, a fellow writer and I discussed her upcoming novel. Without giving away too much, part of our conversation involved creating something that could predict certain aspects of the future. Needless to say, this is fiction. However, fiction is always at its best when the reader embraces this new version of reality, which creates a problem: How does a story maintain this believability while working with a clearly unbelievable premise?

The flux capacitor - the ultimate symbol of believable fiction 

First, let's establish a few ground rules. Of top importance - genre. Sci-fi, fiction-fantasy, alternate history; these all come with an informal understanding that wild, outrageous things will exist, and some liberties must be granted. Anyone who reads The Hobbit either grants the author certain freedoms or loses the chance to explore this world. Such freedoms include accepting that a dragon with the size and weight of Smaug could never ever fly under normal circumstances. We accept this flight and move on, under the presumption that there might be magics or other mystical things at play that would take chapters to explain, and we would much rather get on with the story than understand the magical metaphysics of a flying dragon. Every genre has its Smaug, and we price that into the genre.

Some genres are not as clear, however, so the writer has to lay out the groundwork for how certain elements work. Even though many readers grew up knowing the rules for vampires, werewolves, zombies, and all the other things that go bump in the night, during the past thirty years we have witnessed new interpretations. Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series put a new spin on vampires that Bram Stoker likely never considered, as well as on werewolves. Zombies are no longer W. B. Seabrook's mindless creatures in The Magic Island - they now are fully fleshed out in Daniel Waters' Generation Dead and Mira Grant's Newsflesh series. However, in these series, the rules for these creatures are formally established and adhered to. This creates a clear sense of reality within their fiction, and the reader embraces the new normal.

But what about when something unbelievable exists in a world as real as, say, modern-day Chicago? A person living in an abandoned warehouse where he raises a dragon? A scientist who finally perfects the first time machine? A community of custodians throughout the Loop who are intelligent, self-replicating androids? We want this version of Chicago to be as real as can be, but now we need to sell this incredulous idea. There are some basic dos and don'ts that allow the wild to be real.

If someone has invented a time machine, don't try to explain too many details; after all, details about something that doesn't exist can open doubts in the reader's mind. Rather, throw around a few scientific terms mixed with fiction and reality - a "quantum splicer" offers science and fantasy without detail. Anyone know what a flux capacitor is? It's enough to make the Back to the Future franchise work. Maybe the person raising the dragon doesn't understand how the 12-ton beast can fly, but when its wings start flapping, he feels the air swirl around him and an electricity resets his Fitbit. No real details, but enough to say that something else is going on, and the reader moves forward.

The biggest don't is a simple one. Don't forget that characters have to behave in a real manner. The man raising the dragon is probably used to seeing this. However, when his fiancee walks into the warehouse and sees a dragon-feeding session, she can't just say, "So this is what you've been doing all this time?" She had best act in a manner that we think most Chicagoans would if they see a FREAKING DRAGON! Reactions still have to be genuine, at least at first, and then steered toward where the author wants to go. If the reaction doesn't seem real, the reader loses connection. Quickly.

Real fiction is a delicate balance, but the best rule is to have fun with it. Explore your creativity and try out different ways a person would react when they discover their custodian is an android. When you enjoy the writing part, the reader will buy in to that immediately, and it will allow you room to wiggle around as adjust to the new situation with the custodian (no offense to Roombas).

Knowing When the Story Ends

I recently re-read Joseph Conrad's short novel, Heart of Darkness; a special edition with author's notes in Conrad's own handwriting. Most people know this book as the basis for the movie, Apocalypse Now, which is enjoyable in its own right. Both works explore the madness that forms as foreign powers intrude on other cultures, as noble efforts become tyranny, and as rational people lose their humanity. However, one of these works knew when the story had run its course. Conrad didn't.

In defense of Conrad, Darkness came out as a three-part serialized story (as many famous stories did). Because of this, the structure was significantly different than it would be as a novel written as one piece of work. As a unified piece of work, the author could take a little time setting the stage, introducing Charles Marlow, the mood, and potential for conflict, then build up the tension and drama for as long as necessary, then hit the crescendo with the famous line (spoiler alert), "Mistah Kurtz - he dead." After that, tie up the ends, send Marlow back to Europe as a changed man, and done. the bulk of the book would be one-hundred pages, the post-Kurtz part twenty at most. Rather, Kurtz died and there was still another piece to be told. This weakened the book (in my opinion), and watered down the impact. In a two-and-one-half-hour movie, Francis Ford Coppola spent the bulk of it leading up to the big moment, then killed off Kurtz, tied up a few points, and the credits were rolling before the body was cold.

However, this post isn't a scathing critique of Conrad or praise of Coppola (after he made The Godfather: Part III, I realized anyone can drop the ball). This is about knowing the story you tell, and telling the story you know. There are no hard-and-fast rules about this: the rival can die somewhere other than the end, the hero can go through greater challenges to learn the big lesson, and so on. The big challenge is to feel when the story you are writing has gone in a different direction from what you are trying to tell.

Let's look at a familiar novel that was standard reading back in my school days: Upton Sinclair's The Jungle (a different jungle than Conrad discusses). Most everyone I know who read this will talk endlessly about the horrors of the meat industry at the beginning of the 20th century, particularly Chicago's Back of the Yards area where the Stock Yards once flourished. However, the story was intended to be a statement promoting socialism - the last one-hundred pages all but leave the meatpacking industry behind. Sinclair wanted to tell a story favoring socialism but instead established the groundwork for meat packaging reform. Most everyone remembers the first two-hundred pages then forgets the last one-hundred that were supposed to be the big rallying cry. In this regard, he failed as an author but your hot dogs are safer for it.

On another Chicago note, I offer Saul Bellow's Humboldt's Gift as a fine example of telling the story you know and knowing the story you tell. As readers, we know from the get-go that the main character, Charlie Citrine, is not on a good path, and his friend and mentor, Von Humboldt Fleisher, is not going to be around for the end of the book. Therefore, does Humboldt need to die in the last twenty pages? Nope. We understand that Charlie's redemption is the real story, and that becomes the part where the dramatic writing comes in. The dialogues with Charlie and Von Humboldt are wonderful exchanges, but the story could easily get lost in those parts and forget that Charlie needs saving more than Von Humboldt. Bellow keeps this very cleverly balanced, and the story pays off because of this.

The long and short of it is, whether the story is about sailing up the Congo or sailing down Western Avenue, Make sure the important parts are showcased, the side-trips add to the story but don't dominate, and the messages stay on point. If people read your political statement and talk about the meat industry, you've lost your focus.

Speech and Dialogue

As I sat in one of the many writing workshops I attend, I found myself oddly drawn to a particular narrative. Sue Mydliak, author of the Birthright series and other works, was reading from her upcoming novel, Elspeth. The story is in 1700s Scotland, therefore the Scottish brogue is quite prevalent. However, something felt unusual, yet I couldn't explain it. I just listened, critiqued, and tried to figure things out.

The Sorting Hat scene from 
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone,
in Scottish Brogue

During the discussion portion, one of our members crystallized what I had been noticing. He said, in so many words, that it is a delicate task to write dialogue with an accent, and too often, people let the accent define the character. The character's voice had to be clear, distinct, and consistent, but it could not be a substitute for meaningful words that drive the plot and fill in the character. In Elspeth, the character has her brogue, but it was the character that drew me in. The dialect became a complementing factor to the characters, filling in the story like description or mood. I was enjoying the story without even noticing it.

At that point, I immediately thought about all the period pieces I've read and written where the regional dialect is perfect and fascinating, but I was more interested in the character's Mississippi twang or slow southern drawl than the actual character. This is very deceptive, particularly in short stories. If I write a quick, one-thousand-word story where the protagonist has a Chicago tilt to their speech, readers will find it interesting, even amusing, and read the piece. However, if that story goes on without any real statement of movement; if the elements of the story are weak, readers will finish it and talk about the character's voice, but not much else will stick. They might not even remember the story. Maybe that's okay for a short story, but as that short story expands to a larger work, it will be empty calories for the reader.

The man making the comment in our workshop used an example from acting to define this: "Let the character drive the accent rather than the accent drive the character." Following that rule is what made Elspeth so appealing, and disobeying it is what often makes stories become immensely forgettable.

But how do we do this?

I did a little investigation, and there seems to be a consensus about the best technique to follow. When you set the stage for a conversation between someone from Boston, someone from Prague, and someone from Sydney, write the dialogue clean and sterile. Use proper English, clean grammar, and lay out the discussion without all the distractions. If the dialogue doesn't work before the accents are added, it sure won't work afterwards; it will just sound different. The exchange of ideas is the core of any dialogue or narrative.

The next step is to consider any specific miscommunications or confusions that might play a role. This is not mandatory, but can add a natural feel to open discussion. Referred to as The Tower of Babel rule, it's our nature to not understand each other, so take advantage of it. If you ask a Londoner the time and they answer, "half-five," is that 4:30 or 5:30? Let the explanations begin.

Lastly, turn it into their dialect. Add the little bends and folds in their voice that make it distinct. Drop in as many y'alls or finnas or Hahvahd Yahds as you wish. Above all else, be consistent - inconsistent dialect is destructive to good dialogue. This creates the tonal appeal of dialogue that is already built on strong bones.

And when it comes out, read Sue Mydliak's Elspeth. It's going to be a winner.

The Power of the Title

When I finished reading Hermann Hesse's delightful Peter Camenzind, one thought kept coming to mind: "With all the lessons and discussion in that story, the best title was the character's name? Seriously?" In fairness, this was Hesse's style and the way of the early 20th century. His other works such as Siddhartha, Steppenwolf, and Gertrud to name but a few were named after the lead character. However, he also titled an anthology, Strange Tales from Another Star, so he did have the creativity. The point is, were the titles used to their best advantage?

Never doubt the power of a good title

Let's face it - those first words need to grab the prospective reader. Whether it's a poem, a short story, a novel, or a strongly worded declaration to King George, that top line can bring in the new readers or send them looking somewhere else. A title is a selling point. It influences the reader from square one. For the beginning author, the title is the most important part they will write (in the era of social media, there's also cover art, but that's another discussion). Once the author has gained a big name and a reputation, the title isn't as important, but we're not there yet.

Even in an era of boring book titles, some authors made theirs stand out. When Edgar Allan Poe published a short story with a very new and innovative style, he gave it an innovative name, The Murders in the Rue Morgue. If he had named it Dupin, after the main character, would it have caught the eye? I doubt it. This title gives us plenty of information in six words, and we know immediately if we want to read it. This story's popularity in effect defined the detective genre, but credit needs to be offered to those six words that drew people to reading the story in the first place.

When we write our story, we should think about what we want to offer the reader at the very beginning. Do we offer a sense of humor and whimsy? Do we suggest the genre? Is the title a question that draws the potential reader in to find the answer? Or is it just odd enough to make someone browsing through Amazon stop and give it a second look? The proposed title for one of my favorite books was, An Inquiry into Values. Did that spark your interest? Didn't think so. However, the novel ended up with the more curious name, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An inquiry into Values. That made a difference, as it soon hit the New York Times' Bestseller List.

Some genres sell themselves, so the title does not need to appeal to whether it is sci-fi, fiction-fantasy, contemporary. or whatever. At that point, what is the real selling point? Mood and intensity usually come to mind. In sci-fi, things can go in many directions, so if the reader gets a feel for what area they'll be walking into, they'll be more comfortable. Space opera is one thing, dystopian sci-fi is another, and of course there is the tongue-in-cheek talk of how the future will still have very human themes. Think about Douglas Adams' defining work of humor and science-fiction, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Before this was published, or was even a radio show, the proposal was called, The Ends of the Earth. Something about the title didn't match the tone, and the reworks began. The final product gave curious people everything they wanted to know - novelty, sci-fi, and an appeal to the off-beat. Millions of copies later, it looks like Mr. Adams made the right decision.

Does every story need to have the big sell right in the title? Maybe it does, maybe it's not important. The next book I will be reading is Tom Hernandez' The Acorn Wars. It's an exploration into the family dynamic, and maybe a title saying that would've scared readers away. However, a perfect name such as The Acorn Wars is intriguing enough to draw interest, and that's why I will be reading it. (And it's on Kindle soon.)

When you set down and write your next masterpiece, just give a thought to those words that appear on the cover or at the top of the page. Think about what they could do for you. Maybe something amazing pops out, maybe not. The important part is that it's an opportunity, and we should never pass them up.

A Writer's Many Caps

This was a very busy and frustrating week and I'm glad I have a little time left to get this post together. I've been wearing a lot of caps lately, doing all those things that writers do - polishing a story for a quarterly writing contest, putting together a manuscript for publication, doing some multimedia work for yet a different project, a little field research for a manuscript still in progress, and digging through the archives of my late mentor, Newton Berry, trying to find his last works. All in all a very busy week.

The busy part is obvious, but you may have already noticed the frustrating part - none of those tasks actually involve that fun part we call writing. I didn't have the chance to wear my writer's cap all week. Editing is not writing, reading is not writing, researching is not writing. Nothing is writing except for writing, and that can be disappointing. Don't be alarmed though. That's what happens.

I've never had a job where the official title described what I would do most of the time. During my twenty-year career as an analyst, the actual analyzing part was there, but I mostly did other stuff. Four to five hours a week in meetings, mostly listening. A similar amount of time with bureaucratic BS. Supporting other departments. Trying to get some resources to do my thing. Explaining to other departments what I actually do. Making all my analysis look presentable and placing it in all the appropriate files and inboxes (electronic and otherwise). And then a little time actually being an analyst. However, this was all very important in the bigger picture, and it prepared me for life as a writer.

You see, even as a writer, sometimes I don't want to write. Whatever the reason may be, sometimes that writer's cap doesn't fit. On these occasions, I am very happy to edit the last thing I wrote, outline what I might want to write, or do all the things that don't involve much creativity but still support my writer's existence. It helps carry the weight that comes with that quiet responsibility of being a good writer.

I also keep one other thing in mind: All those little things that need attending to will really get in the way when I want to sit down and write a few chapters. Nothing's worse than wanting to sit down and create some reality but then realizing that one deadline won't adjust itself, or the next five phone calls will be from the author of that manuscript you promised to proof. It happens in all careers. I used to nestle up with my databases, get out my technical books, put on my analyst cap, and prepare to do some deep data analysis only to have someone's head poke into my office and say, "Meeting with Foreign Exchange on the twelfth floor, bring your lunch!"

I would hear that and hate meetings, hate the Foreign Exchange department, and hate the twelfth floor. I wanted to analyze. And I would put away my analyst cap and go to the meeting, pouting like a child.

The point of all this is that writing of any kind will at times be frustrating. It will be that thing you want to do and can't, which is a good sign in its own way. And the more you enjoy writing and get into all that it offers, the more times something will get in the way when you just want to write.

Frustration is part of the game, but it makes writing time that much more important. I'll conclude on that note, and if this post seems a little short, it's only because I have some editing to do before I can get more writing in.