Story

Comic Novels of Charles Sorel: A Study of Structure, Characterization and Disguise (French Forum Monographs, 32.)Comic Novels of Charles Sorel: A Study of Structure, Characterization and Disguise (French Forum Monographs, 32.)

Tonight I want to talk to you about a trend I’ve been noticing in my own Fiction Writers’ Group on LinkedIn. So many young writers worry about a good deal about competition, about whether and when they will get an agent, be published by one of the big Houses, or even be published at all.
These are important things to think about, but not yet.
Not yet.

What’s important now, and this applies to all writers, is the story. Always and everlasting, the story. That is and must be your total focus.
Since the beginning of time, as long as Man has occupied our beautiful little planet, there have been storytellers. Whether it was a hominid (yes, I know he wasn’t quite Man, but close enough, just now) telling his group in primitive signs that he had seen something with too many teeth to argue with; or a male Australopithecus pointing for his clan the way north out of Africa; or a Cro-Magnon man—or woman—drawing tales the hunt, of anticipation and terror and delight, on the walls of a French cave, Man has been a storyteller.

We have found many ways to tell our stories, in television, movies, audio cassettes, in person in schools and churches and around campfires, and by parents and grandparents telling the tales to children. Oral histories; old legends with the fire of truth in their hearts; fairy tales; ancient stories told a thousand times and still new, still funny and horrible and tender and memorable, stories are like a fire that can destroy and consume, or warm and comfort.
We are the keepers of that ancient flame, and we must see to it that it never dims, never falters, never fails.
The story, to paraphrase Shakespeare, is the thing. Stories must start as close to the rising action as possible. I don’t give a tinker’s dam whether Millie-May Jumbles sleeps on her left side, wears a flannel nightgown, and puts in her teeth before she waddles into the loo to wash up and comb her hair and floss her teeth, unless that’s vital to the essence, the core of the story.

But if the story begins when she steps into the barn and hears the click of a gun’s hammer snapping back, Im suddenly alert, and I'll be all ears from then on.
The description is fine, and often necessary. but don’t turn off your reader with incidentals before you hook him. Once the reader has committed to reading your piece, then fine, drop in the description bit by bit, hopefully by showing us, rather than telling us. And only tell us what we need to hear.
Don’t give poor old Milly-May her false teeth unless they’re going to play a role in the story. That is to say, for instance, that she can keep complaining about her false teeth, how they make her mouth sore, and keep trying to fall out, and are a total bother; and perhaps the nervous intruder keeps telling her to shut up.
Then, if he carries her off, maybe her dropping those teeth somewhere they’ll be found or snagging them on a cactus (or whatever) as she passes, will spin the story around into a completely new direction. That would follow. But if you’re going to simply tell us she has false teeth (just to be cute) and then never mention them again, or mention them to no avail, forget it. You’re wasting your time and the reader’s time, too.
Here’s a non-rule that works like a Rule: Don’t show your reader anything—especially by mentioning it two or more times—unless you’re going to use it in the story.

Everything is important; you just have to decide what’s the most important in your story.
More next time.

Lang out.

Let's talk about Protagonists...

What comes to mind when you hear the word, “hero?” Do you think of Charles Darnay and Sydney Carton? Of Douglas Fairbanks, pere et fils? Of the old John Wayne movies? Of James Bond, as played by any one of a number of handsome and urbane men? Harrison Ford in space and the White House? Of Mel Gibson in woad and plaid? Of Jackie Chan, Leonardo Di Capro, Tom Cruise, Denzel Washington? Or even of Tom Clancy’s perennial hero, Jack Ryan? Any or all of them?

Beyond the glitz, the publicists, the puffery, we as writers have to ask, what makes a hero? What exactly does that mean? What is the stuff of heroes?

Courage, I would think. No hero slinks away or hides behind a woman’s skirts when danger threatens. Physical courage that makes a man go up against overwhelming odds for a good cause. That makes a woman have the child against doctor’s orders, rather than ‘terminating’ her baby’s life in favor of her own. Moral courage, too, that urges a young child to tell the truth even in the face of bullying by his peers. Or a teen-aged girl’s keeping herself chaste against the opinions of her friends and the conditional attentions of her attractive, lusty young boyfriend.

Perseverance. The drive that makes a man stick with the sick wife, the witchy wife, the cold wife. The sense of more than duty, the passionate inner sense that is a kind of a love no one makes movies about: the ferocious steadfastness of having made a covenant and sticking to it. There is something terribly heroic about that. The quiet martyrdom of someone who doesn’t consider himself—or herself—a martyr at all. The perseverance of the woman who continues to love the child who would never listen, the charming child whose disobedience was his hallmark, and who ends up hooked on something horrible, while his mother continues to love and weep and pray.

Laughter. I’m not talking about the sarcastic laughter, the derision, the scoffing. I mean true, real humor. Nothing put-down, better-than, or prejudiced. Just funny, dear and truly manly humor, especially with and toward those who are more vulnerable. There is something heroic about a man or woman who can relate with others enough to make laughter come bubbling up from the unseen sources of the heart.

Fear. Now wait, we’re talking about heroes here. Fear? You bet! No one can be heroic without first being afraid. If someone is terrified, say, of cats, it would take heroism for them to pick one up in his arms. But if he were not first afraid, then picking up a cat would be commonplace, not important enough to be mentioned. If a soldier is afraid of being killed, it takes heroism to go forth and engage the enemy anyway. If a woman is afraid of labor, it takes heroism for her to go through it for the sake of her child. It is heroic for a doctor to dare operate on a moribund patient whose only chance is the doctor’s skill. For a lawyer to take on a case that has already been tried in the media. For an EMT to give first aid to an accident victim, whose life rests in their hands.

What do you consider heroism?

Please write to me at simon_lang@rocketmail.com and let me know what one quality you think a hero must have. I will post every letter that does not violate Net laws, and we can all see what you think.

In the meantime, be brave, live boldly, and laugh kindly. See you next week.

Lang out.