All posts by Jordan

Finding your weakness

This entry is part 11 of 26 in the series Tension, suspense and surprise

When it comes to tension, suspense and surprise, it’s very hard to find your own weaknesses. Or, sometimes, to admit them.

Hi. I’m Jordan, and sometimes I write boring crap. And I leave it in. Even though people tell me it’s boring.

I’m trying to get better. (Hence this series.) But the more I work on specific areas in my writing, the more I realize I need help, and I may always need help. I think I’m probably not alone. Most of us allow at least a little indulgence as we’re drafting—words, lines, paragraphs or scenes that don’t necessarily move the story forward. And then sometimes we get a little too attached.

The fact is, when you’re still in love with your characters and your story, you’re more than willing to read the scenes that don’t really move the story along. One way to counteract this is to set the story aside. Yes, we’re always told to do this, and this is a big reason why. Set it aside for 6 months to a year and give yourself some distance from the work.

I am so not that patient. Once I’ve patched up the glaring holes and inconsistencies I know I’ve created, I’m willing to let my work go to one or two of my beta readers to make sure there aren’t any big structural/common sense/plot holes I missed. I’m okay with them taking a few months—but the minute I get their notes back, I’m ready to jump in again. That’s usually not long enough. (I also have a fairly good memory.)

Those beta readers and critique partners help in other ways, too. As far more impartial readers who want to help you make your story better (we hope), they have a vested interest in helping you eliminate all the weaknesses. They aren’t as attached to your story and your characters, so they are better at identifying places that don’t do much to move the story forward—the parts where their attention starts wandering. (Also helpful: the parts where they don’t know what you’re talking about.)

Tomorrow we’ll look at what you can do to find those weak tension points yourself—once you’re ready to let go of those things you love so much.

What do you think? How do you get help in identifying which parts drag?

Photo credit: Big Eagle Owl

Wrapping up the suspense: Act III

This entry is part 10 of 26 in the series Tension, suspense and surprise

Eventually, all suspense and tension must be released—since anticipation is the source of suspense and tension, it’s probably not fair to readers not to eventually satisfy that anticipation. Naturally, this will happen to some extent throughout the story as we build up anticipation for events along the way. But the overarching suspense of the story reaches its ultimate payoff in the last part of the story, in the final act.

In fact, Raymond Obstfeld refers to Act III as The Payoff in Fiction First Aid. Here, we have to satisfy all that suspense we’ve worked so hard to build—and that payoff had better be commensurate with the anticipation, or our readers will feel cheated.

Obstfeld says, “The key to a good payoff is not to give the reader what you think they want” (55). That’s not to say that the hero and heroine shouldn’t get together in a romance (they should), or that the hero can’t catch the villain in a thriller (he should). It does mean that giving the reader exactly what you promised all along and only that is not enough to reward the suspense you’ve created for that goal.

This is a common reason why we don’t like the way a book ends. I read a book last year where the entire book was about the heroine learning about others and herself—but at the end, she went back and did the same thing she’d been planning to all along (and it was rushed). All along, I was promised some revelatory, life-changing experience, but in the end, the character didn’t change.

After spending hundreds of pages with these characters being thwarted in their quests, yes, they have to see some measure of success in the end (unless this is a tragedy, I guess). But that hard-won success probably shouldn’t just be the exact thing they’ve looked for all along. Take Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Indy is reluctantly dragged into looking for the Holy Grail, which he doesn’t really believe exists. What does he find in the end? (Yeah, he finds the grail—but is that all?)

A good payoff is both unexpected in some way and commensurate with the suspense the author has created.

What do you think? How else do we see suspense in Act III?

Photo and baking credit: Heartlover1717

Keeping the suspense in the middle of your structure

This entry is part 8 of 26 in the series Tension, suspense and surprise

Oh, the sagging middle. The bane of most Americans’ existence. And also tough for writers 😉 .

The sagging middle is where we can start to feel a little lost. Even if we’ve done a good job establishing conflicts and the stakes in the first part of the story, sometimes the middle has us feeling like we’re running in circles or spinning our wheels. Are our characters making progress, or are all these obstacles we put in their way (because you are putting obstacles in their way, right?) starting to make them wander aimlessly?

In Fiction First Aid, Raymond Obstfeld acknowledges that this part of the book is a challenge—as we try to make the story more difficult for the characters, it’s often more difficult for us.

But he also offers a structural solution. He explains that Act II is The Complication where we “increase [the] suspense by complicating [the] plot through increasing stakes and/or decreasing [the] ability of [the] character to achieve [his/her] goal.”

So in Act I, we established the stakes—whether the character will lose his job or let a killer go free if the hero fails. In Act II, we increase the negative consequences of failure—the character will go to jail or the killer will go on a rampage if the hero fails.

Also, we can “inhibit [the characters’] ability to get what they want.” The guy clinging to his job tries to do something to impress his boss, but it backfires and ruins a major project. The hero after a killer gets suspended from the force/agency/whatever after his drive takes him just a little too far.

Interestingly, many plotting methods and structures have specific events designed to accomplish these things. In Larry Brooks’s Story Structure, for example, Act II contains two “pinch points” that are designed to raise the stakes by showing us just how bad the villain is. Even the Mid-Point is designed to help with this, showing the hero more to the story, changing the way he views the world.

Simply establishing suspense in Act I isn’t enough. We have to build on it in Act II to keep our readers reading—and hooked.

What do you think? What other ways can we increase the suspense and keep the tension high in Act II?

Photo credit: Todd Stadler

Conflict and suspense in structure: Act I

This entry is part 6 of 26 in the series Tension, suspense and surprise

Yesterday we established that conflict is the source of suspense and tension, and what gives meaning to surprise. Combined with structure, we can create a plot with enough suspense and tension to keep our readers engaged.

In Raymond Obstfeld’s Fiction First Aid, he looks at the intersection of conflict, suspense and plot, taking it act by act in the three-act structure. This week, we’ll take a look at his structure for creating suspense.

Obstfeld defines suspense creation as “a series of . . . promise-payoff scenes.” In act I, the setup, we establish the conflicts and the stakes to create suspense. Says Obstfeld:

  • Plot conflict. This focuses on what the characters are pursuing. It could be a romantic relationship, money, a new job, an education—anything they think will make them happier.
  • Character conflict. This focuses on the internal/emotional problems that get in the way of the characters achieving what they think will make them happier. In fact, this conflict may involve the characters pursuing the wrong goal, one that the reader realizes won’t make them happier.
  • Stakes. This focuses on the intensity with which the plot conflict affects the characters.

Now I’ll turn it over to you. How do these elements work to create suspense in the first quarter of a book?

Photo credit: Damon Brown

The source of tension, suspense and surprise

This entry is part 5 of 26 in the series Tension, suspense and surprise

This may be a little obvious, but the most basic source of tension, suspense and surprise is conflict. We all know it makes a good story, but it can also make a story great.

All techniques to create suspense and tension have conflict at their heart. Just check out my 37 ways to increase suspense and tension—most of them involve creating or highlighting conflict.

Obviously, most of the external plot and internal conflict come from conflict—the obstacles that stand between our protagonist(s) and their goal. That will be the main source of the suspense that keeps the readers wanting to know more.

However, on a smaller level, conflict within a scene establishes and heightens the tension. This is one reason why it’s so important to have a scene goal for the character—once the character wants something, it’s easy to bring in that conflict, to prevent them from getting that goal. A story where the character decides he wants chips, goes in the kitchen and gets chips . . . well, it really isn’t a story, is it?

Rather than being an element to create surprise, conflict is important in making a surprise matter. An unexpected event has a much bigger impact if that surprise creates conflict. Take Jane Eyre. (If you’ve never read it, SPOILER ALERT.) Jane and her employer, Mr. Rochester, fall in love. Imagine if the surprise revealed at their wedding is that the source of the spooky noises in the mansion was his crazy sister? “Oh, well, you have a questionable genes. I still do.” The end. But his crazy wife? That’s a real surprise—and a real conflict.

Conflict, on a macro level and a micro level, is not just the heart of a story—it’s the heart of suspense and tension, as well. It’s what makes the events—and especially surprises—of a story matter to us.

What do you think? How else can conflict create suspense, tension or surprise?

Photo credit: Cristian V.

The tension begins

This entry is part 2 of 26 in the series Tension, suspense and surprise

The suspense is killing me! I hope it will last.

—Oscar Wilde

Today we’re kicking off our series on tension, suspense and surprise. (I mean . . . surprise!)

It’s easy to look at those elements and think, “Oh, that’s good for a mystery or a romance, but my story doesn’t need those things” or “I’m not writing suspense, why does that matter?” But really, every story should have suspense, tension and surprise. Why are these elements so important? They’re what keep readers reading. Sadly, readers aren’t as indulgent as your friends and critique partners—we have to give them a reason to believe read on.

tss series medSo what’s the difference between the three? Surprise is fairly obvious, but suspense and tension are often used interchangeably (and I’m sure at least some of my sources won’t use the same terminology that I’m choosing). However, for the purposes of this series, I’m going to use “suspense” to mean things that propel us forward in the story—things that make us want to read the next scene. “Tension” will be the events within a scene that keep us from skipping that scene to get to see the next one 😉 .

In other words, tension is a scene-level (or page-level, since we will be looking at Donald Maass’s book) element—something that makes this particular scene interesting, that makes us care about it as readers. Suspense is the larger, overarching thing that keeps us reading once the scene is over—though, like I said, there’s plenty of overlap in those areas anyway.

Surprise, like I said, is fairly obvious. An unexpected event occurs. (This would be a counterexample.)

All three are necessary for a good story. I like the way Noah Lukeman puts it in The Plot Thickens: 8 Ways to Bring Fiction to Life: “Suspense, more than any other element, affects the immediate, short term experience of the work” (119). Tension can be used to create that suspense, compel readers to read through the scenes themselves and keep them interested. Surprise is important because, well, nobody wants to read a story where they already know everything that’s going to happen!

So for . . . the next little while, we’re going to look at how (and how not to) create tension and suspense, how to use them, and how and when to use surprise.

What do you think? How would you differentiate between suspense and tension? What areas or topics interest you most for these elements?

Photo credit: Aart von Bezooyen

What’s your favorite “macro” editing technique?

There are probably as many ways to edit a story as there are to write one. Today, I’m thinking about “macro” edits—looking at structure and scene placement, rather than the individual words and style.

One of my favorites has been the scene chart, inspired by a post on Edittorrent. The original post suggested creating index cards for each scene, listing a number of important features—everything from where and when the scene is set, to first and last lines, to “promises” made to the reader, to important details like descriptions. Then you could move the index cards around to resequence events or scenes, or play with the story without hurting your MS.

Like many of the commentators on the post, however, I used a spreadsheet to do this in a very small space. I also combined this with probably the most important thing I learned from Jack Bickham’s Scene & Structure—the structure of a scene and the importance of a scene goal—for the character, not just me as a writer.

When I used these techniques together, I found that the scenes that lacked a goal for the character (or a unique goal, as opposed to one that the character’s had four times now) were often the unfocused scenes I needed the most work on—or to cut altogether. I could also bring out hidden scene goals, find new ones to add layers to a scene and strengthen the scenes by enhancing the goals, conflict and disasters.

So here’s an example of the kind of scene chart I used, partially filled in for an imaginary story (anybody recognize the plot? Hint: it’s from an old card game). I didn’t use all of these columns myself (and if any of them aren’t clear, feel free to ask what I mean).

That’s just one thing I’ve tried, and I liked it so well, I’ll definitely use it in the future.

What do you think? Do you use a form of scene charts? What’s your favorite “macro” editing technique?

Photo credit: Aaron Brown

What does it take to make a good story?

Conflict, of course, is a very basic requirement of a good story. But good stories have a lot more going on than arguing (maybe, like, Larry Brooks’s six core competencies of storytelling).

And this isn’t about that.

Earlier this week, I watched the “making of” documentary on the Finding Nemo DVD. While I’m not a huge fan of Disney or Pixar, I’m very impressed by their storytelling (especially Pixar). And the documentary offered some insight into their story process.

The director of Finding Nemo, Andrew Stanton, also wrote the screenplay. So after working on that for a year or so, he brought it to Pixar, where it would be made into a movie.

And they basically started all over.

Andrew points out that when you write something, you believe that it works, functionally, humor-wise, etc., but you don’t really know until you get some outside feedback, usually from multiple sources. This is why we collect critique groups and beta readers.

But instead of those methods (well, Andrew may have used those while writing, but this is after he was “done”), Pixar has a feature that’s fairly common in Hollywood: the story department.

I don’t know if this is totally accurate, but the impression in the documentary was that these people eat your babies take your screenplay, nearly demolish it, and then make it better. They identify weak points, plot holes, character problems and boring scenes, and find ways to fix them.

And then there are more writers, who make the jokes better and refine the dialogue.

And then there are still issues and scenes and places where you get stuck, and all that helps is long stretches of time with someone to talk things through and bounce around ideas, someone who knows the story and the characters as well as you do (and even if we have beta readers, few of us truly have that).

(And then there are the advantages that visual storytelling has that are a little harder to execute in written storytelling: acting, visual cues, setting that can be taken in in nanoseconds, action that requires no description, etc.)

In all, this story took three and a half years to tell. (So sometimes, all that visual stuff isn’t necessarily an advantage.) It shows in the quality—but man, that’s a lot of patience and stick-to-it-iveness to tell one story.

What do you think? How long do you work on a story before it’s “done”?

Photo credits: clown fish—ecatoncheires; hourglass—Tijs Zwinkels