NOTE: Here is Chapter Three of my book-in-progress called The Stories of Our Lives. In this chapter I present some rules and tools of good storytelling. I realize that most of the readers of this blog are already good writers, and some of this will seem elementary to them, but let them be reminders, then, of the ways their writing is good.
BY THE WAY: I won't be posting on this blog next week, because I'll be traveling and far away from my computer. I'll be back the following week, May 11, with a collection of 99-word stories contributed by volunteer writers. The theme for May is "Yes, You May," and I'll be accepting contributions until Monday, May 6. I invite and encourage you to send me a 99-word story with that theme!
Truth be told, this chapter contains a lot more
than ten rules. I’ve lost count of how many rules I’ve written here, but I’ve
clumped them into ten groups, so you can digest them easily. Digest them you
should.
Should you really? Some people say that art
(including writing) should obey no rules. Well, in response to that permissive
attitude, I must say that my experience as an editor and publisher has shown me
otherwise. I’ve reviewed thousands and thousands of manuscripts, and I’ve found
that some work (or play) better than others. In my opinion, some stories are better than others. Moreover, I’ve
noticed that there are recurring reasons why some stories fly and some stories
thud. I call those reasons “rules.” If you don’t like that word, call them
“principles,” “guidelines,” or just regard them as ten clumps of common sense.
I made this list of ten rules for a class I used
to teach at UCLA Extension on how to write short fiction. But I find the same
rules are valid for writing the stories of our lives, too. I’ve tried to make
this point clear in the commentary that follows the rules.
1.
Show ’em, don’t tell ’em.
This is the most frequently repeated rule you’ll
ever hear or read about writing stories. Usually it’s said about fiction, but
this rule is just as important for writing the stories we tell about our own
lives. What “Show ’em, don’t tell ’em” means is…
Wait. Why should I tell you want the rule means? I should show you, right? Right. See here:
a.
I never could stand my oldest aunt, and I was glad when she died.
b.
When I heard that my oldest aunt had died, I sent two dozen roses to the
funeral home. She always hated roses, said she was allergic to them.
Which is better, a or b? Which tells more of a
story?
Here’s a tip: reread the last sentence of every
paragraph, the last paragraph of every scene, the last scene of every story. If
you find that you’ve restated or explained what you’ve already shown, you have
written too much and have a bit of cutting to do. Rely on plot to do the work.
2.
Stay in control.
Although I admit there’s some therapeutic value
in letting your mind wander like a free-range chicken while you write, if you
want anybody to read your stories and be entertained or enlightened by them,
you’re going to have to stay on track.
I suggest that you outline a story before you
start writing. Keep in mind your narrative arc, or even draw it on paper. Get
your consequential plot points in order, and make the story build to a climax.
Be selective about what to include: make every
element of your story support the whole shebang. Edgar Allan Poe, one of the
architects of the American short story, maintained that every single word
should contribute to the meaning of the story. William Faulkner advised writers
to “kill their darlings,” by which he meant to get rid of the fancy details
that may show off what a talented writer you are but that yank the reader out
of the story. While we’re at it, avoid the clutter of “info-dump,” which makes
the story grind to a boring halt. Too much information is a soporific thing.
Another way to stay in control is to be careful
with point of view (POV). Generally I recommend that you stick with one POV per
story. Usually that POV will be your own, since you’re writing a story inspired
by an episode from your own life; but you could get experimental and write a
story from the point of your mother, your friend, your spouse, your child… Such
variations can be rewarding, but then you should stick in that POV. Whatever
you do, don’t shift POV in the middle of a scene. That’s called “head-hopping,”
and it’s considered amateurish.
While you’re plotting your story, keep in mind
Chekhov’s rule of drama: if a rifle is hanging over the mantelpiece in the
first act, that rifle must go off before the final curtain drops. Here’s a
corollary to that rule: if a bomb explodes at the climax of your story, you
should plant that bomb, ticking, at the beginning of the story.
3.
Write strong.
What’s that you say? I should say “Write
strongly”? Well, grammatically you’re correct, but I’m illustrating a point,
which is: Beware of adverbs. Especially beware of adverbs that end in “ly.”
Sometimes they’re called for, but often they’re unnecessary: I swam desperately against the waves, which
were pushing me farther and farther from shore. The word “desperately” is a
duh word. Cut it.
Especially, especially (look at that: two “ly”
adverbs in a row!) beware of “ly” adverbs that modify how somebody talks: “Get out of my room. In fact, get out of my
life!” she said angrily. Does the word “angrily” contribute anything we
don’t already know? Nope.
What else to avoid: filler words, like
“basically,” “actually,” “personally.” Also qualifier words, like “very,”
“totally,” “extremely.” Weak words, like “somewhat” and “rather.”
The use of verb constructions is stronger than
the use of noun constructions. Example: change the sentence you just read to: For strong sentences, use verb
constructions, not noun constructions.
The active voice is stronger than the passive
voice: I was taught by my father that
honesty is the best policy is weak; My
father told me, “Son, tell the truth” does the job better.
Watch out for the static past. That means
telling the reader how it was in general, when you could be showing how it was
in the context of your story. My sister
always borrowed my clothes without asking is okay, but this is stronger: As usual, Sis showed up at breakfast wearing
clothes out of my closet.
One more. Short, strong words work well most
times. Elongated, erudite vocabulary inevitably aggravates.
4.
Love your characters.
Or at least respect them, and that includes the
rotters in your story, like the cousin who stole your best girl or the uncle
who put his hands where he shouldn’t have.
By “respect them,” I mean show them as real
people, individual people with their own quirks and characteristics. Don’t
resort to clichés. Moms don’t just bake pies and correct our posture; they also
smoke and cough, or sing old songs off-key; dress like a clown or like
Katherine Hepburn… In other words, remember people as they really were, and
make each character in each story one of a kind, and original. Someone your
readers will never forget.
5.
Tell a story.
By now you know what I mean by this rule. If you
have any questions about what a story is; or what conflict, choice, change,
consequence, structure, selection, significance, and style are; take another
read through Chapter One.
Here I’ll add that a successful story is one
that hooks the reader with curiosity and holds the reader with conflict. Drama
is the result of desire plus danger; so when you write stories inspired by your
life, take advantage of those risks you took, learned from, and changed as a
result of. Another rule of thumb about change: it often result in a shift in
the balance of power.
6.
Be significant.
I already touched on this in Chapter One, but
here it is again. Write about the human condition. The human condition includes
buying groceries, just as it includes working for world peace; it’s a need for
quiet, and a need to sing and dance. Most of all, the human condition is a matter
of love and death.
Novelist Herbert Gold has said that all great
writing is about love and death. He’s talking of fiction primarily, but the
same statement ccan be made of memoir: all great life stories are about love
and death. Herb Gold goes on to say that if you can suggest a piece of great
writing that’s not about love and death, he will explain to you why that piece
of writing is not great—or, he will show you why that piece of writing is
indeed about love and death.
Love and death are essential ingredients to most
of the stories of our lives. These stories are, after all, about life, which is
miraculously sparked by an act of love. The whole process of life is a search
for love and a forestalling of death. Love comes in many variations, of course;
and death has many aspects. But to return to the human condition, as defined
above, let it be said that buying groceries is either an act of love or a
defiance of death, or both.
I will deal more with death in the next chapter,
and more with love in Chapter Five.
7.
Be honest.
Remember the advice you heard so often as a
learning writer: “Write about what you know about”? Well, it’s true. Re-read
the first six letters of the word “authority.” That’s you. You’re the author of
the story because you’re the one best qualified to write it. No one can retell
an event out of your life the way you can, because you’re the only one who
knows how much the event changed you, and how.
How do you earn and keep the authority to write
your own life stories? By being honest.
Tell the truth. You may fudge the details a bit for dramatic effect, and you
may even turn that life story into a science fiction tale 2,745 years into the
future and place it on the ex-planet Pluto, but at the core of the story is
something true. Something you know about, something you learned because of a
change that happened in your eventful past. Write honestly about that change
and the lesson you learned, and you will do so with authority.
(I will deal with reasons and techniques for
fictionalizing your life stories in Chapter Six, but even when you use the
tricks of fiction, it’s important that you stay honest.)
Level with your audience, and don’t talk down to
them. Don’t explain when it’s not necessary. Imagine that you are writing for
readers who are at least as intelligent as you are. That goes even if you’re
writing for children. Children may not have acquired as many facts or memories
as you, but their brains are just as curious and sharp as yours. They can
probably smell out a phony, and they deserve your honesty.
Be original: say something new, and say it as
you alone would say it, because you’re telling the truth. Don’t copy the ideas
or the words or the style of others. Nor should you rely on stock characters,
and don’t write in clichés. Above all, avoid cartoon writing. In spite of what
we’ve been led to believe, light bulbs don’t turn on over our heads every time
we get an idea. Nor do thunderclouds rain on our heads when we’re blue. These
old gimmicks are lazy, and they’re not the truth.
Write with authority. Be honest.
8.
Write with style.
I eulogized about style in Chapter One: it gives
wings to your words. Style also is what makes your life stories interesting and
even entertaining. Your number-one job as a writer is to keep the reader
reading, and the way to do that is by serving the reader a generous helping of
your own individual style.
Let me recommend to you what may be the most
important ingredient of writing with style: irony. Irony comes in two forms.
First, there’s irony at the sentence level, where you write a phrase or a word
that surprises the reader and then on second reading is curiously accurate: When my mom has nothing to say, she always
says it to me. Or: The herd of
buffalo wandered slowly around the meadow like sofas at a cocktail party.
Or: I crawled under the CRIME SCENE tape,
but when I stood up I was confronted by a cop the size of a Buick.
On a grander scale, irony can be the stylistic
ingredient that causes the plot to twist in such a way that it makes surprising
sense. I offer you the plot you may be familiar with, in which a darkly
beautiful queen, jealous of her step-daughter’s beauty, drinks a toxic potion
in order to become an ancient crone, so that she can murder the innocent young
girl. Ironically, the princess survives, whereas the scheming queen dies
horribly, and she dies hideously ugly.
Irony, just one element of style, gives a story
the element of surprise, either at the sentence level or at the story level.
Either way, it entertains the reader. And either way (extra points to you)
irony is a joy to write.
9.
All writers rewrite.
Nobody ever wrote a perfect first draft, except
maybe Lincoln when he scrawled the Gettysburg Address on the back of an
envelope, and chances are he changed a few words by the time he read the piece
aloud.
When you think you’re finished, let readers you
trust read your work. Ask them to respond honestly and listen with both ears
open to their suggestions. You may not agree with all they tell you, but don’t
defend your writing out of a sense of pride. If they didn’t “get it,” it’s not
their fault, probably.
If you don’t have friends to help you with this,
read your story aloud to an audience of nobody. If something sounds clunky or
phony, it is, and it needs to be rewritten. Remember, these life stories are
how you will be remembered by your family for generations to come.
Don’t be discouraged. Any story can be improved,
and the process can be fun.
10.
You may break the rules.
But if you do break the rules of good writing,
do so on purpose.
Want to write a story in which the point of view
switches with every line of dialogue? Go right ahead. Want to write a story in
which the employment of lengthy words, a preference for noun constructions and
the passive voice are utilized extensively? Do you really, really want to
feature “ly” words, filler words, and intensifiers, very, very freely? Be my
guest.
But shine a spotlight on your intentional
disregard for logic and clarity. Have fun with the experiment, so your readers
will enjoy it too.
Because there’s one rule you may not break:
Thou
shalt entertain!
