Writing

Always Learning

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I walked out of my brief doctor’s visit and headed through the lobby to my car. The hospital has a valet service, but I need to walk. After all, I’m going through post-surgery physical therapy, so I don’t use it.

The valet is a young man, maybe in his early 20s. He’s got a sketchpad and pen out, and he has a burly superhero-type man flexing next to a typical comic book female figure (the sort that would make Barbie feel unattractive).

Many visitors don’t take advantage of the valet service. Even when they do, the young man jogs out to retrieve the car, so he ends up with a lot of down time. And he’s using that to hone his skills, to build up his craft as an artist.

That’s worthy of respect. I made sure to catch him and pay him a compliment.

My daughter surprised us last night as she was getting ready for bed. She grabbed her violin and practiced for about five or ten minutes, playing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” for her brother to help him go to sleep. It didn’t work, but both Mom and I were pleased with her willingness to take a few minutes to practice. She wants to learn, and she shows that dedication in moments like these.

I think of the civilian in my technical school’s chow hall almost 20 years ago. When the customers were intermittent, he always got out a drawing pad and started working on some project, taking advantage of every spare moment, every opportunity.

That’s why I have a notepad or my iPad pretty much everywhere I go. Sitting for 10 minutes with ice on my ankle after physical therapy, I can write the majority of my next A-Z post. Waiting for the doctor, I can jot down a few ideas. When someone in public says something unbelievable, I take a quick note to save it for a future character.

There’s a need for scheduled practice time, just as with any pursuit. But I think one difference between having a hobby and having a passion is that desire to fill every available moment with effort to hone the craft.

Just something I noticed as I walked out the hospital door this morning. What’s your favorite way to take advantage of opportunities throughout the day or week? Maybe it’s a suggestion I, or another reader, will find useful. Let me know in a comment.

Have a blessed Good Friday.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Point of View

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What I wouldn’t give to be able to jump into her head and know what she’s thinking…

Married couples can relate easily to that thought, I’m sure.

But all of us at one time or another have looked at the inscrutable expression of someone whose opinion we value, and wondered what was taking place in those dark recesses of their mind. Or we’ve made assumptions about their thoughts, only to find out later that our guesses were way off.

If only telepathy was possible.

Well, surprise, it is.*

With some routine training, we can jump into the heads of other people and read their thoughts as if they were words written on a page.

*Offer void outside of works of fiction

Yes, today is P on the A to Z Blog challenge, and for my series that means looking at critiquing Point of View.

Once I know the point of view characters, or POV characters, and the overall style, I look for anything that disrupts the selected point of view. Maybe it’s a thought the POV character can’t know, or access to information they can’t have.

So that means knowing the basic options available to choose:

First person: Written as if someone is telling the story personally. The reader is in the head of one character and sees only what that character sees. They can hear that character’s thoughts only. The POV character’s eyes are the “movie camera” showing the story to the reader.

I stepped into the office and saw Mr. Smith waiting for me, back turned, staring out the window. What could this be about? I hope he doesn’t know I’ve been hacking government computers on my off-time.

‘Hello, Mr. Anderson,’ he said in that slow, dragging monotone as he turned to face me. “You’re late. Again.”

Man, I hate his condescending voice.

Third person limited: Written from one or a few characters’ points of view, but only one at a time. The reader hears the selected POV character’s thoughts, and no others. They see what takes place around the selected character and are aware of only what that character might know or witness. The “camera” can only see what the POV character sees, though there are likely a few POV characters to choose from throughout the course of the work.

Even though the summons seemed urgent, Anderson strolled down the hall. What does Smith want now?

He turned the corner and saw the office at the end of the hall. Sudden panic twisted up his insides. I hope the company hasn’t figured out I’ve been hacking government computers on my off-time.

With a deep breath, Anderson rapped the doorframe once and stepped into the office.

Mr. Smith stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the hazy city. His lanky figure and balding head made a silhouette in the bright sunlight.

“Hello, Mr. Anderson,” he said as he turned toward the door, his mouth in that perpetual almost-snarl. “You’re late. Again.”

Man, I hate his condescending voice.

Third person omniscient: Written with as many POV characters as the writer desires. The writer can jump into anyone’s head and show any scene desired to tell the story. The “camera” can go anywhere.

Haze settled over the city like every other morning. The streets filled with bodies plodding to and fro, eyes glued to their cellphones, hands desperately gripping cups of coffee. The corporate headquarters of Neodyne Information Systems loomed over the skyscrapers surrounding it, and swarms of workers rushed in the main doors to start the day.

Inside a sea of cubicles, Anderson got a message from the manager’s secretary. “Smith wants you. Urgent.” Great. What now?

He sipped his coffee, set the cup down on the desk, and strolled down the long aisle to reach the hall. What does Smith want now?

* * *

In the large office, Mr. Smith looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows. Sunlight filtered through the haze, and Mr. Smith almost reached for his nondescript black sunglasses.

He paused.

No need to look like an Agent. I don’t want to give Mr. Anderson any ideas.
A rap sounded at the door. Mr. Smith checked his watch and turned toward the new arrival. “Hello, Mr. Anderson. You’re late. Again.”

Mr. Smith thought of what he’d seen in Anderson’s file. He shows a callous disregard for authority and a problematic lack of discipline. The records showed several letters of counseling over the last two years of employment.

This one matches the profile of a trouble-maker. And I really hate his face.

There are other points of view but they go beyond the scope of this blog post.

Hopefully those scenes give a rough idea of the differences. So, what do we watch out for when we critique a piece?

Does the POV character ever know something from a scene where they were not present? Does jamming the POV character into a scene in order to give us access to that moment feel forced, unnecessary, or awkward?

Similarly, does the writer show us something the POV character can’t see? In first person and third person limited POV, that character’s eyes are the movie camera from which the story is told. Anything that character can’t see is “off camera” and thus doesn’t belong in the story.

Does the writer ever give us insight into the thoughts of someone other than this POV character? The POV character can only assume the thoughts of another. This distinction has to be made clear, or it might appear the writer is telling us thoughts we shouldn’t have access to.

Also, sudden shifts in POV should be corrected. A piece of writing can’t start in first and jump to omniscient.

And if there’s more than one POV character, shifts between those characters should at the very least come as a new paragraph. Better yet, wait for a new scene to shift the “camera” view. Books often use some centered squiggles or symbols to show the break between POV characters. The three asterisks in my last example are meant to mimic that.

What about non-fiction? If the piece contains a story or anecdote, the rules of point of view still apply. If the piece is more academic or factual, then the only possible breach of point of view is the writer injecting opinion or a personal voice into the writing. Whether that is acceptable will depend on the purpose of the writing. A blog post on a historical event might be fine with the writer sharing thoughts on how that event mattered. A research paper not so much.

Whatever style we use, the purpose of writing is to communicate thought. Understanding the rules of that special form of telepathy helps us write clearer and avoid pitfalls that distract. This will better ensure the reader sees the topic from our point of view.

And that’s the whole point.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Originality

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I recall a few conversations with friends that took place after I first started plotting out the idea for my novel. “I have this idea for a character whose nemesis is actually herself, like a split personality.”

“Oh, like in Fight Club?”

I hadn’t seen Fight Club yet.

“Because that’s what they do in Fight Club. You should probably watch or read that.”

I did. I was both entertained and frustrated. I’m a copycat before I’ve even started!

Later, I turned some of my ideas into a story for a role-playing game. When one of the big secrets came to light, one of my players burst out, “Oh! I get it! We’re playing the Serenity campaign now, aren’t we?” Then he laid out the similarities between my story and Whedon’s space-cowboy movie.

“No…” I said defensively.

“Nah, man, it’s cool. I love it. I just realized where I think you got the idea.”

So today, I’m thinking about originality and how it factors into the critique process.

After millennia of human history, there are no truly “new” stories. Look at Campbell’s work with the Monomyth as an example of how often the same elements pop up in the tales we tell. We’re all copycats, to some (significant) degree. So what’s a writer to do?

Develop new takes on old stories.

We borrow from past experiences and insights all the time. These “Elements of Critique” posts, for example, are nothing new. They’re only recounting stuff I’ve read or been told along the way. This stuff is all out there on the Internet or in any of the great books on the craft of writing. There’s nothing original about these topics I’m writing on.

Most sermons on Sunday aren’t anything new either. (The Christian in me says if you’re hearing something truly “new” from the pulpit then maybe that’s a big warning sign that you’re not hearing something true.)

But what preachers do is similar to what I look for when critiquing. They take a point that has been made hundreds of times in the past, and they find a unique way of restating it to catch the audience’s attention.

This is especially true for non-fiction writing pieces. The writer has to find a way to make telling already-known information interesting and original.

In fiction writing, on the other hand, the originality is found in the details, the setting, the ways that common concepts are juxtaposed.

When critiquing fiction, I ask “Is this a new take? Is it stated well enough that it’s unique?” Or more important, if this is the “same-old” coming of age story, is the setting original? What sets this fiction apart from the next book of the same genre?

If I see similarities to something else, it might be helpful to point out, either for comparison or for writer adjustment. If I write a fantasy with dwarves, elves, and Hobbits, someone better let me know that Tolkien already did that, he did it very well thank you, and maybe I should change my project in some significant ways.

The Fight Club reference did that for me.

There’s another aspect of originality to consider. Thanks go out to my wife for pointing this out when we were chatting about what stories catch her attention.

Originality also means it’s not predictable. The actions of the lead character should be creative. The conflicts might be similar to any number of stories, but something about them should stand out as fresh and new to the reader. The resolution or solution to the mystery has to surprise. If the reader sees it coming a mile away, that might put them off.

This is especially true and important to look for in fiction pieces.

In a non-fiction writing, if we’re dealing with common knowledge, it’s going to be difficult to make some dramatically new or surprising point. At best, the analogies and examples might be where a writer can bring out originality in their work.

One of my church’s pastors made the point in a recent sermon that so often what he needs is not new information but reminders of information he already knows.
No one really needs a fitness blog to tell them “eat less, work out more, and you’ll generally see good results.” People in church shouldn’t need a sermon to tell them “Jesus says love one another” as if that’s a new concept. College professors aren’t giving lectures about exciting new concepts; they’re presenting established facts and widely accepted thought about their particular field.

The good ones do it in a way that sticks with us, not because the point is something new, but the presentation is original. That’s what to look for and encourage in someone’s writing.

If we’re all going to be copycats on some level, let’s at least be original about it.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Nuance

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My eight year old is in a phase where he starts every story with “It’s funny because…”

He loves to make us laugh, and I wonder if he thinks that warning us like a verbal cue card will elicit the reaction he seeks.

On one of my deployments, I worked with a Lieutenant who did the same thing. After someone made a joke, he would frequently say, “See, it’s funny, because you’re old” or whatever explanation fit. The ridiculousness of him needlessly explaining the jokes was almost as funny as the jokes themselves.

This is something to avoid in writing. In one way, it’s emotional “telling,” flashing cue cards to the reader. In another way, it doesn’t trust the reader to grasp the underlying meaning or humor… or perhaps it doesn’t trust that the writer did a good enough job communicating that meaning.

Therefore, when critiquing, I look for Nuance.

If I have to explain a joke, it’s not funny. If I have to explain my subtlety, it’s no longer subtle.
The power of a good twist of phrase is lost when we unpack it all in the next sentence. I have to trust the reader to figure some things out.

So I look for instances where the writer beats the reader over the head stating the obvious.

I’m reading a book aloud with my wife and kids each night as a family activity. There’s a character named the Wit who is sort of the court jester, and his job is to ridicule the nobility in the King’s court. Some of the best lines are the ones with a subtle or clever twist. My teenagers hear them and think through what’s actually being said. Then they laugh, and it’s genuine.

If each of those lines ended calling attention to how clever the Wit was, the nuance and humor would be lost.

In a non-fiction piece, like a self-help or lifestyle article, this issue of nuance can reveal itself in its opposite: a preachy tone that sets readers off. I could write down a lot of facts and a coherent, logical argument telling my reader directly to cut down the fat in their diet and get to the gym. I could list all the benefits they’ll see. But in most cases, when I club the reader over the head with my point, they lose interest.

Consider why we see so many articles where someone relates their success along the lines of “This is what worked for me.” This subtle change of relationship between writer and reader gets us out of preacher-sinner territory and brings us into a sort of collaboration. The writer is now a friend coming alongside, offering indirect advice, using their own life experience as a parable, letting the reader take from it the meaning they need.

If I am critiquing such a piece, I look for the tone. Am I being preached at? Or am I reading an encouraging “I’ve been there” note from a friend?

Finally, there are some cases where nuance should be avoided. If I am writing a research paper or academic project, laying out a case using factual evidence, then nuance and subtlety obscure my point.

In a recent post, I used the example from World War II of the 82nd Airborne preparing the way for the Normandy invasion on D-Day. If I’m critiquing a paper or article recounting their exploits, I want to see the details and facts laid out plain. I want to be persuaded of the importance of their actions by the true accounts. The point of the paper in this case is to make its case. Nuance gets in the way of that.

Overall, nuance is another example like a spice in cooking where – if we use it at all – we sprinkle, not pour. With light seasoning, the reader will catch the subtle flavors and enjoy the meal. And if they don’t, the meal is not ruined. But if I dump out a bottle of minced garlic into the pan, the spice overwhelms the enjoyment one might get from the meal.

Now that I think of it, my wife would probably accuse me of doing that very thing: pouring on the minced garlic when I cook.

“It’s funny, because” in this case, it’s true.

Today marks over halfway through the A to Z blogging challenge. Judging by the feedback, people are enjoying these Elements of Critique posts. If you have time and inclination, that link will lead to the list of other bloggers participating this year. There’s a wide variety (about 2000 last time I checked), so I bet there’s a unique title or original topic that might pique anyone’s interest. Take a look. Maybe you’ll find a new voice worthy of your “Follow.”

And speaking of originality, that will be the topic for tomorrow. Thanks for reading!

Fitness

Counter-Productive

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After Physical Therapy this morning, I hopped over to the base gym to put the rest of my body through some paces.

Having not eaten breakfast, going just before lunch time might have been a mistake.

The gym at some point opened a lunch bar. I walk in to the area with all the exercise equipment and immediately smell all manner of deliciousness. Is that pizza? I heard folks talking about gyros. This on top of the smoothies and shakes they already offered?

Whose side are these people on?!

I guess it’s no worse than me a few years ago as a Spin Instructor, bringing doughnuts to my class as “added motivation.” Maybe this is karma.

Self-control won out over hunger, at least for today.

If you go to a gym or fitness center, do they serve food and tantalize their customers with the aroma? Or do you find yourself tempted when you jog or bike past some restaurant in the local area?

Share a story in a comment. I need some company in my misery. 😀

Writing

Elements of Critique: Meaning

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In my work community, The Princess Bride holds an honored place in our geeky hearts. This often results in quotes at best, and renditions of entire scenes at worst.

One of my favorite lines comes from Inigo Montoya: “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Yes, when critiquing someone else’s writing, I do look closely at meaning.

That may be as simple as a word used in the wrong way. When someone types “their” instead of “they’re,” it’s what the Air Force calls a word choice error. The word is not misspelled, but misused. It doesn’t mean what the writer thinks it means.

I saw this CNN quote in an article today: “…the horrors that fundamentalism can wrought on an individual.” In this tight job market, it’s good to know some editor positions should be opening up soon. Spell check won’t catch that error. ‘Wrought’ is a word, but it’s the wrong word. That’s an example of what I’m looking for when I critique.

Mistaken words are frequent because the rules of use can be complex and confusing. The judgmental grammar Nazi in me says “No, they’re not.” But there are different applications of intelligence in life that each require some study to get right.

The reason I go to a mechanic is because I barely know how to put oil into a car. In the same way I know very little about car engines, some people don’t have to worry about whether to use “effect” or “affect” in a sentence.

There are great resources online that explain the use of commonly mistaken words. And as mentioned before, if ever there is a doubt about how a word should be used, research it or reword it.

That said, I realize that probably all of us will use whatever word, right or wrong, with full confidence. We don’t use words when we are unsure about them. Our certainty creates blind spots, which is why we’re surprised when someone points out, like Inigo Montoya, that what we’re saying doesn’t mean what we think.

That outside objective viewpoint is critical, to help us see past our blind spots. (Obligatory “join a critique group” plug complete!)

And the outside view helps identify a bigger problem of meaning that might come up in our writing.

Meaning becomes a problem when what we’re writing doesn’t fit. When critiquing, I look for anything that doesn’t support or match up with the greater whole: sentences that don’t fit paragraphs, and paragraphs that don’t fit the point of the piece. (Think useless scenes in fiction, useless facts in non-fiction.)

For example:

The seasons on Okinawa are not the same four seasons as in the temperate climate of the United States. When the US Government turned Okinawa over to Japan in 1972, the action upset many of the residents. Okinawa, like most tropical islands, has two seasons: the rainy season and typhoon season. Typhoon season lasts from about April through October, and the rainy season occupies the other months.

That second sentence takes me right out of the paragraph wondering why it’s even there. It doesn’t support anything related to the meaning of the paragraph. If this piece is about weather on Okinawa, that sentence doesn’t even relate to the whole article.

Writing well is about economy of words (though you wouldn’t know it from my lengthy diatribes). We can’t afford to include something that ignores, or worse, contradicts the main point of our piece.

Failing to consider meaning in writing will have a drastic negative effect on how our writing affects our readers. Before our writing gets put out there for readers to set before their eyes, we want to make sure they’re going to get the meaning we intend.

Otherwise, I fear I’ll hear that thickly-accented voice say: “Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my language. Prepare to die.”

Writing

Elements of Critique: Leads

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I often joke about frustrating circumstances with my kids (or my fellow Airmen), claiming in a gruff Drill Instructor voice that their suffering “builds character.”

Oddly enough, that’s a truth about the relationship between plot and (at the very least) the Lead character in a piece of fiction. Stories are essentially about characters and how they change – or not – in response to events thrown their way.

What should one look for in a lead character? They usually have to be relatable and interesting. Relatable doesn’t mean that in order to read the tale of an assassin, I have to have killed someone in the past, of course. Relatable in this case means communicating to the reader a sense of who this main character is, whether through thoughts, powerful actions, or displays of emotion. I need something I can connect with, something from which to draw insight.

And I’m of the opinion that the lead must not only be relatable but interesting. I was going to say “likeable” except I think that’s not quite true and I always wonder whether the word has an ‘e’ before the ‘-able’ suffix. (Merriam-Webster shows it as a variant of ‘likable’ so I guess it’s OK either way.)

I listened to a Writing Excuses podcast the other day that discussed what readers look for in a lead character. They did such a good job that I’m simply going to summarize their point while providing the link.

When creating a lead character, a writer has three tools to utilize to secure reader interest: sympathy, competency, and proactivity.

Some of the writing books I’ve read claim we should go for sympathy. Paint the lead as an underdog, or show what a nice person they are, and readers will take the bait. Everyone roots for the little guy and the selfless hero or heroine. When Harry Potter gets treated like garbage at the start of the series, we immediately want to see him succeed. We’re invested.

But what if I want a lead who isn’t the nice guy? Let’s go back to that assassin earlier. Assassins are notoriously low on the sympathy totem pole. But they can be very interesting characters to read about, more likely than not because they’re competent.

Think of James Bond. He’s not particularly sympathetic. In a way, neither is he very proactive. Almost any Bond movie consists of him being called in to fix a problem and respond to whatever the villain is doing. It’s rarely Bond initiating the action. So why do we watch? Because his competency slider is turned up off the charts, and that makes it oh so fun to see how he handles all the twists and curves thrown at him.

The other option to consider is proactivity, and for this I’ll point to Heath Ledger’s rendition of the Joker in The Dark Knight. I know, the Joker wasn’t the lead. But he’s a good example to point out what this looks like.

Joker isn’t reliably competent as he carries out his schemes. In fact, many of them fall apart even if Batman doesn’t directly stop them. But the Joker does make a point of doing things (in fact, that’s one of his speeches explaining his motivation), and the things he does are so crazy and so unique that they hold the viewer’s interest. “What is that guy up to?” We just have to know. So we watch to see how things unfold, even though this guy isn’t super competent, and certainly gets no sympathy.

As they say in the podcast, the trick (and the part to consider in critique) is considering how to adjust the story to the lead character based on these qualities. A sympathetic but often-incompetent character might at least try really hard to do the right thing. Think Spider-Man trying to figure out how to be a super-hero. Or they might be the underdog carried along by the proactivity and competence of those around them, like early Harry Potter.

The more sliders get turned up, the more the story needs outside conflict to keep interest going. When we’re watching Superman, who is sympathetic, proactive, and competent all rolled into one, we need some serious external conflict thrown at him that a different type of lead character wouldn’t require.

So, to sum up, when I look at the Lead, I try to see how the writer has used those tools. Am I supposed to like this character? Should I be impressed by them? And then I consider whether the conflict appears tuned appropriately to the qualities of the lead. Keeping all this in mind helps me point out where something doesn’t seem to fit quite right, or where something works well.

I recently had a couple chapters reviewed by a professional editor, and one comment spoke to this: “The lead character is sympathetic. I like her, I’m rooting for her.”

The idea of someone waving a little “Lyllithe” flag pleases me greatly. It’s what we all want for our leads when terrible burdens and crushing trials beat them down in our stories. And we know that’s going to happen.

It has to. That’s what builds character.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Keep

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When my daughter was about 3, she came up with a phrase she’d say whenever she hugged me tight and refused to let go:

“You are my keep!”

It’s a special memory. Sure, I might not remember the day of the week, or what I was wearing, or when the last time was that she said it. (Our wily teenage daughter refuses to let me know that I am still her ‘keep,’ at least not overtly.)

But I cherish those moments forever.

Where critiquing another writer’s work is concerned, proposing cuts or changes is fairly easy. “That sounds weak.” “Fix the spelling.” “Why would the villain do that?”

But in order to improve, writers also need to know what hits home. We have to remember to point out what to keep.

When an analogy paints the perfect picture, or a scene tugs at my heart just so… when I learn something unexpected and interesting, or when a character’s reaction shocks me… when the chapter ends and I absolutely must know whether the hero survives…

That’s when I need to highlight, insert comment, and find a way to tell the writer, “This is my keep!”

I have to remember: To be as useful as possible, critique must be constructive.

The end result may look like a failed exam in grade school, red ink or yellow word-processor highlight all over the place. That can be overwhelming, especially if someone’s new to receiving real critique on their pet projects.

A “keep” here or there with an encouraging comment about why that part works well can be a positive form of teaching or guiding a fellow writer. “Man, that phrase was inspired.” “That’s an awesome word picture; I can see that like a movie in my head.” “Ouch, her words were harsh! Great job with that argument.”

In other words, Keep on doing that. You’re doing well. That’s a memory that will stay with me as a reader.

Even more than the positive reinforcement of good writing habits, there’s another reason to include “keeps” in a critique.

Just like my teenage daughter is not very obvious or communicative about her affection, a writer may not be very obvious about the powerful internal struggle battering their wavering confidence. A well-timed “You are my keep” might make a big difference between them giving it up and them giving it another shot.

Speaking of which…

To my readers, thank you so much for coming back for more. To those who commented or shared these A to Z posts, you spur me on to keep going. I’ve received more positive feedback on this series than I ever expected possible.

And most of all, my deepest thanks to the members of my critique group, who have taught me so much by word and example. Though obligation forces me to move away soon, you all are truly my keeps, and I’ll cherish those moments always.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Journey

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I sometimes hear it said there’s a potential energy stored in a blank screen or sheet of paper. Like the biblical story of creation “ex nihilo,” we get the privilege of crafting something out of nothing. We arrange words like paint on canvas, like notes from an instrument, creating shared experiences.

But I disagree. The paper, on its own, remains blank. The screen, without input, shines for no purpose. The spark is in us, not the emptiness.

The writer of Penny Arcade, Jerry Hoskins, speaks of writing as inviting someone else into one’s own mind, allowing them to see the worlds imagined within. It is creativity, the power of a god – part of the image of God if your faith permits – contained in fragile, imperfect vessels.

Heady stuff.

Stephen King speaks of the magic in books as a form of telepathy, allowing near-direct transmission of thought between two human beings, crossing with ease the otherwise unyielding bounds of distance and time. (This is part of what he means by his quote that “books are a uniquely portable magic.”)

What an amazing power literally at our fingertips.

And yet consider every magical story on the silver screen or the pages of a book. Having power is not enough. Mastering it is what makes the difference, what sets the hero apart. And just like all of them, we writers find ourselves on a journey, developing this wonderful ability we’ve been granted in order to use it for its intended purpose.

Certainly the “journey” of a heroic character is an element of writing worthy of note. Joseph Campbell famously popularized the idea of the monomyth, the collection of similarities found in most hero stories. His work is worth a read. If not his, then at least someone’s writing who borrows from his conclusions liberally, since so many stories borrow the concepts from one another.

But that’s not the journey I’m thinking of. I mean the heroic tale of how mild-mannered average Janes and Joes sitting at their cubicle desks or kitchen tables develop into confident figures who have Something To Say To The World.

When critiquing, I have to keep this in mind. Everyone that submits a piece for review is with me on a universally similar but individually unique path to become their best as a writer. Some may be just starting out. Some might have walked this road for years. Others might be about as far along as me.

Some will have advice for me that I need to hear. Some advice I might take with a grain of salt. Sometimes I’m going to have an important tip to pass on to another writer. (I’m hoping I have 26 of them worth passing on… otherwise this A-Z is going to get boring really fast.)

There are two facets to that journey we share. The individual experience part is crucial to consider. It may color whose advice bears more weight when critiquing or editing my work.

The hostess of our critique group has been writing for years. She’s published books and had pieces included in very popular anthologies like Chicken Soup for the Soul. She writes articles with a Christian worldview and she has years of experience teaching the Bible.

But she doesn’t read sci-fi or fantasy. So when she makes suggestions or asks questions about my mainstream fantasy novel chapters, she freely admits this is not her area of expertise.

Even so, there are numerous elements of writing that are universal. And the thoughts and struggles new writers go through are common enough that she can speak with wisdom and experience on many aspects of writing that I might overlook. So I value her opinion greatly.

However, I have to remember that no one is perfect, even our crit group’s formidible hostess. I’d comment with delight when I could find a mistake in her work, because it was like a game of Where’s Waldo? I’ve had people pick on my grammar Nazi title when they catch me making errors. It’s friendly ribbing designed to help, not wound, because we’re all learning.

The best we can do is keep going, and keep reaching out to those around us on the path we all share.

After all, we can’t expect telepathy to come naturally.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Intensity

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Yesterday’s post on critiquing hooks talked about looking for a device that creates reader interest and pressing questions at the beginning and end of a piece.

Today, I’m considering what to look for in the middle. Hooks might get me started, but something has to keep me going. There has to be some level of intensity in the piece.

Elmore Leonard put it this way: “Try to leave out the parts readers skip.”

When critiquing a fiction piece or personal account, I’ll look for the conflict between characters and their circumstances. (I could have used that as my ‘c’ post, but constructive criticism is so essential to get right, it trumped conflict for that position.)

A character may struggle with internal conflict due to mutually exclusive values. “I know what I should do… but I know what I want to do to that conniving, rotten scoundrel…”

Interpersonal conflict should be present especially in dialogue. Otherwise, why pit those two characters against each other in a scene? If Bob and Jim are chatting and agreeing about everything, who wants to read that? They should have differing viewpoints on the subject in question, leading to a verbal clash, which keeps intensity high. If they don’t disagree, I suggest using different characters who do.

There’s also environmental conflict, where some circumstance or outside force is creating trouble for the characters in a piece. Maybe that’s an army invading their nation; maybe it’s an impending natural disaster. Something needs to create a constant pressure in order to sustain that intensity. If the reader is breathing easy for a batch of characters, then something should change fast to put them back into peril.

Finally, there might be thematic conflict where the characters and events serve to compare and contrast two ideas or positions. “Justice versus mercy” might be such an example, and for that I’ll point to Les Miserables. Societal ideals or even competing societies might clash to create that intense conflict the reader needs to keep interested.

Truthfully, in a long-length work, all of these can coexist. In a shorter piece, perhaps only one or two, done well, will fit.

The key with intense conflict is ensuring stakes are high. The character’s internal decision must have a profound impact on her life. The arguments between characters should have consequences beyond just a potential loss of friendship. The outside forces creating environmental conflict must matter. There must be a true threat to life as these characters know it.

That’s what I look for in a fiction piece.

In non-fiction writing, it’s more difficult to maintain intensity. Melodrama should be avoided, so everything can’t be the end of the world. “If I didn’t overcome my fear of public speaking, the bomb would explode, destroying the United Nations headquarters and plunging the world into war!”

No, not so much.

In order to consider the intensity of a non-fiction piece, I look for the above conflicts where applicable. Some writing might include true stories where those conflicts can shine and maintain interest.

But more often, I look for the “So what?” to the subject. What is the reader going to get out of this? Does this piece convince me as a hypothetical reader that it has something to say to me, something I need to hear?

If it’s a personal account of overcoming adversity, was the obstacle challenging enough that I can relate my struggles to the writer’s? If it’s an article about health or lifestyle, am I compelled by what the writer says on the subject? Would I even consider changing my ways?

Conflict comes into play here too, but it’s not quite like anything previously mentioned. The conflict for non-fiction is between a writer’s passion and a reader’s apathy. The writing has to make whatever points are necessary to persuade someone to care. It’s like a dialogue in a way, where the writer may have to assume and counter some of the arguments the disinterested reader might make.

No writing is going to be all things to all people, of course. Hoping so would be foolish.

But the biggest facet to intensity in writing is that the piece must mean a lot to the writer, so their passion shines through. Without that, to paraphrase Leonard, we might as well leave out the whole thing.

We’re a third of the way through the A to Z challenge. Thanks for joining me on what started for me as a spontaneous journey. Once I considered how passionate I am about critique group, it became easy to write the series – further proof of the point I’m trying to make in this post.

I’ve hit on several potential problems thus far. So the next two posts will take a turn toward the positive, starting with consideration of the journey we’re all on as writers.