Who’s On First – A Character System for Variety in Scenes

Are you using all your story? All the characters, all the possibilities and combinations that a tale has ready to unleash?

On the one hand, it’s a lifelong study—we writers try to make every book dig deeper or find a new angle on what “people in conflict” can come up with. On the other, even when the story’s starting to fall into place, there’s always the fear that some of the pieces will miss their turns in the spotlight. It’s almost inevitable: by the time we understand the story enough to get caught up in the best parts’ synergy, there always seems to be a valuable part of the picture that our favorites folks and plot twists start rushing the story on past. What would have been pretty cool stuff gets left by the written roadside.

Last week I promised a checklist, a quick way to look at the material in a story to watch if the scenes have the full variety that they could. So:

Step One: Varied Whos and Whys

What’s the main material a story has to work with? Characters.

What are characters made of? Goals.

I’ve blogged about that rule before—that most of a story is rooted in the different, conflicting drives that its people have. A classic hero needs a villain, a villain needs a reason to attack the hero or someone the hero will defend, and then each of those have their own motives and more characters attached to them. The more we know the variety within that, the better we can use it.

Say, even on a literal “Tarzan test” of being sure a hero is fighting different animals:

a lion’s a fierce foe, and it might also actually be there to eat someone, so it’ll keep prowling around until Tarzan stops it
a rhino’s not only bigger and clumsier, it just wants to be left alone—maybe a tougher fight but an easier one to break off from
or, one of the humans Tarzan’s trying to defend might have blundered into their danger, while another might turn out to be a poacher who’s come looking for trouble…

That’s the simple, one-goal look at characters; most usually have more than that, at least once the story begins prying their motives apart. The brothers on Supernatural are both pushing to save the world, but Dean’s always willing to break off the fight if it’s going to cost him Sam, and Sam can get tired of being “babied” that way. And “goal” doesn’t cover all the possibilities for conflict, if someone also has issues like a hot temper (on that show it would be both brothers) or a blind faith in a third character (sooo many candidates…).

A bonus opportunity is to contrast the goal with the character himself—meaning, with what we’d expect a person like that to be. Not just giving someone a strong arc but starting them in a position that doesn’t seem to fit, like I began The High Road with Angie’s own mother Kate having abandoned her daughter and is first seen working against her. It’s a way to imbed an extra layer of contrast in a concept and tease how much backstory has already reshaped them.

It’s that list of characters and goals that the story’s built from. The real trick is to line them up in contrast with each other.

Step Two: Varying them When

Here’s where the rubber meets the road, or the fingers hit the keyboard.

Are all those marvelous pieces of conflict actually being used? In the simple checklist sense, that means, is there a variety between scenes that are focused on:

the lead character
the most distinct supporting character (and the others)
whatever side character the plot wants to spend a moment with
the antagonist

Neglect the first point for too many scenes and you don’t have a story. Skimp on the second and the story misses much of its depth, all the other dimensions of what’s at its center. Don’t go into the third now and then, and the tale stays a bit narrow, when you could be using those people to do justice to one more side of what your hero’s dealing with. And without the last point holding its own, a story loses the energy of its core conflict.

Combined with that… one more dimension in this is just what “focused on” means.

Initiative scenes pause the flow of the hero taking the next action (or whoever’s been doing it lately) and stop to check how this character wants to take charge or go off on his own instead of following the others’ lead. This is the old rule that “everyone thinks this is their own story”—and again, it’s vital for villains, for a story to keep that sense that the hero’s got an active and unpredictable enemy looking for his weakness.

And, object scenes are the hero or other usual suspects still leading the scene, but they’re focusing their own efforts on understanding that other character.

In other words: sometimes it’s enough to have the hero dig up or slam into what makes someone else tick, while sometimes that someone else has to “grab the wheel” for a while.

In fact, that makes most scenes a chance to touch two character bases at once: the character who’s leading it and the one who’s being revealed. Though the “active” one often ends up revealing even more about himself, if where he stands about what he learns changes the story enough…

(Note, either of these scenes could be from the other character’s viewpoint, and that would certainly strengthen the contrast with other scenes. Then again, I’m one writer who rarely uses that—I like the intensity of staying close to my hero’s own journey.)

And let’s not forget:

most characters have more than one goal or issue, so even their own set of scenes needs contrast between those
most scenes have more than two characters, so they just might switch to whole other subjects in midpage

Those are the basic dimensions as I see them: alternating “who” (and their multiple “why”s) leads the next scene in dealing with who else.

When I’m still developing a story, having those motives lined up sets me up to dig deeper into just what happens in each scene.

A negotiation slowly unveils what another character wants, all played off of the hero’s own needs
A fight, same thing… all spelled out through who’s prepared what or takes how many risks for what they’re really fighting for

Or looking back at a story plan, the same layout can help me be sure I’ve got the right contrasts. If Mark has been taking the lead in scene after scene, I have to ask if he’s using that time to explore enough of Kate’s secrets, or what Rafe’s gang is really up to—and if I can go much longer without them trying to take over.

And once I know who deserves to be in a scene, all that’s left is using that who and their whys to keep each how different, starting with a Tarzan Test. When do Mark and Angie fight their lion (or is that an owl?) and when are they dodging a stormfront… and how is each scene distinguished by whoever sent that after them?

It’s all about motive.

And contrast.

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Photo by qmnonic

Been There Done That? Similar Problems with Writing Similar Scenes

There are stories that rely on their central concept to shape much of their plot into their favorite kind of sequence, and try to make it our favorite too. It could be:

a type of action the hero takes, building a book on swordfights or courtroom battles
or other ways to set up scenes—class after class at Hogwarts learning about the characters over a new spell lesson, or layers of looking deeper into a villain’s horrific past
or, speaking of villains, how often they take the initiative make the scene about the hero on the defensive. If the hero’s there at all.

But when I read or write, I’m always looking for more variety in those. Yes, I love a story that plays to its strengths, with a clear focus on a hero (and villain) who play to theirs—The High Road and its sequels are meant to keep a reader remembering what it’s like to fly. But I want more.

There are just so many angles to come at the next scene from. All the times our hero needs to try a whole different strategy, or how one plan can not just go sideways but in mid-scene turn a debate into a raid or a research session, or all three. All the other characters, friend and foe, that honestly see this as their story and try to get a jump on their rivals. All the sides that can make a story richer by taking their turns.

I’ve always struggled to make as much time for that as I wanted. On The High Road, I had to go through several rewrites until I was sure I’d explored how much Mark had to deal with besides flying. And now here I am again, firming up my grasp of Book Two (Freefall) and understanding Book Three, and I’m back to square one about drifting into patterns.

And I’m the one who wrote the Tarzan Test!

(The Test is, basically, don’t fight a lion and then another lion. And also to use the variety between those fights, and whatever else the story has, as a measure of how broad the story is and where it needs to dig deeper into what makes its pieces different from each other.)

It’s a humbling moment, to look back at a blog I wrote years ago and see it as proof that it’s a battle I need to keep fighting with myself, not a problem I settled back then. (Plus, the irony of having to revisit the struggle to keep my characters from revisiting theirs! Or, more than irony: repetition is one of the core parts of real life that storytelling wants to streamline.)

So, what’s enough variety?

Well first, enough for what, to add what to the story?

One great virtue is the sense of completeness, of using all the potential in the characters and the situation. The more often a hero tries a different tack, or the more time he takes dealing with other sides of his life and how they all feed back into each other, the more we accept that this guy is dealing with everything and trying all his options to earn his victory. Enemies who know how to blindside him are more menacing; worlds with more detail are more convincing.

And, there’s another advantage, in the dramatic impact those scenes have. By setting out more kinds of scenes, characters, and action, a story is setting out more varied examples of what’s at stake for those scenes. Which means, there’s more room for a scene’s plan to go wrong, or go very right or cross over and affect some other thread of the story, without cutting off or changing the entire flow of the tale.

A hero can only lose so many physical fights before he’s beaten to a pulp (or the reader’s trust is), but what about losing the job he spent whole chapters struggling to get—or winning that job just when he needs new contacts for other struggles? More variety means more stakes, and more chances to turn them into real, dramatic change without breaking the story.

There’s a checklist in this somewhere, and I’m just starting to sort it out. Next week, let’s see how it looks.

Quiet Scene or Boring Scene? What can make the difference

We call them “character moments” or “pacing breaks” when we write them, or “boring scenes” when somebody else tries and fails. We know the story isn’t complete if it’s all twists and suspense, but making the slower “day in the life” moments work is harder than it looks. Still, I’ve found there’s one tool that does a lot to make those slower scenes more appealing.

(The Unified Writing Field Theory — searchings and findings on what makes stories work)

The first step is to be sure why the scene needs to be there. It’s easy to say “there have to be slow moments,” but a writer–and then a reader–ought to be able to put a finger right on which fact, characterization, or lull or shift of mood a scene is contributing to the story’s sequence. That is, why this moment with the character’s family is a different and better one to show than the home scene he probably had yesterday, and how much room the overall pacing has for them.

The basics matter too. The more you know the character and the issues, and the more you’ve established about them so you can show what small ways this scene changes them–and the reader’s primed to care about those–the easier it is to pull off a quiet scene. Then again, you’ve still got full control over how much has gone by “off camera” before the moment you start the scene, how soon you can end it, and how much you can summarize or “blur forward” to cover a time faster; you’re looking for the right moments and the ideal pace(s) to cover them without wasting space. Or maybe the quiet scene does double service because it’s also the one that’s interrupted by something important, or has it developing in the background.

But most of all, I like to write quiet scenes with the same thing that makes active scenes work: focus. That is, even when the hero isn’t fighting for his life, I still focus on what he wants, right now.

To take the classic example, say the scene’s a typical morning at work. But making it interesting means putting yourself a little more into that character’s shoes.

If you enjoy your work, the scene could just be about being in your element. You’re tending your bar, flying your jet–or writing your blog–and each thing that comes up is just something you can handle, simple and satisfying. Or a variation could be, the work is ordinary or petty, but it barely matters because the people around make the day fun.

Or maybe it isn’t going so well: sometimes work’s just a grind or a case of working through sizzling heat, surly crowds, or even Murphy’s Law kicking each time you’re about to fix the last thing. This time you just want to get through the day, coping with each moment but the real fight is to keep your temper down and a few of your hopes up, and any bright spot there or moment of weakness probably means more than the facts themselves.

Or, the challenges may not be quite so minor or so implacable. If you’ve got one customer that’s hard to please or a chance to impress your boss, coping with that makes the scene develop twists and a scramble of trying one thing and then the next, the same as the major scenes the story’s really about.

Then there’s the other side to scenes like this: besides what’s going on now, what happened last night or before then that’s on your mind, or what are you worrying or planning or hoping is coming soon? A date, an injury, a visit with your family, or Something Odd that you’re so sure won’t mean anything more…

Those are some of the points a quiet scene might make. The first approach shows a happy character with something to lose, while the second’s displeasure might make him someone who needs a change or is likely to see it get even worse. The third intensifies how it could go either way, and it puts more emphasis on a win or a loss and on how the character tries to solve problems, plus anything in the mix that may be part of the larger story. The fourth pairs the one scene with other happenings (and if anything important’s been going on, it should be on his mind) and opens up all kinds of contrasts between them.

But it’s all easier to write when you take a closer look at what the character wants just then–token or specific challenges, or managing his reaction to them, and/or other thoughts. Because whatever those are, right now it’s what changes and arcs those go through that are filling the character’s world. Even if there isn’t much at stake now, doing justice to the struggle for it–by the same rules as the larger plots–is what makes the scene both fun on its own and adding that moment of comfort or stress or whatever it is to the story.

I’ll come back to something I said earlier, and put it a bit differently now: be sure the scene has something new to say. However much you like the character’s moments at work or how he is with his girl, only add scenes where you can put some twist on what you’ve already shown, and keep to that part of it. Does this date have an incident that’s really cute enough to make this the scene to show? Is his time with his father lingering on the things they haven’t quite said before, and letting the scene end at that? Use the “Tarzan Test,” that there’s something more in the mix and that the scope of that mix defines what the tale has become–it’s either large changes or seeing why the small ones are at least a little important for the moment.

Small or not, it’s those steps that make a story more interesting than just looking at random strangers. What someone’s life is, a story lays it down one piece at a time, and it’s the changes and contrasts between them that we want to see. If our hero isn’t charging across the globe saving the world right now… we just need a stronger magnifying glass to see what he is doing.

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Writing Travel Scenes: What to Keep Moving

Do you ever notice how often “the hero’s journey” isn’t just a metaphor? Travel’s a huge part of many stories, sometimes long days or weeks on the road, sometimes brief hops that still get wedged so close into the characters’ real moments they seem like they deserve a place in the story. But there’s always that question: how much do you write up, or do you show it at all?

(The Unified Writing Field Theory — searchings and findings on what makes stories work)

More than anything I’d call this a pacing question, and check that against a writer’s overall style. Some periods just need to take more time–it could almost be a paradox of:

if none of the real plot has started yet, skip forward to when it has
but when the plot’s just underway, then show more of the journey
once things are moving toward high gear, skip to the good stuff
and then when the important scene’s near, once again show the approach to it

–Not very helpful, is it? But the pacing theory is that there’s an ideal plot distance away from the more important scenes, not so far that it’s no longer worth showing and not so close the reader’s gotten too eager to rush on, and that’s the sweet spot to take some time in. That is, once you decide which are the more important scenes and what makes other moments just how far away from them. One writer’s cut-to-the-chase’s-warmup is another’s favorite time to pause and say goodbye to how things were.

Part of that’s each writer’s own style. The more you use description and mood overall, the odder it’s going to look if you skip ahead… unless part of your pattern is skipping ahead, because you writer fewer but richer scenes. It all gets mixed together to decide which side of pacing a moment is.

(Another point: one way to give a sense of time passing without showing any of it is to show something else, or rather someone else. So if the story has multiple viewpoints, momentarily shifting to a different one for gives some weight to that passing time, even without the specifics of a villain’s schemes or a mentor’s trust or whatever contrast works with what’s going on now.)

Still, there’s no lack of options for what might fill up the travel time you want to show, to just the degree you want to show it:

Description of course. A lot of travel is having so much time to take in the scenery… and also get acquainted with how hard the seat is, how welcome the meals are, and other points that might not seem as exciting but do plenty to put the reader right in the characters’ place there.

Characterization, using dialog and other tools (and thoughts) to advance our knowledge of the characters, and the characters’ connection to each other– the classic Road Movie claims to be more about bonding with the other folks in the car than anything on the way.

News and clues, any updates on anything that matters, from broadcasts about the killer on the loose to moments the gas tank seems to be a lot emptier than it was before. Even a small hint or reminder can keep a bit of suspense building.

Progressions, whatever people are doing as they go. Remember Luke getting that lightsaber lesson on the way to Alderaan, and achieving his “first step into a larger universe?” Look for anything interesting that’s underway meanwhile.

(Of course, one common progression is the growing sense that they’re on the wrong road, or need to rest or otherwise change their plans…)

and then, Events. There are always small (or not so small) complications or shifts where what the people try to go past–or who’s going past them–step in and break up the pattern. They might be using a scene to make a point that could have been through general description or other methods, or it could the start of a genuine subplot or a taste of what’s up ahead.

A travel sequence could be a few words of “By the time they cleared the forest, he never wanted to smell sap again.” Or it could be pages or chapters, about either the journey itself or the writer’s wish list of how many things could be established or worked out on the way. But those are a few of the choices.

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If your scenes look too similar… try the Tarzan Test

It’s one of the nastiest problems in writing, because it can pop up either because we’re struggling or because we’re getting in the groove: we keep using another of the same kind of similar scenes. Hero and heroine argue, or maybe hero uses his professional skill to work through the problem, or bullets fly… again. I’ve slipped into a few of them more often than I’ll admit, maybe because I’m trying to play to my strengths as a writer or because a given story does call for a lot of a thing. (For some reason gangsters in trouble like shooting people.) So I try to look at my plot through what I call the Tarzan Test, both to keep my scenes distinct and to see if those patterns can be a good thing for what the story is.

(The Unified Writing Field Theory — searchings and findings on what makes stories work)

The test goes like this:

If Tarzan fights a lion, and then he ever fights another lion, that’s redundant
–or not

Check every scene against every other scene. Any two that start looking similar risk boring the reader… unless the writer’s good at making a distinction between them. But at the same time, if you’ve worked out a lot about what makes one lion stronger than another, or why one comedy act works and another fails, using both scenes puts real focus on what makes them each tick. The book I’m working on now, The High Road, has more a number of scenes of the heroes using their discovery to fly over the city, but in some scenes it’s to look for clues about their enemies and in others it’s to cope with the power’s side effects.

Of course, favoring action or conversation or whichever is part of what makes any story what it is, for genre and style and just because of what that tale’s key elements are. (Besides, we writers do have our preferences, and readers do open our books expecting certain things, so we ignore them at our peril.)

But it goes beyond that:

If Tarzan fights a lion, then fights a crocodile, the story’s about the jungle
If he fights a lion and then a poacher, it’s about the jungle plus who comes there
If he fights a lion and then a World War I battle, it’s Tarzan in the larger world

The variety in scenes might do more than anything else to define what the story is. Making only animals the enemy makes a different statement than giving a human a turn as villain, and so does every other choice. There are writers and readers that would love to see Tarzan in something as realistic as the WWI trenches (the period’s about right), and others who think that breaks the fantasy of what the stories should be.

If he fights a lion and then talks with Jane…
If he fights a lion and then speaks in London about ecology…

Naturally a story is more than one type of scene. But one tale could use only a few types, others could have many… and then, what’s the balance between them? One writer could use a visit to the city as a token excuse for a range of rooftop battles, while another works through dozens of different reactions to bringing him to “civilization.”

I sometimes think of scenes’ variety as dots within a circle. The shape they make might be wide and diverse or tightly clumped, but its overall breadth tells us how many things the story’s about; meanwhile within that given space, having at least some of those points evenly spread out tells a lot about how well it’s being explored.

If he fights a lion and dies saving Jane…

What each scene does for the story still means more than how it compares to the other scenes. And those effects are the biggest key for which parts are more different, and more important.

After all, even if you could kill off Tarzan, you could never do it through him saving anyone else. That’s just who he is.

(Update: for more musings on scene variety and ways to check for it, look at Been There Done That?)