By Beth Terrell
Writer's block. Some writers believe in it; others don't. Some say it's a manifestation of fear of success. Some say it's the Muse's way of telling you, "Hold on. Pietro and Penelope don't need to fall into each other's arms yet. That's too easy. They need to miss each other at the marketplace. And Umberto's jeep needs to have a flat tire on the way to his assignation with Clementine. STOP! YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!"
Some say writer's block is an excuse not to produce, that there is no such thing as plumber's block or widget-maker's block, so you should just get off your duff (or on it, in front of your computer), and write something. Some say there are many different types of writer's block, some more serious than others, and all with different underlying causes. Sometimes it's not writer's block at all, they say. The block is just a symptom of the real problem. For example, a person battling severe depression isn't blocked; he's depressed. Treat the depression, and the block will take care of itself.
I don't claim to be an expert on writer's block and whether or not it exists, but I do know that, if I go a few days without writing, it gets easier to go a few more days and harder to sit back down at the computer and crank out words. Sometimes when that happens, it's because life has gotten in the way, but often it's because I've come to what I call a sticky part--a place in the book where the writing gets tough, the emotion gets too intense, or I'm not sure which way to go next. I put off writing one scene for weeks, because I knew it was going to break Jared's heart--and mine. Whatever the reason, cranking out words is exactly what I need to do.
So I pick up an empty spiral notebook and a ballpoint pen, imagine calling Jared (my protagonist) over to sit beside me, and ask him, "And then what happened?" From there, it's like taking dictation. He talks, and I scribble down what he says. When he stops talking, I ask him a question to start the ball rolling again. "What did that look like? How did you feel when that happened? And then what did she do?"
I know that what comes out will be rough and raw and in no shape to be shown to anyone. I know that parts of the story will change, sometimes dramatically. But the exercise gets me moving again. It adds to the block of metaphorical clay from which the real story will be shaped, and it gets me past the sticky parts so that writing can be a joy again.
How about you? What helps you get past the sticky parts?
Showing posts with label protagonist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label protagonist. Show all posts
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Hit and Run
By Beth Terrell
As usual, I was running late yesterday morning. A few too many minutes snuggling with the dogs after the alarm went off, a little too long in the steaming shower, and I was faced with a choice I'd been making all too often lately: take the interstate to work and (if the traffic is no heavier than usual) arrive on time, or take an alternate route and pull into the parking lot fifteen minutes late--ten if the lights were with me.
I took the interstate. It was raining, and the streets were slick and shiny in my headlights. Traffic was heavy, but moving briskly. I needed to cross three lanes of traffic and merge into the far left lane by the time I-24 split off toward Chattanooga. All around me, cars sped up and slowed, sped up and slowed. A gap formed between two cars, and I slipped my little Honda into the next lane over. (I love my Honda. It's black with a sprinkling of blue glitter that can only be seen under certain lights. It's like a beautiful little secret between me and the car.)
I left my blinker on, and the car in the next lane sped up to keep me from merging. (Why do people do that?) I fell back and let him pass. Then another gap appeared, and I made it into the next lane. Only one to go. I put the blinker back on and after a few minutes, merged into the far left lane, what the police officer would later call the fast lane, but which was also the only lane that would take me to I-24. A small dark car was in front of me, a big red pickup truck behind. He was moving fast, and I felt a momentary twinge, but he fell back a little, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I turned off the radio; with the rain and the traffic, I wanted to be at my most alert.
We cruised on toward the split in our little vehicular dance. Then the line of traffic in front slowed and compressed. I eased off on the gas and touched the brake. The gap between me and the car in front narrowed, but I knew I would have plenty of room to stop if I needed to. I glanced into my rear view mirror, where the red truck suddenly looked alarmingly large. I had a single lucid thought: He can't possibly stop. I turned the steering wheel to the left, knowing it was too late.
The impact snapped my head back against the headrest and shot the Honda forward. Somehow, I kept my hands on the wheel. Somehow, I guided the car into the space between the concrete barrier wall and the car in front of me. A foot to the left, and I'd have struck the concrete wall. A foot to the right, and I'd have been accordianed between the pickup and the car in front. I eased the car to a stop, hands clamped to the steering wheel, and all I could think was, "Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you, thank you."
Then I looked back into the rear view mirror and saw black. It took me a moment to realize I was looking at the crumpled lid of my trunk through the empty pane where my rear windshield used to be. The back seat sparkled with crumbled glass. I fumbled for my phone and called our site manager. "Um...Steve," I said. "I'm going to be late. Do you happen to know the number for the police? You know, that one you call if you're not about to die?"
After I hung up, it occurred to me that the driver of the pickup should have come over to trade insurance numbers by now. Maybe he'd been badly hurt. I glanced in the side mirror. Funny. I should have been able to see the truck behind me. Surely, oh surely, I thought, he's just somewhere outside the view of my mirrors. Surely he did not just drive away. I dialed the police dispatcher and then stepped out of the car to check on the other driver. No red pickup.
I began to tremble. Not only had the driver not stopped, no one stopped. If I'd been badly hurt, I would have bled to death and no one would have stopped to help me. For a moment, it was the loneliest feeling in the world. Then I told myself that f I had been on the right shoulder instead of the left, or if we had been coming home instead of heading for work, people would have stopped to help. Probably several people. That helped a little.
The emergency responder was wonderful. He stopped traffic, allowing me to get across the interstate to a safer place. The responding officer, Jeb Johnston, and the ambulance drivers were kind, professional, and solicitous. "You were hit by a Ford," said the officer.
"Oh," I said. "Did someone see it?"
"No." He shook his head, a hint of a grin on his lips. "We found his front grill. It's in your trunk."
For some reason, I found this immensely funny.
This would be a better story if the grill had landed there after the impact, but the truth is, the emergency responder picked it up off the road and tossed it into the trunk. Fortunately, I'm a writer, and my mind is already turning this lemon into lemonade by planning a scene in which the protagonist of my work in progress is rammed from behind by a bad guy in a red pickup truck. And in that version, guess where the front grill will end up?
There's a lot I still don't know. My little Honda may or may not be totaled. The driver of the pickup may or may not ever be caught. My insurance rates may or may not go up. But I did not die on the interstate yesterday, and for that, I feel very, very blessed.
As usual, I was running late yesterday morning. A few too many minutes snuggling with the dogs after the alarm went off, a little too long in the steaming shower, and I was faced with a choice I'd been making all too often lately: take the interstate to work and (if the traffic is no heavier than usual) arrive on time, or take an alternate route and pull into the parking lot fifteen minutes late--ten if the lights were with me.
I took the interstate. It was raining, and the streets were slick and shiny in my headlights. Traffic was heavy, but moving briskly. I needed to cross three lanes of traffic and merge into the far left lane by the time I-24 split off toward Chattanooga. All around me, cars sped up and slowed, sped up and slowed. A gap formed between two cars, and I slipped my little Honda into the next lane over. (I love my Honda. It's black with a sprinkling of blue glitter that can only be seen under certain lights. It's like a beautiful little secret between me and the car.)
I left my blinker on, and the car in the next lane sped up to keep me from merging. (Why do people do that?) I fell back and let him pass. Then another gap appeared, and I made it into the next lane. Only one to go. I put the blinker back on and after a few minutes, merged into the far left lane, what the police officer would later call the fast lane, but which was also the only lane that would take me to I-24. A small dark car was in front of me, a big red pickup truck behind. He was moving fast, and I felt a momentary twinge, but he fell back a little, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I turned off the radio; with the rain and the traffic, I wanted to be at my most alert.
We cruised on toward the split in our little vehicular dance. Then the line of traffic in front slowed and compressed. I eased off on the gas and touched the brake. The gap between me and the car in front narrowed, but I knew I would have plenty of room to stop if I needed to. I glanced into my rear view mirror, where the red truck suddenly looked alarmingly large. I had a single lucid thought: He can't possibly stop. I turned the steering wheel to the left, knowing it was too late.
The impact snapped my head back against the headrest and shot the Honda forward. Somehow, I kept my hands on the wheel. Somehow, I guided the car into the space between the concrete barrier wall and the car in front of me. A foot to the left, and I'd have struck the concrete wall. A foot to the right, and I'd have been accordianed between the pickup and the car in front. I eased the car to a stop, hands clamped to the steering wheel, and all I could think was, "Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you, thank you."
Then I looked back into the rear view mirror and saw black. It took me a moment to realize I was looking at the crumpled lid of my trunk through the empty pane where my rear windshield used to be. The back seat sparkled with crumbled glass. I fumbled for my phone and called our site manager. "Um...Steve," I said. "I'm going to be late. Do you happen to know the number for the police? You know, that one you call if you're not about to die?"
After I hung up, it occurred to me that the driver of the pickup should have come over to trade insurance numbers by now. Maybe he'd been badly hurt. I glanced in the side mirror. Funny. I should have been able to see the truck behind me. Surely, oh surely, I thought, he's just somewhere outside the view of my mirrors. Surely he did not just drive away. I dialed the police dispatcher and then stepped out of the car to check on the other driver. No red pickup.
I began to tremble. Not only had the driver not stopped, no one stopped. If I'd been badly hurt, I would have bled to death and no one would have stopped to help me. For a moment, it was the loneliest feeling in the world. Then I told myself that f I had been on the right shoulder instead of the left, or if we had been coming home instead of heading for work, people would have stopped to help. Probably several people. That helped a little.
The emergency responder was wonderful. He stopped traffic, allowing me to get across the interstate to a safer place. The responding officer, Jeb Johnston, and the ambulance drivers were kind, professional, and solicitous. "You were hit by a Ford," said the officer.
"Oh," I said. "Did someone see it?"
"No." He shook his head, a hint of a grin on his lips. "We found his front grill. It's in your trunk."
For some reason, I found this immensely funny.
This would be a better story if the grill had landed there after the impact, but the truth is, the emergency responder picked it up off the road and tossed it into the trunk. Fortunately, I'm a writer, and my mind is already turning this lemon into lemonade by planning a scene in which the protagonist of my work in progress is rammed from behind by a bad guy in a red pickup truck. And in that version, guess where the front grill will end up?
There's a lot I still don't know. My little Honda may or may not be totaled. The driver of the pickup may or may not ever be caught. My insurance rates may or may not go up. But I did not die on the interstate yesterday, and for that, I feel very, very blessed.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
The Perfect Protagonist
By Beth Terrell
I’ve heard it said that the most important character in any work of fiction is the villain, because the villain is the catalyst for the action and the one who forces change on the protagonist. But for me, the most important character in any novel is the protagonist. The most menacing villain in the world won’t save a book if we don’t care about the protagonist. (Think of Silence of the Lambs. Hannibal Lecter was a fascinating villain, but only because we cared about Clarice Starling. The later Lecter books don’t strike the same chord, because there’s no one we can believe in.) Since we're talking about mysteries and crime fiction, the protagonist is generally the sleuth, the person who is going to solve the mystery.
Can you imagine Miss Marple slugging it out with a hopped-up pimp in a shadowy alley that smells of urine and rotting garbage? Can you imagine Mike Hammer sipping tea in a parson's parlor, quietly ruminating about the psychological foibles of a small-town microcosm of society? Well, maybe you can--we're readers and writers after all; we live on imagination--but the image just doesn't hold up over the long haul. Poor Miss Marple would end up with a cut throat or a broken hip, and Mike Hammer would punch out the parson, and the balance of the universe would be restored. The story must be true to the characters.
This is not to say that the characters "take over the story" and begin writing it themselves (even though a lot of writers say they do). We like to believe that our characters, through our very own literary magic, can, like the Velveteen Rabbit, become real if we only want it badly enough. In a sense, they do become real--to us, and we hope to our readers. But what really happens when the characters "take over" is that the writer is in that creative zone, where the creative brain has suddenly realized who the characters are, what they would do, and where the story needs to go. It isn't working at the writing any more. It's playing. Let it play!
If it feels like the characters are taking over, this is the time to let them. Just remember that characters, like flesh-and-blood folks, don’t always make the right decisions. For paper-and-ink folks, the right decision is the authentic one. The wrong decision doesn’t ring true. Characters, like the rest of us, want to take the easy way out. They don’t want all this trouble, but we, as writers, have to give it to them anyway.
Characters also go astray sometimes. The creative brain thinks, “Oh, wouldn’t it be cool if Miss Marple slugged the parson?!” and Miss Marple thinks, “Hey, that’s way more interesting than nibbling on scones and sipping tepid tea!” and veers off in a direction that isn’t true to character and doesn’t serve the story. The creative brain can lead you to some wonderful places, but it can also lead you far afield. As writers, we get to play with our characters, but sooner or later, if we want to pursue this business called writing, we have to put on our editor hats and make sure they stay true to themselves.
I’ve heard it said that the most important character in any work of fiction is the villain, because the villain is the catalyst for the action and the one who forces change on the protagonist. But for me, the most important character in any novel is the protagonist. The most menacing villain in the world won’t save a book if we don’t care about the protagonist. (Think of Silence of the Lambs. Hannibal Lecter was a fascinating villain, but only because we cared about Clarice Starling. The later Lecter books don’t strike the same chord, because there’s no one we can believe in.) Since we're talking about mysteries and crime fiction, the protagonist is generally the sleuth, the person who is going to solve the mystery.
Can you imagine Miss Marple slugging it out with a hopped-up pimp in a shadowy alley that smells of urine and rotting garbage? Can you imagine Mike Hammer sipping tea in a parson's parlor, quietly ruminating about the psychological foibles of a small-town microcosm of society? Well, maybe you can--we're readers and writers after all; we live on imagination--but the image just doesn't hold up over the long haul. Poor Miss Marple would end up with a cut throat or a broken hip, and Mike Hammer would punch out the parson, and the balance of the universe would be restored. The story must be true to the characters.
This is not to say that the characters "take over the story" and begin writing it themselves (even though a lot of writers say they do). We like to believe that our characters, through our very own literary magic, can, like the Velveteen Rabbit, become real if we only want it badly enough. In a sense, they do become real--to us, and we hope to our readers. But what really happens when the characters "take over" is that the writer is in that creative zone, where the creative brain has suddenly realized who the characters are, what they would do, and where the story needs to go. It isn't working at the writing any more. It's playing. Let it play!
If it feels like the characters are taking over, this is the time to let them. Just remember that characters, like flesh-and-blood folks, don’t always make the right decisions. For paper-and-ink folks, the right decision is the authentic one. The wrong decision doesn’t ring true. Characters, like the rest of us, want to take the easy way out. They don’t want all this trouble, but we, as writers, have to give it to them anyway.
Characters also go astray sometimes. The creative brain thinks, “Oh, wouldn’t it be cool if Miss Marple slugged the parson?!” and Miss Marple thinks, “Hey, that’s way more interesting than nibbling on scones and sipping tepid tea!” and veers off in a direction that isn’t true to character and doesn’t serve the story. The creative brain can lead you to some wonderful places, but it can also lead you far afield. As writers, we get to play with our characters, but sooner or later, if we want to pursue this business called writing, we have to put on our editor hats and make sure they stay true to themselves.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
The Villain! Who, Me?
By Beth Terrell
I've been thinking about villains today, and one thing that really stands out to me is this: hardly anyone thinks he is one. Take Darth Vader. He's not out there thinking, "This is me, being the villain." He's thinking, "This is me, helping build an empire while getting even with all those jerks who didn't appreciate me back when I was a Jedi."
Or take Voldemort, the over-arching villain in J.K. Rowling's best-selling series about Harry Potter. Voldemort doesn't believe he's evil. Heck, he doesn't even believe in evil. He believes he's entitled, superior, and above all, wronged. He's just taking what's rightfully his. The Harry Potter books are chock full of villains who don't believe they're villains. Lucius Malfoy thinks he's preserving the purity of the pure-blood mages from the coarse Mud-Bloods. Toad-faced Dolores Umbridge (in my opinion, one of the most horrifying villains ever written) doesn't see herself in the black-hat role. She's standing up for order and tradition, defending the Ministry of Magic against the forces of anarchy. And you can bet that Harry Potter is not the hero of their stories. In Voldemort's mind, he's the hero. In Dolores Umbridge's mind, she is.
Of course, technically, the main character is the protagonist, who may or may not really be a hero. And the antagonist is anyone who stands between the protagonist and his or her goal, regardless of his morality. He may be a perfectly nice guy who wants to drain the marshland for perfectly good reasons. But in a mystery, the villain is usually a true villain, meaning his or her motive is generally a selfish one. I don't mean he or she has no redeeming qualities, only that the murderer in a mystery very rarely acts for altruistic or noble purposes - except maybe in his or her own mind.
So how do you make an effective villain? It's no good to make a Snidely Whiplash-style villain who twirls his curly moustache and thinks of wicked ways to kidnap the girl and foil the hero. This type of two-dimensional (or even one-dimensional) evil is rarely effective. Nor does it help much to show Snidely patting a stray dog on the head on his way to foreclose on a house he doesn't even need. Such tacked-on "good qualities" are rarely convincing, because they don't seem like part of the character.
On the other hand, Thomas Harris did a magnificent job of making the serial killer, Francis Dolarhyde, both terrifying and sympathetic. We feel for the child he was and are horrified by the monster he became, and Harris made us believe that one could easily have become the other. How? By showing us how the boy was tormented by his schoolmates because of his cleft palate, and later, how he was physically and emotionally abused by his grandmother. Harris made these scenes real, and later, when we see Francis's tenderness toward a blind woman, we understand why he takes comfort in her company, why he needs what she has to offer, and why he inevitably misunderstands her motives. None of this excuses Francis's actions. He's a villain, but he doesn't see himself that way. There are perfectly logical reasons (to him) for everything he does, even though any sane person could clearly see that his actions are evil. But because his actions grow out of his own perceptions, he is a believable villain.
That, I think, is the key. No matter how evil your villain, no matter how horrific his acts, he believes in what he is doing, and that makes us perceive him as rounded and real.
I've been thinking about villains today, and one thing that really stands out to me is this: hardly anyone thinks he is one. Take Darth Vader. He's not out there thinking, "This is me, being the villain." He's thinking, "This is me, helping build an empire while getting even with all those jerks who didn't appreciate me back when I was a Jedi."
Or take Voldemort, the over-arching villain in J.K. Rowling's best-selling series about Harry Potter. Voldemort doesn't believe he's evil. Heck, he doesn't even believe in evil. He believes he's entitled, superior, and above all, wronged. He's just taking what's rightfully his. The Harry Potter books are chock full of villains who don't believe they're villains. Lucius Malfoy thinks he's preserving the purity of the pure-blood mages from the coarse Mud-Bloods. Toad-faced Dolores Umbridge (in my opinion, one of the most horrifying villains ever written) doesn't see herself in the black-hat role. She's standing up for order and tradition, defending the Ministry of Magic against the forces of anarchy. And you can bet that Harry Potter is not the hero of their stories. In Voldemort's mind, he's the hero. In Dolores Umbridge's mind, she is.
Of course, technically, the main character is the protagonist, who may or may not really be a hero. And the antagonist is anyone who stands between the protagonist and his or her goal, regardless of his morality. He may be a perfectly nice guy who wants to drain the marshland for perfectly good reasons. But in a mystery, the villain is usually a true villain, meaning his or her motive is generally a selfish one. I don't mean he or she has no redeeming qualities, only that the murderer in a mystery very rarely acts for altruistic or noble purposes - except maybe in his or her own mind.
So how do you make an effective villain? It's no good to make a Snidely Whiplash-style villain who twirls his curly moustache and thinks of wicked ways to kidnap the girl and foil the hero. This type of two-dimensional (or even one-dimensional) evil is rarely effective. Nor does it help much to show Snidely patting a stray dog on the head on his way to foreclose on a house he doesn't even need. Such tacked-on "good qualities" are rarely convincing, because they don't seem like part of the character.
On the other hand, Thomas Harris did a magnificent job of making the serial killer, Francis Dolarhyde, both terrifying and sympathetic. We feel for the child he was and are horrified by the monster he became, and Harris made us believe that one could easily have become the other. How? By showing us how the boy was tormented by his schoolmates because of his cleft palate, and later, how he was physically and emotionally abused by his grandmother. Harris made these scenes real, and later, when we see Francis's tenderness toward a blind woman, we understand why he takes comfort in her company, why he needs what she has to offer, and why he inevitably misunderstands her motives. None of this excuses Francis's actions. He's a villain, but he doesn't see himself that way. There are perfectly logical reasons (to him) for everything he does, even though any sane person could clearly see that his actions are evil. But because his actions grow out of his own perceptions, he is a believable villain.
That, I think, is the key. No matter how evil your villain, no matter how horrific his acts, he believes in what he is doing, and that makes us perceive him as rounded and real.
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