The Fire in Fiction

by Donald Maass

  INTRODUCTION

  Status Seekers and Storytellers

  Playing With Fire

  CHAPTER 1 Protagonists vs. Heroes

  Average Joes, Jane Does, and Dark Protagonists

  Cutting Heroes Down to Size

  Greatness

  Protagonists vs. Heroes

  Practical Tools

  CHAPTER 2 Characters Who Matter

  Special

  Ordinary

  Antagonists

  Practical Tools

  CHAPTER 3 Scenes That Can't Be Cut

  Outer and Inner Turning Points

  Dialogue

  Striding Forward, Falling Back

  First Lines, Last Lines

  The Tornado Effect

  Practical Tools

  CHAPTER 4 The World of the Novel

  Linking Details and Emotions

  Measuring Change Over Time

  History is Personal

  Seeing Through Characters' Eyes

  Conjuring a Milieu

  Setting as a Character

  Practical Tools

  CHAPTER 5 A Singular Voice

  Giving Characters Voice

  Details and Delivery

  Different Ways of Relating a Story

  Practical Tools

  CHAPTER 6 Making the Impossible Real

  The Skeptical Reader

  Making Characters Afraid

  Focus on Villains

  Verisimilitude: Pseudoscience, Genuine Facts

  Scary Monsters

  Practical Tools

  CHAPTER 7 Hyperreality

  The Secrets of Satire

  Funny People, Funny Places

  Sending Up Society

  Funny Voices

  Practical Tools

  CHAPTER 8 Tension All the Time

  Tension in Dialogue

  Tension in Action

  Tension in Exposition

  Transforming Low-Tension Traps

  Tension Where There Is None

  Practical Tools

  CHAPTER 9 The Fire in Fiction

  Our Common Experience

  Our Uncommon Experiences

  The Moral of the Story

  The Fire in Fiction

  Practical Tools

  INDEX

  INTRODUCTION

  We've all read them: the sixth novel in a mystery series that disappoints, the splashy-looking hardcover that proves to be empty inside, the latest novel by a favorite author that is just plain off. We wonder what went wrong. Was the author rushed, or not edited, or maybe just not trying?

  Lackluster stories turn up every day, too, in the submissions sent to my literary agency in New York. The manuscripts of published and unpublished authors alike too often lie flat on the page. They fail to engage, to excite my imagination. Feeling little for the characters and unenthusiastic about where the story may go, I scribble notes for my rejection letters.

  Then there are those manuscripts that effortlessly lift off. From the first sentence, I am immediately drawn into the world of the story. The protagonist is someone about whom I immediately care. Secondary characters come alive, and even the antagonist surprises me. I cannot help but read every page as the author unfolds his purpose, whether it is to scare me, to satirize, to uplift me, or just to amaze me.

  No doubt you have felt that way about one published novel or another. You may also have noted with envy that the publisher got behind that lucky book. You can tell that from the gorgeous cover and the book's front-of-store placement. Reviewers also gush, declaring that it's her best ever.

  What is it that puts authors at the top of their game? Is it the result of accumulated craft, experience reaped, confidence built over

  twenty or more books? Is it a sage suggestion from a veteran agent or editor? Why not tackle thus-and-such subject?

  Masterpiece novels look like singular events. We imagine that this novel is the story that the author has been burning to write. He's been saving it up, planning it for years, worked on it for a decade between delivering lesser works. In our more envious moments we may imagine that this corker was born from a one-time lightning flash of inspiration.

  I don't buy that. A lightning flash bright enough to light four hundred pages? A suggestion so brilliant that forty or more elegantly shaped scenes flow easily onto the page? A decade-long project that did not ever once grow stale?

  A masterpiece novel may be singularly inspired, and it certainly can be a once-in-a-career event. But even so, it is not magic. It may feel that way to the author. He may hype its close-to-my-heart genesis and confess in The Writer or on NPR that the manuscript wrote itself.

  It disappoints me when authors perpetuate the myth that writing is magic. Some allow it to be so. It's a shame that those writers fail to understand their own process. What's wrong with that? What's wrong is simply that magic is unpredictable. A method that's mysterious cannot be repeated.

  I believe that passion is available to every author, every time she sits down to write. Every novel can be inspired. Every scene can have a white-hot center. It is not a matter of conjuring demons, being obsessed, or just plain luck. The passion that inspires great fiction can be a writing technique as handy and easy to use as those with which all fiction writers are familiar. Passion can be a practical tool.

  What do I mean by passion? Simply put, it is the underlying conviction that makes the words matter. It is the burning drive to urgently get down something specific, something that the reader has to see. It could be as big as a universal truth about human nature or as small as the quality of the light on an autumn afternoon on the Nebraska prairie.

  Whatever it is, the words flow, or seem to, and as readers we are blown away by the author's precision and emotional force. A

  passionate author has us in her grip. Passionate fiction is not bogged down, wandering, low in tension, or beset by the many bugbears of by-the-numbers novel writing, like stereotypical characters, predictable plots, cliche-ridden prose, churning exposition, buried dialogue, and so on.

  Passionate writing makes every word a shaft of light, every sentence a crack of thunder, every scene a tectonic shift. When the purpose of every word is urgent, the story crackles, connects, weaves, and falls together in wondrous ways. No wonder such novels feel as if they are writing themselves. Actually, it is the author who has found a groove. Wouldn't it be nice if every manuscript flowed so easily?

  STATUS SEEKERS AND STORYTELLERS

  Why do some novels by published writers go wrong? To start to answer that question, I think we must first go back to the beginning and examine the two primary reasons why people write fiction.

  For thirty years I have observed fiction careers. I've seen them succeed and fail. The more I see, the more I feel that novelists fall into two broad categories: those whose desire is to be published, and those whose passion is to spin stories. I think of these as status seekers and storytellers.

  It can be tough to tell the difference, at least at first. Before their first contract, most fiction writers will urgently tell me what they believe I want to hear: I am totally committed to making it, to being the best writer I can be, no matter what it takes. I want to achieve excellence.

  I believe such sentiments are sincere but I have learned to take them with a grain of salt. It is over time that I discover an author's true motivation for writing. Authors themselves may not know, and all have a mixture of motives. Still, their primary reasons for writing will ultimately emerge.

  You can begin to see the difference as fiction writers try to break in. The majority of writers seek representation or publication years too soon. Rejection slips quickly set them straight. How do they respond?

  Some cleave to the timeless advice get it in the mail,
keep it in the mail. The more thoughtful pull their manuscripts and go back to work.

  Here's another clue: once in a while an unready but promising manuscript will cross my desk. Wanting to be encouraging, I send a detailed e-mail or letter explaining my reasons for rejecting it. What do you suppose is the most common response? It's the immediate offer of a trunk manuscript; a shame, since what is needed is not something else but something better.

  Serious fiction writers sooner or later reach a point where their command of craft seems good enough for them finally to break in. Their supporters agree. Critique groups proclaim the latest manuscript the best ever. Mentors say this should be published and introduce the no-longer-newcomer to New York agents at the next regional writers conference. Interest is expressed. The big break seems imminent.

  Still, rejections arrive, often glib brush-offs like I didn't love this enough or this would be difficult to place in the current market. In response, status seekers grow frustrated. They decide that landing an agent is a matter of timing or luck. Storytellers may be understandably bewildered at this stage but recognize that something is missing from their writing. They resolve to do something about it.

  At my Writing the Breakout Novel workshops I again notice the difference between these two types of writer. Some want to know how to make their manuscripts acceptable. If I do this and I do that, will I be okay? When I hear that question my heart sinks a little. That is a status seeker talking.

  A storyteller, by contrast, is more concerned with making his story the best story that it can be, with discovering the levels and elements that are missing, and with understanding the techniques needed to make it all happen. Status seekers rush me fifty pages and an outline a few months after the workshop. Storytellers won't show me their novels again for a year or more, probably after several new drafts.

  You would think that at long last finding an agent who says yes, it's time to show your novel to publishers would relax the status seeker's anxiety for validation, but that isn't true. Generally speaking, authors are never more work than during the submission process. It is normal to want updates on how submissions are going, but with status seekers the process can get nutty. If declines keep coming, I hear unhelpful suggestions. What about Viking? Didn't they launch Stephen King? Should we submit my comic vampire novel there? There also are impossible questions: What does it mean when an editor doesn't respond after six weeks?

  As you can see, questions like that don't really need an answer. What the status seeker wants is a contract. He wants to know that his years of effort will pay off.

  The first contract is a watershed that finally divides the status seekers from the storytellers. Once in the hands of an editor, a status seeker will focus on what he is getting (or not) by way of cover, copy, blurbs, and "support" like advertising and promotion. It certainly is okay to want the best for one's novel. It is also normal for publishers to put only modest effort into launching debut fiction.

  Why? Because two-thirds of fiction sales are branded—fans buying new titles by authors whose work they already love. For unknown authors, ad and promo dollars produce few unit sales. That drives status seekers crazy. Why throw money at authors who are already bestsellers? How am I supposed to grow if my publisher doesn't spend some bucks pushing me?

  Storytellers have a more realistic grasp of retail realities. They may promote, but locally and not for long. They'll put up a website, maybe, then it's back to work on the next book. That's smart. The truth, for newer authors anyway, is that the best promotion is between the covers of the last book.

  What about later stages of career? Do status seekers correct course and grasp the fundamentals of success? I wish. Typically, in mid-career, status seekers go full time too soon. They grow to rely on advances for their living. Revisions become perfunctory. Frustration grows. A friend gets a film deal and panic sets in. In-store placement, posters, and shelf talkers become the keys to salvation. After six or seven books, advance size becomes critical. I am working too hard to keep getting paid fifteen thousand per book!

  Storytellers ignore the ephemera. Their mid-career focus is hitting deadlines and delivering powerful stories for their readers. The issues that come up are about developing their series or what to write as their next stand-alone.

  In advanced stages of their career, status seekers will grumble about publishers, spend on self-promotion (or spend nothing at all), and expound as experts on getting ahead. They change agents, obsess over trunk projects, write screenplays. They wind up at small presses. A typical request from a status seeker at this terminal stage is, I whipped off a graphic novel last weekend; can you find me a publisher for it?

  Storytellers are different. Storytellers look not to publishers to make them successful, but to themselves. They wonder how to top themselves with each new novel. Their grumbles are not about getting toured but about getting more time to deliver. Storytellers take calculated risks with their fiction. Mostly they try to make their stories bigger.

  Therein lies the essence of why storytellers succeed where status seekers fail: Storytellers may seem anointed, but they are anointed by readers. Give readers stories that blow them away every time and they will become the loyal generators of the sales that make career success appear effortless.

  Storytellers are oriented the right way; consequently, their stories almost never go wrong. Which type of fiction writer are you? Really? I believe you, but the proof is in your passion and whether or not it gets on the page.

  PLAYING WITH FIRE

  Readers know when a novel is drifting off course. We may not be able to articulate where the problem lies, but clearly some novels are poorly focused, lacking force, self-indulgent, or just plain ill-conceived.

  What went wrong? Was it a stubborn refusal to abandon a difficult idea? Was there something in the story that the author was afraid to tackle? Or was it some flaw in the premise itself, a subject that simply didn't have enough juice?

  It is essential, I believe, to realize that the power of a novel doesn't lie in some independent inner life. A timely topic by itself will not make a novel great. Nor can a novelist count on characters to take over the story. The strength of a novel arises, rather, from the author's day-to-day story development. A sound idea and dynamic characters are merely starting points. Greatness comes in the shaping.

  If you have read my previous book, Writing the Breakout Novel, or used my Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook, you know that I believe in learning from others. Everything we need in order to understand the techniques of passion lies within the covers of novels that you will find currently on the shelves. In picking illustrative examples I have selected from many genres, subjects, styles, and intents. There is some bias toward recent novels of long-published writers and toward bestsellers, but those are not the only criteria.

  Plot descriptions put my examples in context. Be aware that there are plot spoilers ahead. If you like, read the novels cited herein first for enjoyment and later for technique. I don't care. All that matters to me is that you stop waiting for magic and embrace passion as a daily practice.

  At the end of each chapter you will find exercises. These are the practical techniques, the application of the theory. Try them. There is a tendency among writers to read writing advice and think right, got it. Then at the next keyboard session, the words flow in the same old way. It's what feels safe, I know, but to grow you must try new things.

  Master novelists do. In fact, I believe they are uncomfortable when they are playing it safe. So what about you? Are you ready for a leap into mastery? Are you ready to control your own success? Do you want to blow away your readers every time? If so, put the methods herein to use right away.

  If you do that, I think you will feel an immediate difference in your writing. In a little while you should find every sentence, every scene, and every writing session growing productive in exciting ways. I suspect that since you will be stoking the fire in your stories as a matter of routine, you will soon
stop believing in luck. You may ultimately see that mastery is not a mystery, nor a state to be achieved sometime later on. Greatness is within your grasp now.

  Showing you the practical methods that, when used by others, we call mastery is the purpose of The Fire in Fiction. Applying those methods is your challenge. When you have these techniques working for you, go ahead and tell your fans that it's all magic, if you like. You and I will know that passion is your craft and that you use it every day.

  Is there a difference between a protagonist and a hero? A protagonist is the subject of a story. A hero is a human being with extraordinary qualities. A protagonist can be a hero, certainly, but isn't always. Quite often in manuscripts the protagonists are ordinary people. They may face extraordinary circumstances in the course of the story but when we first meet them they, in effect, could be you or me.

  That early introductory moment is where many authors begin to lose me. Why? Meeting a protagonist who is a proxy for me, with whom I can readily identify, should be ideal, shouldn't it? Isn't that how sympathy arises? I see myself in the novel's focal character and, therefore, her experience becomes mine? Actually, it doesn't work quite like that. A reader's heart does not automatically open just because some average schlemiel stumbles across the page.

  What draws you to people in life? An even better question is, to what degree are you drawn to people in life? It varies, doesn't it? Most people leave you indifferent, I'll bet. When you are pushing your loaded shopping cart across the supermarket parking lot, are you filled with love for your fellow shoppers? (You are? Are you tripping on ecstasy?) How about your fellow workers? Probably you find reasons to like them. Your friends? No doubt your shared experiences, values, and interests keep them in your circle.

  Now think about the people whom you deeply admire. Who are the individuals for whom you would cancel other plans? Who stirs in you awe, respect, humility, and high esteem? Are these regular people, no different than anyone else? They may not be famous but they are in some way exceptional, right?

  Whether they are public figures or just ordinary in profile, our heroes and heroines are people whose actions inspire us. We would not mind spending ten straight hours or even ten days with them. That is important because ten hours is about how long it takes to read a novel and ten days is not an uncommon period of time for readers to commit to a single book. When it is your book, what sort of protagonist do you want your readers to meet? One whom they will regard more or less as they do a fellow grocery shopper?