This scene does a lot, but for the sake of economy, I’m going to focus on three major roles this scene plays in the larger context of the play.
LAERTES (Aside) Me thinkest there may have been some punny type insider jokes in that sentence.
First, the scene provides comic relief for the reader. Why does Shakespeare bother with comedy here? In other words: Why is the inclusion even worth noting? Balance. At this point in the play, we’ve just come from some really heavy material, and we’re about to launch into a sharp spike that will lead to the climax. This comic scene acts like a buffer between two emotionally intense parts of the play.
Shakespeare has in mind the reader experience, and gives the reader a break before getting even more intense than the play has been up until this point. It’s a clever little nest to prepare the reader, like a calm before the storm. He has balanced emotional intensity with a little pit stop at the Comedy Club.
Secondly, in Yorick (one of the dead guys whose skull is tossed from the grave during the digging), we have a symbol that serves the overall themes of the play. Yorick is the court jester on whose back Hamlet rode as a child.
In this moment, Hamlet comes to terms with the ephemeral nature of life. Hamlet looks at this skull and reflects on the lips he used to kiss, lips that are no longer there.
This realization helps him to come to terms with the question he’s been grappling with for the entire play. (No, not “to be or not to be,” silly: whether or not to kill his uncle to avenge his father’s death.)
Here we have an excellent example of economy: Shakespeare uses Hamlet’s confrontation with a skull not only as comic relief to balance emotional intensity, but he also uses it as a turning point in the action, small though it may be.
Shakespeare has killed two partridges with one pebble (or something like that) in this moment, by having this one scene serve multiple purposes. That concept lies at the heart of economy.
But wait, there’s more.
Why does Shakespeare have staying power? Because we are deeply in love with Middle English? No. Because his stories, though over 500 years old, still strike a chord in what it means to be human. They ring with authenticity. (Remember when we talked about the power of relatability?)
Want proof? By having the jester serve as the catalyst for the climax of the play—the murder, the main tragedy—he hints at the enigmatic intertwining of comedy and tragedy. Who cares? Isn’t this all English Professor-y mumbo jumbo?
Not really. Shakespeare has gotten to the essential nature of what it is to be human. Have you ever seen someone laugh at a funeral? Or cry while laughing? This quandary, this seeming disparity, is at the core of the human experience, and by digging into it, Shakespeare has made the reader feel some of the ambiguous angst that has plagued Hamlet throughout the play.
This is A+++ level stuff from a writing standpoint. (Obviously, it’s Shakespeare.) But it’s a standard to aspire to as writers, to try on, and work through.
Every scene, every moment, every word should help to move something along: theme, plot, character arc—and if you can kill two or more roadrunners with one rock? Bonus points. That’s when the exception isn’t an exception at all.
Economy in the exposition
Ok, so we all want to be the next Shakespeare, and we’re probably not going to get there (at least I’m not), but here are a few tips you can try to get yourself a little closer to touching the threads on the hem of the robe of greatness.
Pacing is important throughout your novel, but if I had to choose a time when it’s most important, I would say the exposition.
The exposition is an area where many beginning writers fall flat. Why?
It’s usually because these writers wait too long to give us the problem. The temptation for beginning writers is to give too much backstory in the exposition. You want to tell us how the two best friends met and what color hair they have and the description of the bench that they’re sitting on in the park in the city. You get the idea.
Remember the secret sauce about backstory? No? Ok, I’ll tell you again. (You could take notes, you know.) You, the author, need to know your characters’ entire histories. You need to know your characters as well as, or better than, your best friends. But at the end of the day, there is very little that you need to share with your reader.
Finding this balance is one of the main challenges of pacing. Yes, we need to understand your characters. No, we don’t need an entire FBI file on them.
The same goes for setting and any kind of physical description. We need to know we’re in the woods. We probably don’t need the lowdown on tree bark.
The problem for us pantsers is that, for the most part, we’re not going to know what helps to move the story along until we’re able to see the story. And we can’t see the story until we’ve finished at least one draft. (If you’re anything like me, it might take you several drafts to decide on the final plot arc.)
You can’t make detail decisions until you’ve completed the final plot arc.
Again, that is why I say that pacing happens in the revision phase, and in the revision phase, you need to go back to the exposition and start pulling weeds, now that you know where your story’s going.
Here’s an example. A beginning writer might be tempted to start a story off telling us how a couple met, how they fell in love, and how their relationship eventually went sour when one of them committed some egregious error. (Leaving underwear on the floor perhaps?) We might get a lead up to who’s at fault, with multiple perspectives on how the characters got to where they are now.
Why is it tempting for beginning writers to start a novel this way? Easy. That’s how we, as writers, start a story. When we first meet our characters and begin to get to know them, we see their origins, their physicality. Like meeting a new person, we start to get to know them slowly over time.
However—and this is very important—you’re not going to write your characters’ story in real time. Your job as an author is to be a storyteller. Storytellers are engaging. Storytellers mesmerize us. Storytellers could keep you enthralled for an hour telling you about some guy who couldn’t open the mayonnaise jar.
Here’s a moment where a storyteller might start the story:
“I want a divorce,” David said. He flicked the signal to turn into our drive, like any other Sunday afternoon.
“What?” I asked. I ran my hands over the soft, blue silk of my best church dress.
I tried to focus on his words as he put the car in park, but all I could think of was the trunk full of groceries, and that the ice cream must be melting by now.
Now, I just wrote that on the fly. Nobody’s calling me on the phone offering me prize money and round trip tickets to Stockholm—nor will they—but it does illustrate a couple of tricks you can implement in your writing to help move the story forward and include the appropriate balance of backstory.
1) Include backstory in scene
This couple has been married long enough to have a routine, to own a suburban home (presumably). Do we need to know how long they’ve been married or what prompted the desire for divorce? Maybe, but not now.
See? That’s pacing. We release the information slowly, over time. We’re building.
2) Include characterization in scene.
He drives in this relationship. His behavior is alpha; her behavior is submissive. We can tell a lot about their relationship by the limited action we’ve seen so far.
She wears silk to church. Do you have an idea of the kind of person who wears silk vs., say, jeans and a T-shirt? We don’t need to say she’s stuffy or prissy or repressed, but we can guess some of those attributes by what she’s wearing.
Can we verify our suspicions? No. But that mystery also compels us to keep reading.
We all want to be right and your reader is no exception. She wants to Sherlock Holmes her way through your novel, and verify her suspicions along the way—which is why you should...
3) Assume your re
ader is smart enough to fill in the blanks.
Where does this couple live? Is it a big house or a small house? Is she a brunette or blonde?
You probably see all the details in the story you’re writing. Some writers really, really, really want to share, like a five-year-old who can’t wait to tell you about the frog she’s caught.
Play nicely, writer friend.
Take your turn. Give your reader a chance to play too. Your reader has an imagination and wants to use it. If you give away every single detail, you’re not giving your reader the chance to join in the fun.
Assume your reader is smart enough to fill in some of the blanks, and give them the opportunity to do so.
4) Start the scene in media res.
In media res means in the middle of the action. I didn’t lead up with backstory. I just got to the heart of the matter. This won’t work all the time, and it’s very easy to overdo—so use it sparingly—but it can be very effective when done right.
(If we’re making secret sauce, in media res is jalepeno—a little bit goes a long way.)
Nearly every action film begins in media res, usually with some type of action-packed chase scene. Why? It gets your attention. It’s an effective hook.
5) Allow some room for your reader to ask questions.
What kind of a guy asks for a divorce after church? Was there something at church that was the final trigger? Leave some of the tension for the rest of the story. Answer your reader’s questions later. That’s the purpose of the rest of the chapter, and indeed the rest of the book.
6) Use symbols to create tension.
Using symbols is one of the most complicated techniques of all, and when a writer tries to do it, it often feels forced.
Remember when I said, “Don’t call yourself a writer if you refuse to be a reader?” Here’s where the reading pays off.
If you’ve ever tried to learn a second language, you know that reading in that second language is difficult but that over time, it is one of the most powerful tools for developing fluency.
Not only are you learning vocabulary, but you’re learning syntax: how words go together.
When you read (in general, no need to read in a second language, but hey, whatever floats your bateau), you become fluent in literary devices, you no longer have to think about them or try to use them, they become part of your lexicon.
Here’s what I was going for in this lil snippet:
The husband puts the car in park.
He puts a stop to things.
Lame? Too much of a stretch? Too English-y?
Consider this: I wrote the piece. I could have had him start the car. They could have been leaving for church. Consider the implications of that juxtaposition. He’s starting something as he’s asking for another thing to end? Totally different feeling.
I’m thinking he’s having an affair.
Let’s look at another:
The ice cream is melting.
Just like their relationship, it’s fading away, slipping out of her fingers. It’s out of her reach. She can’t stop it.
At least for now. We don’t know what happens when she opens the car door—for the ice cream or for her marriage. There’s potential there, and that potential creates tension.
(So now it’s a symbol and a tension builder. Remember the two birds thing?)
Further, the groceries indicate a future (at least of eating together) that they no longer have. The ice cream is part of those groceries, of that future, and it’s melting away, slowly, in the car that’s heating up under a blazing sun, a car that’s stagnated in the driveway of their marriage…
Ok, that got melodramatic fast. My funny business up there ^^^ is an excellent illustration of why less is more (see clarity), why the first image did better work than the mumbo jumbo I just wrote.
A note about the process.
When I wrote the driveway passage I wasn’t thinking of the elements I would use. I just set out to write a paragraph that would address tools a storyteller carries around. Once I finished, I analyzed what I had done and laid it out for you so you could do it. (Don’t you hate those books where they show you awesome examples, and then give you no clue why it’s so awesome or how to do it on your own?)
I’m not telling you about my process so you will send me fan mail to tell me how amazing I am; I am telling you that so you can see that you can do it too.
Years and years of reading widely have increased my knowledge base. I can draw from it, just as any reader-cum-writer can.
I wouldn’t be writing this book and doing the work I do if I didn’t believe that the writing process can be taught, and I don’t want this moment to escape with the illusion that I am some kind of word magician. There’s no magic here, only lots of years of trying and failing, and reading–and those are easily acquired if you’re willing to put in the effort.
Your turn.
Give it a go. Yes, it’s ok to write in your book. Ok, use a separate piece of paper if you insist.
Look at the list of elements I pulled from the air. Choose a scene from your novel and rewrite it, implementing some of these techniques.
A note on formulas
Formulas are great—if you’re a chemist.
Have you ever read a book that had that “constructed” feel, like the same pattern over and over again?
The key for your writing is to think of Ma’s sauce—there’s no written recipe anywhere. She learned to make it by taste, as her ancestors did before her.
Writing is like that. You’ve got your end goal in mind—a completed story—but the paths that will take you there will vary.
They should vary—for the reader’s sake, they absolutely should vary. No formulas allowed.
You might be tempted once you hit on something that works to keep doing that thing. Start in media res, use a symbol for the tension, introduce the character by comparing her to the setting…repeat.
You might think you’ve struck gold and want to repeat the same technique over and over again.
Do so at your own peril. You will bore the reader to tears with any kind of pattern. The thinking here isn’t how easy it is to write your story, but the feast your readers will have when you place your well-spiced gourmet novel before them.
Remember the Weaving?
I’ve compared writing to a lot of things in this book, but one of the major threads is weaving or knitting. (Get it? Threads? I crack myself up. Ok, moving on.)
Why is a story called a yarn?
Well, in this day in age, few of us make clothing from yarn out of necessity (it’s more of a hobby), and even fewer of us make our own yarn. Therefore, it’s reasonable for most of us that the process of spinning yarn is a lost art.
Fort #4 Photograph by Annalisa Parent
It just so happens I grew up in a small town with a Colonial past and a living museum, so let me digress.
If you’ve ever played with yarn, you noticed it’s made up a smaller threads. These are spun on a spinning wheel, or can be hand spun. To make yarn, one twirls and twirls threads (they’re called plies, for the next time you’re on Jeopardy) together until they stick together in a cohesive whole. Sounds like story-telling, right? Many threads woven together, one cohesive whole.
That’s great. We’ve figured out how to make yarn, and weave, and knit, and we can watch countless YouTube videos if that’s what we want to get into. But the pattern or recipe for writing is far less straightforward. That doesn’t mean that having some kind of a visual or a map isn’t helpful; it just means there isn’t necessarily a one-size-fits-all.
For me as a novelist the interweaving of the plot lines is the most difficult part to conceptualize, the part where my head can spin, and I want to give up. I struggled for a long time before I came up with a system that works for me.
One of the keys to my process was figuring out that the revision is in the pacing. (See all that trouble I saved you?) By revisiting character wants and thinking about how they advan
ced my plot, I was able to complete the story in a way that felt whole and complete (rather than the tangled mess I had when I completed my first draft).
I came up with a complex structure that simplifies the thinking process for my plotting. (Ironic, ain’t it?)
One of the most important pieces of work we do in the Writing Gym is to create individualized revision systems, ways to illustrate or visualize the plot arc you’ve created.
Try it. How can you map out your plot so you can see the holes and make sure the structure is sound?
One of the aspects that makes revision hard is that we’re juggling all these character arcs with plot arcs and trying to get the pacing down.
Make it complicated. Don’t make it complicated.
One reason writing often feels difficult is conflicting advice— which is the result of the balance writing requires. When you feel overwhelmed by what feels like conflicting advice, remember the cooking analogy in the mindset section. It’s a standard tradition to have turkey and stuffing at Thanksgiving, right? But I bet your turkey and the neighbor’s turkey look and taste and smell a little different. You still both made turkey—different recipe, different spices, different technique.
(Remember Ma’s Sauce? That spaghetti photo. That was Thanksgiving; we often celebrate with a big ole platter of spaghetti and meatballs—but you’re so smart, you probably figured that out by now.)
Remember that writing is like cooking. Once you know how to make a dish, you can vary it, substitute, try different spices. But many of us the first time around with a new dish stick closely to the recipe and only vary it later.
Your mom and your grandma might tell you different ways to cook the turkey (conflicting advice) and your first time hosting Thanksgiving, you just want to get it right. When we’re learning, we want to stick to the rules, and that’s natural. As time goes on, you’ll feel more comfortable tweaking the recipe.
Storytelling for Pantsers Page 11