Writing Young Adult Fiction For Dummies

by Deborah Halverson

  Okay, we have the initial problem. But I need something else, a secondary problem, a complication that ignites the reader’s imagination and makes him root for Gabe, a sort of underdog. So appears Frankie, a wannabe gangster two years younger than Gabe. Frankie is practicing his trade with a crew of three other boys. A bully at heart, he’s testing the streets, especially in the streets where toughness matters. Frankie taunts Gabe on several occasions, eggs him on, calls him this and calls him that. Gabe does his best to avoid a confrontation until Gabe responds to an insult to his mother, which results in a bloody fistfight in a strip mall. But it all starts with Gabe physically moving away from his father and encountering Frankie.

  But wait, there’s more! Frankie’s family, rotten to the core, is involved in theft. We move to their garage, stacked ceiling high with stolen goods. It’s not only stolen goods, but a puppy that has been snatched by one of Frankie’s older brothers — stolen so the puppy can be raised viciously to protect their loot. In short, the reader knows the dog is mistreated. The reader can’t accept that. And Gabe can’t either.

  A YA novelist can be painterly, yes, but he must use tension created by plot complications and the movements — swift and purposeful — of the main character to keep young readers riveted.

  Gary Soto is the author of many much-loved middle grade and young adult novels, short stories, plays, and poetry collections, including Accidental Love, The Afterlife, Mercy on These Teenage Chimps, and the acclaimed Baseball in April and Other Stories. Find out more about Gary at www.GarySoto.com.

  Sometimes a chapter is a single event experienced from beginning to end. Other times, a chapter is broken down into several different events (scenes) that together achieve the single chapter goal. After you accomplish that goal, through one scene or many, the chapter is complete.

  Use this list to ensure your chapter includes all the necessary ingredients:

  Your character has a need or goal that ties into the overall plot.

  The character takes action on that goal but encounters conflict.

  The conflict mucks things up further for your character.

  The character is stuck with a new or worsened problem (a setback) to deal with in the next chapter.

  In this manner, your plot progresses chapter by chapter until it hits the climax, when things finally improve for your character.

  Keep in mind that writing is not a paint-by-numbers project. I guarantee you’ll find books with chapter structures that look nothing like the ones I describe. Sudden changes in chapter length can create dramatic tension, as in a two-word chapter that simply says, “Sarah’s dead.” Deviating from expectations is a great way to create drama and manipulate the story’s pace, as I show you in Chapter 6.

  Staging the scene

  A scene is a single event with its own conflict that, when combined with other scenes, contributes to the overall goal of the chapter. This progression of scenes within a chapter is called scene-sequencing.

  As with chapters, a scene has a main character with a need or goal, the character takes action on that goal and encounters conflict, and then the situation is worsened at the end, leaving him with another problem to deal with in the next scene. The big difference between a scene and a chapter is that a scene sticks to its own specific issue, and it doesn’t try to move the character into a whole new phase of the plot. That’s the chapter’s job. When a scene is complete, readers know more or are more emotionally affected, but the character may have to address another issue or two in one or more scenes before he’s ready to move on.

  Tension comes from having something personal and important at stake. If you use scene-sequencing to keep raising the stakes one notch at a time, you continually amp up the tension in your novel.

  You may cut to a new scene because of a change in venue. Scenes usually take place in one location but not always. For example, a character may nag her sister from one room to another, or a kid may be chased on bike around town. The chasing or the nagging is the event that defines the scene.

  The first-paragraph survey: Critiquing your plot progression

  Back in my college days, I learned a speed-reading technique called surveying that bolstered my reading speed and comprehension. Using my fingers to pull my eyes along the page, I scanned the first sentence of each chapter to get a feel for what I was about to read. If there were headings and subheadings, I surveyed those, too. Then I’d go back and whiz through the meat of the chapters, filling in the details of what I’d already figured out from my survey. This technique worked for nonfiction, textbooks, how-to’s, and, yes, fiction. Years later, as a children’s book editor and then a published YA author, I realized that surveying can help fiction writers critique their plot progression. I call it the first-paragraph survey.

  You apply the first-paragraph survey to finished first drafts. The technique reveals flaws in the progression of your plot or character arc. These flaws are important to discover because plots that stutter, stall, or wander off on tangents lose their readers. Forward momentum is crucial to a strong story.

  Apply the first-paragraph survey by reading the first paragraph of each chapter in your manuscript. See whether your plot is escalating in tension and your character is being pushed to her brink. Each chapter opening should at least partially reveal the situation that plays out in the chapter. Ideally, you’ll find that each chapter is a clear next step from the previous one. If you encounter a chapter that isn’t a clear next step, you’ve probably discovered a scene that doesn’t forward the plot or the character arc. If you encounter a chapter that feels like a repeat of the action in the previous one, that’s a signal that your plot may have stuttered or stalled.

  As you slice and dice your plot, don’t be afraid to cut out something completely. Excise or rewrite any chapter that doesn’t show clear forward movement in characterization and plot. Killing scenes or chapters you love is hard, but everything in your book must earn its keep. Your story doesn’t have any room for your pets. Teens are objective readers and have no such attachment to your individual scenes and chapters.

  You can see the first-paragraph survey at work in Chapter 8, where I explore how Phillip Pullman’s The Golden Compass uses setting to push the plot through his book. You can apply the first-paragraph survey to scene sequences within chapters, too. Your goal is the same: to make sure every scene pushes the character toward the goal of the chapter. If it doesn’t, cut it out and don’t think twice about it. Your allegiance should be to your plot and your character, not to individual incidents, scenes, or chapters.

  Sometimes multiple scenes are necessary within a chapter to let multiple characters have their say. Switching from one point-of-view character to another can be a reason to start a new scene. (More on POV in Chapter 9.)

  Don’t take this sequencing strategy as meaning you must have a linear structure for your stories. You don’t. Sometimes nonlinear structure is much more fun. Shuffling the order of events around or deliberately skipping events and then referring back to them later (or not at all) can make a story wonderfully unpredictable. Some readers enjoy filling in the blanks and deciphering twists. Just be sure you’re bumping them around for a distinct purpose and that the order fits the theme or style of the story. Readers may enjoy a challenge, but they don’t enjoy a meandering mess.

  Exercise: See the scene

  Make each scene prove its worth on paper before you commit it to the page. Write a scene synopsis first, noting your scene goal, how it will contribute to the chapter goal, and why the book absolutely will not be complete without this scene. If you’re an outliner, fill this out:

  Character: Name the POV character.

  Scene goal: How does this scene contribute to the chapter goal?

  Action: What action will your character take to accomplish his scene goal?

  Conflict: What will foil your charact
er’s effort?

  Setback: What’s the new problem for the next scene, or how is the old problem worsened?

  Another way to wrap your brain around the role of conflict in a scene is to think of the “action + conflict = setback” sequence as “action + reaction = setback.”

  Here’s a filled-in sample:

  Character: Freshman Jill, the aspiring cheerleader

  Scene goal: This final scene in a three-scene sequence has Jill trying to teach herself cheerleading skills but failing. Unlike the two scenes before, this scene makes her failure public.

  Action: Jill tries to learn to do a handspring in the privacy of her best friend’s backyard.

  Conflict: Jill’s best friend catches her neighbor, who happens to be the school’s “Morning Update” cameraman, filming Jill when she flips herself onto the laundry line and then hangs there, awaiting extraction.

  Setback: Jill must now find a way to convince Camera Boy to delete the humiliating video.

  You can adapt this list for chapters, too, changing “scene goal” to “chapter goal” and asking yourself how the chapter goal contributes to the overall story goal.

  Mastering transitions

  No scene or chapter is successful without a smooth transition into and out of it. Your goal with a transition is to take your reader from what has happened to what is about to happen in a dynamic and entirely seamless way. You certainly don’t want your character to wallow around in that space between events, whiling away the time with mundane stuff like brushing teeth and sleeping and doing homework. No one wants to read that. A smooth transition skips the minutiae and instead jumps readers from one activity of interest to another with the help of dynamic openings and mini-finales:

  Dynamic openings: A strong novel re-engages readers with every new chapter and scene. Just as you do in the opening paragraphs of the book, start your chapters and scenes with a promise about what’s to come, revealing the situation that will be played out. Drop your readers into the middle of the action and let that action reveal something about your character’s current state of mind. For example, instead of making readers wait for the bus and ride into school with the main character after he has a conflict at home, just start a new scene that opens with him punching his school locker.

  Mini-finales: A strong novel pushes readers from one chapter or scene to the next with endings that leave readers craving more. I call such endings mini-finales because they have all the drama of a satisfying ending — the unpredictable twists, the painful denials, the intrigues, the surprises, and the unexpected challenges — without the final resolution that readers get in the book’s grand finale. Mini-finales get to use cliffhanger endings, where you let one character hang by his metaphoric fingertips as you turn to some other character or event entirely. This delightfully excruciating tease tactic works wonders with your tension.

  Don’t leave a character hanging too long, and don’t cut away to subplots all the time. “Delightfully excruciating” can become “totally frustrating” if readers feel unduly manipulated. It’s usually teasing enough to make your readers turn the page to the next chapter to see how the cliffhanger will be resolved.

  To see how dynamic openings and mini-finales work, first check out an example of a weak transition. See what happens when 17-year-old Shelly’s mom tells her that she can’t go on a drama club trip:

  I nearly dropped my backpack in shock. “But why not?”

  “Because I said so.”

  “That’s not a reason.”

  “Well, it’s the reason you’re getting. I’m tired of explaining myself to you. Heaven knows you don’t listen.” Mom tucked the newspaper under her arm and picked up her coffee. “I said you’re not going, and that’s final.” Then she strolled out of the room.

  Like a big dope, I just stood there and watched her go. I couldn’t believe it. I, Shelley Smith, drama club president, wasn’t going on the ski trip of the century because my mommy said no.

  I stood there a minute more before a plan struck me. I would go on the trip. I’d just get my dad to sign my permission slip. He’d be home early enough for me to call Mrs. Stanton with the official okay.

  The clock over the sink said four o’clock. Another hour and this whole thing would be settled. Dad would make it better. He always did.

  I sat down at the counter with my algebra book and flipped to the chapter on sine and cosine. Might as well get some homework done while I wait.

  Not that I had to wait long. Dad’s key rattled in the door at 4:35. He was early. Yes!

  By the time he reached the kitchen, I was already dialing Mrs. Stanton’s phone number. “Dad, you gotta help me. I have about thirty seconds to call Mrs. Stanton before she books the lodge for the drama club ski trip and I need you to sign the permission slip.”

  This example falls prey to the mundane accounting of passing time and fails to inject new energy through a location change. Now here are those same events, only with a scene break that skips the time between parental conflicts, a mini-finale that sends readers into the next scene wondering what Shelly will do to fix the setback her mom dealt her, and a dynamic opening that starts the new scene in the middle of the action:

  I nearly dropped my backpack in shock. “But why not?”

  “Because I said so.”

  “That’s not a reason.”

  “Well, it’s the reason you’re getting. I’m tired of explaining myself to you. Heaven knows you don’t listen.” Mom tucked the newspaper under her arm and picked up her coffee. “I said you’re not going, and that’s final.” Then she strolled out of the room.

  I just stood there and watched her go. I couldn’t believe it. I, Shelly Smith, drama club president, wasn’t going on the ski trip of the century because my mommy said no.

  * * *

  When Dad pulled into the driveway an hour later, he nearly ran me over.

  “Shelly! Good grief, what are you doing sitting in the driveway?”

  I raced to his window. “Ooh, that woman!”

  “What woman?”

  “Your wife.”

  “My wife? You mean your mother?”

  “Yeah. Her. That woman. Did you know she won’t let me go on the drama club ski trip? I swear, it’s like ruining my life is her new hobby now or something.” I bent down and looked him dead in the eye. “You’ve got to do something about this.”

  “Do you mind if I get out of the car first?”

  “No time for that.” I flipped open my cell phone and started dialing. “I have to call Mrs. Stanton this second. She’s booking the rooms tonight.”

  “Shelly, close the phone. Now.” He sighed and started rolling up the window.

  I grabbed hold of the glass and tried to stop it. No way was I going to get shut out twice in one day. “But Dad—”

  You see where this scene is going. The girl’s efforts to fix the problem from the previous scene are about to cause another conflict in this scene, leading to yet another setback. Both scenes contribute to the chapter’s overall goal, which is to deny Shelly this trip. By inserting a scene break in between the two events, I’ve skipped the boring stuff and provided dynamic ins and outs. That makes for a more lively pace and reading experience.

  Leaving Teens Satisfied

  A great YA novel ends with the same careful attention to its readers’ needs that it shows in Chapter One. Chief among those needs is character empowerment. Letting your teen protagonist resolve his own story is essential. And you must make that resolution believable and teen-appropriate. You must also deliver on the promise you made to your readers way back in the first chapter — often with a twist that they won’t see coming. That’s how to leave teen readers satisfied.

  Empowering your teen lead

  One of the few indisputable laws of YA fiction is that the s
tories must empower their teen leads with the resolution of their own conflicts. Kids read to learn about themselves as much as anything else. They want to feel empowered to make their own decisions in their own lives and to accomplish their own goals and satisfy their own wants. Watching characters solve their own problems and reach their own goals makes readers feel validated, supported, and inspired. Seeing a teen triumph is fun for your readers. There’s nothing fun about watching a grown-up swoop in and save the day.

  This Law of Empowerment explains all the orphaned kids and distracted or absent parents in YA fiction. Authors kill off the old people to give the kids the spotlight. I go into YA’s proclivity for parenticide more graphically in Chapter 5’s tips about casting your novel.

  Teen empowerment needs to happen right from the beginning. Your plot should grow from your teen character and be teen-focused. It should be about decisions and consequences, two very scary but important concepts for teens to master as they transition to adulthood, and it should put the solution to the teen lead’s main conflict in his young but increasingly capable hands. Teens are your cast, teens are your readers, teens must be your heroes.

  Keeping it real

  Teen-friendly action calls for events that suit the main character’s maturity and abilities. A teenager who sneaks into a nuclear missile silo and figures out the shutdown sequence moments before the missile launches strains believability. Even the most brilliant of teens would be hard-pressed to pull off such a feat, and readers know that. Your audience must believe in the match-up of the action and the teen characters in order to feel satisfied by the story. Readers aren’t about to cut you slack. You’d just be another grown-up who doesn’t get them. If you’re going to make your teen a hero, devise an ending he really can pull off.