by Judy Bridges
We are influenced by stories about religious and political leaders, by novels about wars and social circumstance, by children’s picture books, folk tales, and movies. From the stork’s delivery to the Danse Macabre, we frame our lives in bits of fiction. Why were you late for school? I bet you had an answer, and the answer was a story. Was it a true story? Maybe yes, maybe no. But whether the story was truth or fiction, it was important to tell it well.
Short Story or Novel?
Sometimes a new writer is determined to write a full-length novel, first thing, with no prior experience or time spent developing the craft. That’s a hard thing to do. It takes most experienced writers two to five years, sometimes longer, to write a novel. That’s a long time to work only to find out you’re not so good with dialogue, or at developing characters or plot.
When you begin with short stories, you not only learn while you’re writing them, you can, if you’re lucky, create a buzz around your writing. Novelist Sara Vogan spent two years polishing her first published short story. It won a Pushcart Prize and attracted the attention of literary agents from coast to coast. She was just getting out of grad school and in the enviable position of deciding which of several agents she liked best. When the movie rights to her first novel, In Shelly’s Leg, were optioned, she said that given the frugal way she had learned to live, the check would last her for years. She went from short story to full-time novelist in less than five years.
To write stories, short or long, fact or fiction, you need to master character, dialogue, narrative drive, point of view, intensity, and a hundred other things. Sometimes you get lucky and the first story flows out as if dictated by the Muse. If your luck holds, you get it published, and you think that’s the way it’s going to happen every time. Just in case it doesn’t, here are some moves you can make to get the juices flowing again.
Jump-start the Narrative Drive
Narrative drive is based on conflict and is the engine that drives your story. You have a character, the character wants something, and there are hurdles in the way. The story is about how your character deals with those hurdles. Narrative drive is the thing that grabs readers by the neck and pulls them along, reading page after page of your story, unable to put it down. It makes them want to hold on, keep reading, find out if the girl escapes from the gorilla.
One of my first writing teachers (a cute, redheaded guy fully worthy of the crush I had on him) said all stories are love stories—love for a girlfriend, a trombone, a motorcycle, a farm in Kansas. Good stories have characters, the characters want something, and they deal with a lot of stuff while they’re trying to get it. The mother in the plane crash wants to get her kid out alive, but the exit is blocked by an injured nun. The guy in cubicle six wants to have an affair with the woman in cubicle four, but she’s in love with the guy in cubicle five. The grandfather wants to leave his old Hudson to his grandson, but he’s ill and running out of money and knows he could sell it to a vintage car dealer in town. Like it or not, you have to give up the idea of writing a sweet, non-conflict story. Every good story has at least two guys with guns.
To develop the narrative drive in your story, you must make conscious decisions about your characters—what they want and the hurdles that stand in their way. A few writers make these decisions instinctively, most don’t. You need to get a solid grip on the conflicts to write a decent story. You may change or refine elements along the way, but you will waste a lot of time if you begin without them.
To start the narrative drive (see Figure 7):
Figure 7. A Narrative Drive
Draw a horizontal arrow from left to right with the tip of the arrow aiming to the right.
On the left end of the arrow, write the name of your main character.
At the tip, write one or many things she wants. Do this in one- or two-word phrases, just enough to remind you of the desire and not enough to clutter the page.
Draw several vertical lines along the arrow. On each line, note a hurdle—one of the things your character has to deal with in order to get what she wants. The longer the story, the more hurdles you need. Two or three might do for a short story; a novel will require many more (see Figure 8).
Figure 8. Narrative Drive for Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind
In Gone with the Wind, Scarlett wants Ashley, Tara, and a comfortable life. Difficulties include Ashley’s wife Melanie, the Civil War, the end of the plantation era, and Scarlett’s relationship with Rhett Butler. The narrative drive, the thing that carries a reader through the novel, is wondering if, how, and when Scarlett will get what she wants.
That’s it! You can make it a whole lot more complicated if you want, but truthfully, this simple schematic is enough to jump-start the drive in your story.
Create one of these for each of the main characters in your story. Tape them to the wall near your computer, next to the Character Wheels you completed for your characters. The arrows will point the way and keep you on task. If you wander off the line—and you might—you will at least know you are off and can decide whether and when you want to get back on again.
To Plot, or Not to Plot
I know many accomplished writers who don’t believe in plots—they begin with a single idea or a line of dialogue and just start writing. They write like trains in a tunnel, seeing only what is immediately before them, easing through the darkness to the light at the other end. If this works for you—don’t mess with it. If, on the other hand, you feel you could use a little boost, a bit more to go on, give “Bubbles” a try.
I’m referring to a Bubble Outline, a free-and-easy way to develop the skeleton of a story, the collection of bare bones that will eventually add up to a plot.
The Bubble Outline is not my invention. Many things in this book are, but this method is something I saw in a magazine article, and if I could find the author’s name, I’d heap great praise upon her. It excited me when I saw it, and several years and adjustments later, I am still excited by the freedom and efficiency it offers. It has saved the sanity of many writers.
The process is quite simple. First, think really hard about the character and the narrative drive you created earlier. Your character wants something, and there are hurdles in the way of him getting it. What does he do to get what he wants? Does he go through a fire to get the girl? Where is the fire? Are other people in the scene? Does anyone get burned? As you imagine this scene, make notes about it in a circle (bubble). Then add another scene, and another, and another. After you have filled several bubbles with possible scenes, stare at them for a while, then decide which one you would like to write first, and second, and so on. Number all of the bubbles, and you have the beginnings of a plot.
That’s the general idea. Now the specifics.
Creating a Bubble Outline
Draw five, ten, or fifteen circles (bubbles) on a blank piece of paper. The circles should be just large enough to hold a few words (see Figure 9).
Figure 9. A Bubble Outline
Now go back in your mind to the character and narrative drive you created earlier. Review just enough to get the feel of it again. Your character wants something, and there are hurdles in the way. As she struggles across the hurdles, things happen. Imagine specific events that might take place in your story. Focus on the people, place, and action—at a particular moment. Which characters are in this scene? Where are they? What’s happening?
Near the end of Gone with the Wind, Scarlett decides she wants Rhett Butler after all. She returns to the house on Peachtree Street, finds him in the dining room, and confesses her love. Rhett isn’t having any of it. In one of the most memorable of Hollywood scenes, he turns away with the famous line, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”
In subsequent chapters, we’ll talk about how to write your scenes so they come alive. For now, just notice that you can capture an idea for a scene in very few words, just enough to trigger your memory when you are ready to write.
Scene = Characters + Setti
ng + Action
Characters: Scarlett and Rhett
Setting: Dining Room
Action: Goodbye
Brainstorm as many scenes as you have bubbles, and add more bubbles if necessary. The best scenes are active, specific, and energetic. Sitting at the breakfast table watching the sun slant over the coffee cup is not active. Spinning the cup on a potter’s wheel, is. Throwing the cup at the wall is. Throwing the cup at your sister really is!
Name the characters and the exact location. “Jeffrey” is not just “at home, fixing something,” he’s under the sink, stuffing rags up a pipe. The scene in the bubble would be: Jeffrey. Under sink. Stuffing rags.
Don’t worry if some of your scenes are far-fetched; you can cut them later or add others. Also don’t worry if they seem shallow; once you begin writing, you can dig deeper into the event and the psyche of your characters. For now, focus on the action—on where the characters are and what they’re doing. The more specific your scenes, the more vivid they will be after you’ve written them.
Put the Bubbles in Order
After the circles are filled, take a colored pencil or marker and number them in the order you think the scenes might appear in your story. Do this quickly, following your hunches. The numbering gives you a sense of direction—with flexibility. You have plenty of time to add, subtract, and recreate as you go along.
Where Do You Begin Your Story?
There is always one scene that calls to you more than the rest, one that you think might be fun—or just more interesting—to write. Go with that instinct.
There are many possible beginnings, the worst of which is to tell readers everything you think they need to know to understand the situation. Expositional, fill-in-the-background openings are boring. Go for the meat, a scene that makes your heart pound. After that, you might want to tell us how your characters got to that point, or go along chronologically, or follow a drum beat of hard and soft scenes. Pick any sequence that seems right to you and number the scenes that way. This is your story, and you get to write it as you please.
Writing the First Scene
Students in a Shut Up & Write! class started with a true event: a train derailment near a small town in Wisconsin. The wreck caused a chemical leak, and, according to news reports, all of the townspeople were evacuated.
The story got more interesting when my aunt, who lived nearby, said that she knew of one man who had not evacuated with everyone else, who was hiding out in his little house in town.
The class took those facts and made up the rest of the story.
They created a grumpy retiree named Alvin Harris and sketched a narrative drive (see Figure 10) in which Alvin’s desire is to stay in his home and be left alone. His hurdles are: The chemical leak. Cops. The evacuation. His sisters coming after him. No food. No beer.
Figure 10. Narrative Drive for Alvin
With these thoughts in mind, the class brainstormed things they thought might have happened while Alvin was hiding out (see Figure 11). These were written on the board, in circles, in no particular order. Only after the board was full of possible scenes did the class go back and number the circles in an order that might work for the story. As usual, the numbering process felt haphazard while it was going on, but it shaped into a story quite quickly.
Figure 11. Bubble Outline for Alvin
Alvin and his friend Mike in the living room after the crash.
Alvin at the liquor store, loading up.
Alvin on the street, trying to hide from police helicopters.
Alvin hiding in the bathroom while his sisters bang at his door, trying to get him out.
Alvin and his dog Rex steal food from the neighbor’s house.
Alvin and Rex pee on the neighbor’s front lawn. (He never liked the neighbor anyway.)
Big scene in the kitchen when the cops arrive to take Alvin away.
That evening Bert Kelley, one of the class participants, wrote the opening scene of “Alvin Harris’s Cherished Quiet Time.” He kindly agreed to let me use his writing as an example of how naturally you can write when you have the character, narrative drive, and first scene clearly in mind. If I gave Bert a chance, he would rewrite this, but I want you to see the freshness and energy sparked by this process.
Alvin Harris sat in his Hoveround® in his living room full of World War II memorabilia and American flags, of Wheelchair Basketball trophies and marksmanship plaques, and grumbled at all the cowards who raced through town to get away from the derailed train and chemical spill. What the hell did they know about chemicals! His own government had gassed and poisoned him with Agent Orange, and did he cut and run? No, he stood his ground and let his rifle do the talking. And did he get a hero’s welcome home? Nobody even talked about it.
Now look at them run. Pathetic. He wheeled across the living room to his TV-watching spot and clicked on the tube, which clicked and flashed a light in the center, then faded out like a camera flash. Power was out. “Crap!”
He dropped the remote in his lap and looked through the archway into the dining room, where his dog sat. “Psssst! Rex! Paper!” said Alvin, and Rex, a sheepdog whose coat and beard were growing into what looked like moss for need of a bath, slunk his way to the living room with the morning paper, which was delivered through the mail slot every day.
“Good boy!” said Alvin, accepting the newspaper and turning to the horoscopes. He was absentmindedly petting Rex, reading not his horoscope but his high school sweetheart Julie Parker’s, reading what the stars had in store for someone else, when a Galaxy crashed halfway through his window.
“Jesus Christ! Mike Patchel, where did you learn how to drive?”
Mike rolled down his window. “Awww shit. Goddammit!” He tried to push the door open, it only opened halfway, and he squeezed his way out and stood in the flowerbed. “Alvin, you okay?” shouted Mike through the hole in the wall.
“If you got insurance I am. Otherwise you’re going to be fixing this and I’ll be right here watching you!”
“I got insurance. Can’t call the cops, though. They left town, too! What are you doing here? Let’s get out of here, man, there’s a chemical spill!”
“I’m not leaving for that. They don’t even know if there was a spill for sure.”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll send the first cop I see back to do an accident report.”
“Just go. Whatever,” said Alvin, watching Mike trot across the yard. Alvin wheeled close to the screen door. “I know where you live, Mike Patchel! I know where you live!”
Alvin wheeled back over to the living room and surveyed the damage. The entire front end of the car sat exactly where the television used to be, and there was a hole the size of, well, a Galaxy 500 in his wall where the window had been. Glass and plaster and wood were everywhere. “Just my luck. Son of a bitch!”
A Scene within a Story
In an earlier chapter, you met Dave Howard and Griffin, the main character in his novel Griffin Peake. Here’s a draft of a scene Dave wrote about Griffin meeting the cat Lemuel.
As in the scene Bert Kelly wrote about Alvin, you see how just a few words written in a bubble (see Figure 12) can grow into pages of vivid writing. Notice how clearly you see what Griffin sees, and hear what he hears.
Figure 12. Bubble Scene for Griffin
Griffin Peake woke from dreams of hot metal, fire, and smoke to the sound of crying. The sound was an uncanny wail, rising and falling slowly, muffled and oddly pitched. He sat up and looked toward the windows, three pale rectangles showing dimly at the far end of his attic bedroom. The crying was coming from there, outside.
The sound fell away into silence. He reached a lean arm to his bedside lamp. He lay there another minute, listening, wondering if he should go tell Aunt Mia about this. He didn’t want to seem like a little kid, scared of the dark. She’d get all clingy, thinking he was freaking about his nightmares.
The cry came again: sad or hungry or in pain, he couldn’t tell.
He threw back the covers and padded barefoot down the cold hardwood floor toward the windows, picking his way around heaped t-shirts and torn jeans, stubbing a toe against his Army boots, stepping around CD cases and tangled earbud wires, kicking aside a crumpled fast food bag. He twitched the curtain aside cautiously. There, perched on the sill outside the center window, was a large black cat. The animal huddled close to the glass, hunched over, looking cold and miserable. It stared up at him and wailed.
Griffin reached for the latch and pushed open the diamond-paned casement. The cat, a huge burly tom, glided into the room and hopped onto the floor. It stretched itself, then licked out its matted fur. It was not, as he had thought at first, really black, but a brindled pattern of dark gray and brown that shifted as the cat moved.
The cat turned about on the floorboards and fixed its gaze on him, and he noticed with surprise that it had only one eye. One of its ears was torn mostly away, and scars scored its face. “Hey, dude. You’ve had it rough, huh?” He reached cautiously out to pet it, and the cat pushed its head against his hand, half-standing on its hind legs. The cat purred loudly and meowed at him. It was not one of those sweet little kitty-cat meows, but a harsh, guttural cawing that seemed to come from about halfway down the cat’s body. Griffin chuckled. “You’re a bruiser, aren’t you?”