by Jack Bickham
And if all else seems to fail, consider simply having one of the characters complain aloud:
"This isn't getting us anywhere! We seem to be straying from the subject. Let's get back to the basic question here."
Also, please note: We know that the viewpoint character is strongly motivated toward a specific, short-term goal essential to his long-term quest when he enters the scene. Therefore, he will tend to be preoccupied with this goal throughout the scene. In fiction, as in real life, people tend to interpret everything in the frame of reference of their preoccupation of the moment. This is why it's sometimes possible to make the wildest excursions inside the conflict appear to have relevance: The viewpoint character will inevitably interpret almost anything as relating back to the goal; you can show his line of thinking in an internalization, and so drag the seeming excursion far afield back into apparent relevance.
It may have surprised you a bit to see inadvertent summary listed among common scene errors. The demand that the scene be developed moment by moment, on a stimulus-response basis, is fundamental, right?
Indeed it is fundamental. Still, some writers tend to forget it, get lazy, or try to get by with shortcuts. Sometimes they skip a few minutes in a scene and protest that they had to, because the scene was running too long, or perhaps because "I wanted to get to the good part." In either case, the solution is not to revert to desperation summary; the key is to start your presentation later in the fight and write only "the good part."
Also, it should be noted that a lot of inadvertent summary slips in with certain grammatical constructions. Anytime you catch yourself writing words in a scene such as "later," "after a few minutes," "having thought it over," "when they finally got back to the subject," etc. All such constructions imply that some time has been skipped over.
This can become rather subtle, so let me offer just one example, first of the wrong way to present a bit of action inside a scene, then a correction:
Tom stopped talking as Ralph walked to the window. A silence fell while Ralph stared out into the night. Almost a minute later, when he finally turned back to face Tom, his expression had changed entirely.
Now, you can see that there are several things wrong with this. The first sentence is written backwards in terms of stimulus and response. This often happens during inadvertent summary. Then the key word "later" shows that some time has been skipped. So let's fix it:
Ralph walked to the window. Tom stopped talking and a silence fell. Ralph stared out into the night. What's going on? Tom wondered, puzzled and worried. He felt the seconds ticking off as Ralph remained motionless with his back turned to him.
Finally Ralph turned back . . . (etc.)
What we have done here is fix the order in which the first stimulus and response are presented; used a short internalization on Tom's part not only to show his worry and puzzlement, but to fill the seeming story time while Ralph stands silent with his back turned, carefully noted the passing of time as Tom experiences it, second by second, and finally broken to a new paragraph with Ralph's turning back around because it's obviously the moment of a marked change in the conflict and it should be stylistically noted with the new paragraph.
Start your problem scene later to avoid the summarized part; slash the summarized time entirely; or fill it with new action or moment-bymoment thought by the viewpoint character. But be ever-vigilant for thoughtless lapses into summary. If you cleverly slip tiny bits of summary into a scene now and again for the sake of general speed in your story, do it very rarely, and remember that every such trick is exceedingly dangerous in terms of reader involvement. As discussed as far back as chapter 4, every summary threatens to jolt the reader out of his total involvement with the lifelike scene, and turn him instead into a detached observer of old history.
Loss of viewpoint happens in a scene when the writer:
1. Forgets where (in what character) the viewpoint is supposed to be;
2. Accidentally puts in a thought, feeling or sense impression belonging to someone other than the intended viewpoint character;
3. Does not provide any internalizations; or
4. Fails to provide occasional wording that clearly shows where the viewpoint lies.
Remember here that you should almost always restrict the viewpoint in a given scene to a single character. It is this viewpoint character's goal which provides the starting point and central focus of the scene. You simply cannot allow the viewpoint to get lost somewhere down the line.
Sometimes the problem is as simple as the writer forgetting who the viewpoint character is. In some detective and spy fiction, the viewpoint is very "cool," which means that the author intentionally does not go deeply or at length into the viewpoint character's thoughts or feelings. One of the reasons for this is tradition; another is author convenience, for it's easier to maintain a sense of mystery if the reader is seldom told everything the viewpoint character is thinking and feeling; another reason for such a cool viewpoint is that it tends to make the story more cerebral, chillier emotionally, and more tightly written —all ends to be desired in these categories.
Sometimes, however, in writing copy where the viewpoint is this cool, the style becomes almost objective —with very little indication of viewpoint at all. In such cases it's possible to forget. Remember that even in the coolest viewpoint writing, the reader needs some thought or feeling of the character every page or two to keep both him —and you —from forgetting where the focus of identification is supposed to be.
Often there is a strong temptation to tell the reader what someone other than the viewpoint character is thinking. But to put it as simply and bluntly as possible, you should seldom if ever do this. Remember the rationale for restricted viewpoint: It makes it easiest for the reader to enjoy the story and identify with the hero because the reader experiences limited viewpoint fiction exactly as he experiences real life: from only one viewpoint.
Look through your copy, seeking out possible slips in this area. Failure to provide any internalizations can also lead to loss of viewpoint. Even the coolest stories, in terms of viewpoint handling, have strong stimuli in their scenes which demand some internalization. Write without any at all, and you not only lose track of where your viewpoint is supposed to be; you also find yourself writing about a thoughtless robot.
Failure to use constructions that show viewpoint is quite common, and, we can be thankful, easy to fix. To check yourself against possibly erring in this category, look through your fiction copy for places where you may have described a sight, a sound, a smell, some other sense impression, or a thought or emotion without making sure that the same sentence clearly stated that your viewpoint character experienced it.
Consider the following statements:
The cold wind blew harder.
A gunshot rang out.
It was terrifying.
These are fine observations, but in none of them do we know where the viewpoint is. Ordinarily you should recast such statements to reemphasize the viewpoint, thus:
She felt the cold wind blow harder.
He heard a gunshot ring out.
It was terrifying, she thought. Or:
Terror crept through her.
The simple act of learning to attach viewpoint identifiers in this way will not change the meaning at all, but will work wonders in solidifying the viewpoint.
Forgotten scene goal relates very closely to "getting off the track." But here we are talking about the kind of error in which not only does the action stray, so that the reader forgets the goal, but the characters actually forget too. This sounds impossible, but it's another manifestation of loss of author control. Often things will seem to go rather well even up to the disaster. But then the disaster—wonderfully horrible though it might be —simply doesn't answer the scene question, so that you have things like:
Scene goal: Joe wants to convince Sally to marry him.
Disaster: Mary gets angry because Joe mentioned Barbara.
Or:
Scene goal: Richard wants to get the promotion.
Disaster: Richard gets a bad migraine.
Such illogical, reader-frustrating disasters can only occur when somebody has forgotten the scene goal. Not only has the author forgotten, but evidently the character has, too. Otherwise, why would Joe let the scene end with anger about Barbara, when anger about Barbara is not the answer to his scene goal? Or why would Richard imagine that getting a migraine had any relevance to his quest for a promotion? These developments might be unforeseen difficulties, but they are not legitimate sceneending disasters. And a character who remembered his goal would know that.
Error Nos. 8 and 9 relate so closely that they may be discussed together. Unmotivated opposition and illogical disagreement both show a faulty vision by the author of why the antagonist is antagonistic. The antagonist should not put himself between the viewpoint character and the attainment of his scene goal just to be nasty, or because you the author want him to do so. The antagonist should have good background motivation for his opposition if he is to be believable; and once he has this motivation, he will have good arguments (good at least to him, anyway) that he will make the basis of his disagreement.
Think about the nature of the opposition in your scenes, and make sure there is motive for it. Examine the motive for the disagreement, and then make sure that the antagonist bases his arguments and countermoves on this background, rather than throwing out wild and illogical arguments or claims that don't make sense to anyone.
As to unfair odds, consider this: We try in all our scenes to make the conflict strong, so the opponent must therefore be formidable; but if you make the antagonist too powerful and omnipotent at the outset, the reader is never going to believe that your viewpoint character has a chance. And the viewpoint character, who should be smart enough to see it when he is up against impossible odds, will look like an idiot if he rushes into the fray anyway. Make sure, as you write the sequel that sets up the next scene, and portray the nature of the opposition, that he is powerful and perhaps even scary; but don't make him such a "Terminator" that the scene will lose all credibility because obviously the hero doesn't have a prayer of reaching his stated goal going in.
Writing coaches tend to see overblown internalizations most often in unpublished contemporary romance fiction, where the writer is straining too hard to define precisely the emotional state of the viewpoint character, even during the scenes. We have previously discussed how an internalization may become virtually a sequel-within-the-scene when strong enough stimulus is provided. But beware those long, gray paragraphs that keep recurring as the viewpoint character internalizes and internalizes and internalizes until the reader wants to scream. Follow the rules of stimulus and response, and keep the action moving along. When an internalization is clearly called for, or needed to help reestablish viewpoint, then fine. But be aware that you can make too much of a good thing, and many manuscripts fail in part because their author got carried away on internalizations.
Scenes also fail, as noted, because not enough is at stake. The scene goal should be important to both the viewpoint character and the opposition. Petty, insignificant goals lead to pale and puny conflicts. Always make sure that the viewpoint character believes his scene goal is important, and make sure the reader knows that it is. Pause now and then during manuscript revision, and if you find two people having a developed scene about something like Andrew wanting to convince Priscilla to forgive him for belching after dinner (unless you're being funny), look around for a bigger goal which can lead to a more conflictful and gripping scene because the stakes won't be matches —they'll be fifty dollar gold pieces.
Inadvertent red herrings are not errors that will necessarily hurt the scene they're found in, but they can confuse the reader about the likely further development of the plot. I remember a student's novel once, for example, in which hero and villain were arguing about leadership of a search party into the mountains. The villain argued, among other things, that it was a trek too dangerous to undertake at once "because the threat of avalanches is so high right now." I read on as the expedition got under way, quite sure that there was going to be an avalanche at some point. There never was, and I felt cheated. Why? Because I had picked up an angle in the conflict and trusted the author to play fair: Mention the threat of avalanches and have the characters fight briefly about it, and you automatically make the reader pick up on the subject matter as a clue about
Fiction readers are great at picking up on such clues. They are magnificent at it. This is a great help to you when you really want to plant something during a conflict segment. But it's a two-edged sword. The reader is so eager to look ahead by picking up such pointers that you must be supremely cautious that you don't put in any false clues—red herrings—by thoughtless accident.
At the end of the list of common errors at the start of this chapter was phony, contrived disasters. If you think readers are good at picking up red herrings, you should see how fast they spot disasters that are phony— contrived events just to "make something bad happen" at the end of scenes. One of your most important jobs, during manuscript revision, should be to examine each and every scene-ending disaster to make sure that it not only grows out of the conflict, but that it isn't a one-in-a-million bit of bad luck, or something that no one in his right mind would ever believe could actually happen.
That's why, in defining the structure of scene earlier in this book, the term "logical but unanticipated" was used to describe the nature of scene disaster. The "unanticipated" is usually the easy part. The "logical" is harder. You don't want the reader to see what's coming a mile away, but you can't move mountains or send killer apes down smokestacks, either.
It's a hard job to conceive a scene goal that will lead to a tough conflict and end in a disaster that's not only unexpected but—and a moment's reflection by the reader — entirely logical. Doing it well is a fine art of creative legerdemain. The fact that it's difficult should not discourage you. The more you work at contriving good disasters, the better and more imaginative you will become at it. Finally, the day will come when you start writing disasters so unexpected, yet so logically an outgrowth of the conflict, and so really awful in the eyes of the viewpoint character, that you'll sit back in your chair and mentally chortle.
And when that day comes, you'll have left cheap tricks behind you and started to write stories that the reader can't put down.
CHAPTER 11
PLOTTING WITH SCENE AND SEQUEL
Lets Take A Few Moments to review where we've been so far.
We started our analysis of fiction's structural components by looking at cause and effect as the principle underlying linear story development. Then we looked at stimulus and response transactions, and how they work. Then we moved into the larger fiction building blocks, scene and sequel, to see how stimulus and response transactions lie behind the moment-bymoment structure of scene, and how sequel connects scenes in a causeand-effect fashion.
Having laid all this groundwork, it's now time to move on to some of the structural principles underlying the master blueprint of your long story, the planned sequence of story events we usually call "plot," and how scene and sequel fit to give structure to a lengthy narrative.
The first principle to remember in plotting with scenes and sequels is that the force underlying both stimulus-and-response transactions and scenes and sequels is the same: cause and effect. Something happens, and then —sooner or later, but in fiction usually sooner—something else happens as a result.
In the microcosmic stimulus-response world, the chain of virtually instantaneous cause and effect can go on for as long as you make sure that each response becomes in turn a new stimulus, like this:
(Stimulus) "What time is it?" Rick asked.
(Response) "Noon," Arnie replied. (New stimulus as part of response package) "Why do you ask?"
(Response) "I'm nervous." (New stimulus as part of response package) "Wouldn't you be, if you were in
my situation?"
(Internalization establishing viewpoint) Puzzled and a little irritated, Arnie tried to read his friend's expression, but failed. (Response) "What do you mean, 'in your situation'? I don't know what you're talking about."
And so on, each structural part causing the next.
In the macrocosmic world of scene and sequel, each scene leads to the next, through the internalization-like process of sequel, in exactly the same way. Just as you build credible scenes by following the law of cause and effect in stimulus-and-response transactions, you build credible plots by linking scenes through the process of making one scene logically lead to the next via a linking sequel.
To put this another way, when we talk about "plot," what we are talking about, essentially, is a long series of scenes and sequels interlinked by the dynamic of cause and effect. Thus, if you can write effective scenes and sequels, you have the basic structural components to build a novel. All you yet need to learn is how to manipulate the parts you already understand, which involves essentially three areas:
1. Dramatic principles and devices you should remember as you plan your scenes and their linkages from the opening of the story (the crucial moment of change and formation of a viewpoint character's story goal) to the end of the story (the climax scene in which the story question is finally answered).
2. Weaving subplots into the main story line.
3. Scene and sequel content tricks to keep the reader worried.
I'll attempt to look at these areas one at a time, but because they interrelate so closely, you should be warned that sometimes it's impossible to discuss one principle without alluding to another.