The middle of the story is the time to present your protagonist with obstacles of increasing difficulty, force him to fail, and then get him to realize what he needs to do to resolve the problem. This part should be the most fun because it's just one action scene after another. Once you realize that, the job becomes a lot easier.
19. The Dog Ate My Homework. You omit the catalyst. The catalyst is an incident that changes the protagonist's life and causes him to undertake a journey. Sometimes the catalyst occurs before the story opens, but usually it's found in Chapter 1. In any case, it's considered part of your set-up.
The catalyst must pressure your protagonist to change. Usually it is external, meaning that it comes from outside the protagonist. Maybe he loses his girlfriend, or someone dies, or he gets a disturbing phone call, or he witnesses a murder. Dreams and random thoughts, no matter how disturbing, don't usually make satisfying catalysts, although they can shed light on character. Because they occur inside the character, they're too easy to ignore.
20. The Tortoise. You don't introduce a sense of urgency and quicken the pace. The midpoint of your story should change everything in the same way your catalyst should change everything. By the time you're halfway through your story, your protagonist can't be fooling around and avoiding his problems. The danger should be bearing down on him, and he must confront it or something bad will happen--soon. The action should move faster and faster as the danger increases and reach its peak when the hero fights the antagonist at the climax of the story.
21. The Preemie. You start with a prologue. I've addressed this issue many times in our Writing Show slush pile workshops. Despite the fact that many bestselling authors start their novels with prologues, agents insist that they don't like them. They want you to get right into the story. I don't personally have a problem with prologues, but because so many agents and publishers seem to be antagonistic to them these days, don't use one. Work that backstory in organically.
Reader engagement problems
22. The Blabbermouth. You tell too much and show too little. When you show an event moment by moment instead of telling the reader about it from a distance, you engage us. That way we get involved in the action as it happens.
You do need to tell sometimes. If you showed everything, your story would get verrrrrrrry looooooong because showing time moves much more slowly than telling time. Strive for a balance with the emphasis on showing.
23. The Bore. You throw in too much backstory early on. If you start with a lot of backstory, you're probably doing a lot more telling than showing. Instead, get us involved in the protagonist's life in the here and now. Show us a situation that's causing problems for him today. Then you can release the backstory gradually and show us its effects on your character's life now. The more pipe you need to lay (that is, the more you need to explain before you start), the harder the story will be to follow, and the less likely we'll be to stick with it.
24. The Marshmallow. Your story lacks conflict and suspense. Even comedies with happy endings contain conflict. A character who meets his soulmate and goes off to do good works with her might be inspiring, but if that's all there is to the story, readers are going to feel let down. A character who meets his soulmate and can't get together with her so he goes off to do good works and gets taken captive by terrorists--now that's a story. A novel can be uplifting without foregoing conflict. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that it can't be uplifting without it.
Suspense is also critical to reader engagement. When you withhold information that could relieve tension, you build suspense. What's that noise coming from the closet? Who was that on the phone? When will we know who won the battle? The longer you make us wonder, the more suspense you build. Try to delight in keeping your secrets rather than feeling the need to spill them, as many writers do.
25. The Snooze. Your story has low stakes. Ask yourself what would happen if your protagonist failed to achieve her goal. If the answer is "Not much," then your story suffers from low stakes and we won't care whether she succeeds or fails. If the fate of the world rests on her, we'll care a lot more than if the looming catastrophe is a potential head cold.
In short stories, you can get away with low stakes, as you can in many children's stories. But even in those forms, be careful. Your audience must care enough about the consequences of the protagonist's actions to keep reading, or they'll quit. High stakes help keep them turning pages.
26. Captain Hookless. Your hook doesn't work. Your very first sentence must intrigue readers by raising questions in their minds. Unanswered questions make them want to hang in there and learn the answers. All through your first page and even beyond, every sentence should spark questions in readers' minds.
When I say that you want to raise questions, I don't mean that you should ask questions ending with a question mark. That's lazy writing. What I mean is that in your action, dialogue, and description, you refer to events, people, and phenomena that are interesting in a way that doesn't reveal too much too quickly.
This kind of writing is an art, to be sure. There's a fine line between being vague and whetting our appetites. I've seen manuscripts that were so short on context that I was confused and disoriented. If you try to be too clever, you will lose your readers, who will be convinced that you can't write coherently.
Here's an example of an extended hook from The Subtle Knife by Philip Pullman.
Will tugged at his mother's hand and said, "Come on, come on . . ."
But his mother hung back. She was still afraid. Will looked up and down the narrow street in the evening light, along the little terrace of houses, each behind its tiny garden and its box hedge, with the sun glaring off the windows of one side and leaving the other in shadow. There wasn't much time. People would be having their meal about now, and soon there would be other children around, to stare and comment and notice. It was dangerous to wait, but all he could do was persuade her, as usual.
From the very first sentence, there seems to be some urgency, as Will, whoever he is, tries to hurry his mother along. Is he an antsy young child, or is there truly some time pressure? Next we discover that Will's mother hangs back. This doesn't sound like a mother refusing to give in to the whims of her child. The mother almost sounds fearful. Why? Then we discover that not only is she afraid of something (what?), but she's still afraid. What's been going on so long that's caused her to feel prolonged fear? Then we find out that Will and his mother are in a residential area somewhere. Where, and why would there be danger in such a benign place? Then we find out that they're in immediate danger: "There wasn't much time." Yikes! Why not? Then we discover that they're afraid of children, of all things. Whatever for? Then we find out that it's dangerous to dally, but Will's only choice is to persuade his mother rather than, we assume, getting her to move by force.
Pullman does a wonderful of job leading us from question to question in this opening passage, all without the use of a question mark. He gives us just enough information to spark our curiosity, reeling out facts little by little to satisfy us, while at the same time dangling new questions in front of us. Wow.
27. The Nerd. You overwhelm readers with intricate world-building. If you introduce a complicated world too quickly, you'll lose your audience. Readers need something to hang onto. If you start your story in a setting we recognize, such as Earth, we'll be able to focus on the characters and the action because we won't be constantly trying to figure out how your world works. (Harry Potter works this way. The story starts in present-day London.) Likewise, if your characters or setting have Earthlike qualities, we'll have a relatively easy time of it. (The Hobbit starts with many Earth-like references that we can follow. The Shire is a lot like England.) If your story is entirely set in an unfamiliar world, you'll do well to keep us focused on the action and the characters and release details about the world slowly, in context.
28. The Chatter. Your dialogue is bland. When you go on a date you look for common ground with the other person, so you d
iscuss the movies and music you like. But in a book, unless that conversation leads to some momentous discovery or change in the characters' situation, it's boring. I hate to be harsh about this because I know how passionate writers are about their interests, but trust me--even if your readers love the same bands you do, they don't want to hear your characters chat about them unless the conversation advances the story.
You do not have to include everything people say when they meet, or hang up a phone, or buy something. You might need a little of that to smooth the transition from one event to another, but be brief. Most of what we say in real life isn't that interesting. Your dialogue must be believable but heavily edited, punchy, and purposeful. Above all, it must demonstrate (often as subtext) your characters' agendas.
For more detailed information on writing great dialogue, see my Kindle article collection, Writing Dialogue #1-5: A Collection of Articles for Fiction Writers.
29. The Blur. Your writing is vague. Specificity is the key to style. The choices you make about what to describe, which words to use, and what to say about it determine your voice and make or break your effectiveness as a writer.
What's a more effective sentence: "His jacket was torn" or "The expensive black North Face parka his grandmother had given him for Christmas was torn just under the armhole"? The second variation tells us a lot more about the character and situation than the first. It's also more fun to read and easier to imagine.
There is a time for brevity, of course. You don't want to embellish every sentence. But you always should be able to visualize your scenes in detail, like in a movie. Vague prose doesn't allow you or your readers to do that. In a movie, the production designer, costumer, prop master, cinematographer, director, etc. collaborate to produce a scene containing specific items, actors, and action. You need to be all of those people rolled into one.
30. The Mad Dash. You rush through the story. When you rush, you shortchange your readers.
One of the reasons writers end up rushing is that they don't realize they're leaving out information readers need. Another cause of rushed manuscripts is a lack of obstacles and complications. Sometimes writers don't realize that the stories they like to read are as dense with complications as they are, so they fail to do what's needed in their own work. You need many twists and turns to transform a protagonist and keep readers interested.
The climax presents its own special problems. It's the most exciting part of your story. Savor it. Divide it into several separate incidents. Blake Snyder describes how to do this in the five-step ending he calls "storming the stronghold:"
Step 1: The hero and his team come up with a plan to "storm the stronghold" and beat the Antagonist who is "hiding there."
Step 2: The plan begins. The stronghold is breached. The heroes enter the Bad Guys' realm. All is going according to plan.
Step 3: Finally reaching the stronghold where the Antagonist is hiding, the hero finds... he's not there! And not only that, it's a trap! It looks like the Bad Guy has won.
Step 4: The hero now has to come up with a new plan. And it's all part and parcel of the overall transformation of the hero and his need to "dig deep down" to find that last ounce of strength (i.e., faith in an unseen power) to win the day.
Step 5: Thinking on the fly, and discovering his best self, the hero executes the new plan, and wins! The Antagonist is vanquished, friends avenged, and our hero has triumphed.
(Source: Blake's blog, http://www.blakesnyder.com/2007/12/17/the-five-step-finale/)
Note that the hero doesn't just barge in, defeat the antagonist, and call it a day. Resolution is much more difficult and time-consuming than that, and the suspense keeps audiences enthralled.
31. The Edith Bunker. You write scenes that don't advance the story. In the old TV show "All in the Family," Edith Bunker, Archie's wife, would go on and on and on rather than getting to the point, which would drive Archie crazy. If you have a tendency to do that, exorcise it. Make sure every one of your scenes offers vital information and propels your characters forward. Each one should push your characters into doing something new as they struggle with the obstacles they encounter.
In his excellent book Horror Screenwriting: The Nature of Fear, Devin Watson suggests a technique for evaluating how "straight" your storyline is, meaning whether it's staying on course.
In the margin to the left or right of your slugline, write down one of the following: +1, -1, or 0. If the particular scene has important merits that contribute to the overall story, write +1. If it is going off on a tangent from the story, write -1. If it does neither, write 0.
Repeat this for an entire sequence of scenes. When you're done, add up the total. If the number is very low relative to the number of scenes in the sequence, then there's likely something wrong in there that needs to be fixed. If it is in the negative, you should seriously consider going back and rewriting or removing scenes. If you have a high positive number relative to the number of scenes in the sequence, then you're on track and your through line is straight.
What I really like about this approach is that you can tell immediately that a scene needs work or deletion just by the score you give it. See if it works for you.
Market problems
32. The Clam and the Windbag. Your stories are too short or too long. If you are unpublished, don't exceed 100,000 words. Publishers rarely want to take a chance on an unknown writer, and putting out a long book makes doing so especially risky. Keep your word counts realistic.
Some writers go too short rather than too long. Seventy thousand words for a novel is fine. Sixty thousand is marginal, and unless you're writing YA (young adult) or middle grade, fifty thousand and under is too short.
Some first-time and previously published novelists get away with flouting these conventions, but don't expect to be one of them. Respect agents' and editors' time and follow their guidelines. The more you do so, the happier they'll be, and the more open to taking a chance on you.
33. The Missing Fine Print. You don't hint at your genre in Chapter 1. Readers want to know what to expect from your story, so it's a good idea to offer at least a hint of genre in your first chapter. People who read a lot of science fiction, fantasy, mystery, romance, and other genre fiction expect your book to conform to certain conventions. If it doesn't, they may lose interest.
Some readers enjoy cross-genre stories, but agents and publishers are skeptical of anything that breaks the rules too much. If your story includes magic, let's see some in the first chapter. If you're writing a thriller, show us that some sort of crime or political intrigue is on the way.
The same reviewer who pointed out that a great antagonist is just a variation on a complex protagonist reminded me that publishers like being able to fit your story into a specific bookstore section. If your genre isn't clear, you may have trouble selling to them.
34. The Blurter. Your story is wrong for your target audience. Agents and publishers expect YA (young adult), middle grade, children's, and adult stories to conform to certain conventions, although there is wiggle room. YA tends to be about your protagonist finding him- or herself as an individual and is usually aimed at ages 15 or 16 through 18 or 20. These stories show a complex inner life and often demonstrate a dawning realization that the world is a complicated place. Middle grade stories tend to be shorter than YA and outwardly focused, and deal with finding one's place in the more limited world of the tween, be it school, family, or friends. They're usually aimed at kids between 8 and 14 or so and feature a protagonist who is slightly older than the target reader. Seduction has no place in middle grade stories, but it's okay in YA on up. Likewise, a story told from the point of view of a nine-year-old probably won't work in the adult market, although there are exceptions.
If you find yourself writing a novel that isn't right for your audience, you're not dead in the water. Try modifying the story to work for that market, or aim for another one.
35. The Starlet. You're too focused on your sequel. Sometime
s I'll advise a writer to add more twists and turns to their story and suggest a few ideas, only to hear, "Don't worry. That's coming in the next book."
Do not sacrifice this book for the sake of the next one. Pretend that this book stands on its own, because it might. If a publisher takes you on and your book doesn't do well, there probably won't be a sequel unless you publish it yourself. Put your energies into the here and now and give your readers the best value possible so there will be a next time.
Mechanical problems
36. The Salad Bar. You use the wrong verb tenses. I know that verb tenses can be confusing, but unfortunately, you've got to make sure they're right. Don't mix past and present in the same scene or sentence, for example. If you're going to switch between the two, be sure you're consistent within your chapter or section. (Obviously, excerpts from diaries and newspaper articles and that kind of thing embedded in a scene that's written in another tense are exceptions.)
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