OK, the power is back on and they’re coming to remove the giant tree later this week. The phone and internet lines are still lying on the ground, because apparently having a tree down on top of them is not an emergency as long as they still mostly work.
I could stand for life to be less exciting for a while. Like maybe the next ten years or so?
Anyway, on to the blog post.
Today I want to talk about analyzing writing, first, because that’s what most writing advice is about, and second, because there are an enormous number of ways to go about it. Each analysis method gives a different angle on how things work, so each way of looking at writing can be useful.
Unfortunately, most people latch on to one particular method, and ignore or even denigrate all the others. This can work for them if the method they’ve picked complements their particular working process or weak areas, but it can be a real problem when a writer latches on to a writing gospel that is antithetical to the way they construct or tell stories.
It’s also extremely problematic when a writer – especially one who is published or admired – picks a type of analysis and proselytizes. Because even if their preferred approach works brilliantly for them, it’s not going to be right for everyone.
A more constructive approach is to look at everything one can get one’s hands on, discard what one doesn’t need, and keep only the bits that are useful. For instance, currently there seem to be two main ways of looking at viewpoint. One has to do with who the viewpoint characters are – has the writer chosen the best person to tell the reader about this particular scene or subplot? The other focuses on how the viewpoint is presented – first-person, second-person, third-person, omniscient. In older writing texts, viewpoint was a secondary consideration dealing mainly with the angle from which the reader viewed the scene – was it presented as if the reader were watching from a distance, or closely involved, or some in-between point? Recently, I ran across a way of looking at viewpoint that focused on mental distance – how much the narration was filtered through the mind of one character (a stream-of-consciousness would be at one end; a wide-angle camera-eye would be at the other).
Each way of analyzing viewpoint splits the topic up in a different way, though some of them have areas of overlap. As a result, analyzing a manuscript will turn up different problems and suggest different solutions, depending on which lens one chooses to look through. A writer who has trouble structuring a multiple-viewpoint novel is probably going to get more use out of looking at who the viewpoint character should be for each scene and the angle from which each scene needs to be told than they will from looking at the fine points of writing in close third-person rather than first-person. One who is having difficulty conveying characterization may need to look more at the mental distance model.
The same considerations apply to the myriad different ways of constructing plots, developing characters, using theme, etc. That is, different systems will find different problems and suggest different solutions. Logically, it is therefore a good idea to dig through as many different methods of analyzing and evaluating your work as you can stand, if you want to improve it.
There are two caveats I want to mention: First, you can’t analyze something that hasn’t been written yet. An awful lot of the “planning” systems I see these days are things I find a lot more effective and useful in retrospect, even if “in retrospect” doesn’t meant “after the first draft is done.” For instance, I personally can look at a “beat sheet” and apply it to either my seven-page plot outline or my 85,000 word manuscript, but I personally can’t use one to construct the outline or manuscript in the first place, because I cannot tell in advance how many words or pages the outline or manuscript is going to be. I repeatedly find that I have spent two chapters on what I thought was going to be a three-page scene, or finished off what I thought would be a chapter’s-worth of events/information in a couple of pages. I have to write my outline or rough draft first, and then figure out if the pacing of the plot points works. (Writers who can construct a plot according to this kind of formula are aliens from outer space as far as I am concerned, and if one of them wants to explain how they do it, I would love to listen. Though I doubt I’ll ever be able to make it work for me.)
The other point I wanted to mention is that sometimes writers have one whole area that is a particular problem – all the plotting, or all the characterization, or all the description, or whatever. In this case, any and every system of analysis is likely to turn up problems, and it’s up to the writer to decide how to handle things. They might, for instance, analyze their plot according to the old rising/falling action method, then look at a three or four-act structure, then look at a “beat sheet” analysis, tweaking whatever they find on each pass. Or they could pick one method and try to get that structure/plot/viewpoint/characterization absolutely under control, then try something different in the next story. It depends on what the writer finds useful and comfortable as a working process, as well as on how much and how fast they truly want to improve their skills.
Not necessarily systems of analysis, but some writing advice is poison to me. “What is the worst thing that could happen to the main character?” results in the story shorting out to become brief, nasty and completely unsatisfactory. (“The worst thing that could happen to Frodo is the Black Riders catching him while he’s still in the Shire, taking the Ring, and giving Sauron an immediate and complete victory.”)
Or – and I’ve only recently figured this out – using “obstacles” when trying to devise a plot. When I think in terms of obstacles, I think in terms of those obstacles being successful. Like the “worst thing,” this shorts out the story in a nasty and unsatisfactory way. So instead, I have to make myself try to think in terms of “complications.”
Complications do make more sense. Perhaps one of the questions should be “what would make the goal harder to reach?” Not a scene or book ending brick wall, but a puzzle or a problem which must be solved in order for things to proceed.
“How can I make the goal harder?” is just another way of saying “What obstacles can I impose?” It’s a don’t-go-there for me. Complications might incidentally make the goal harder, but my primary need is to get characters to do things, rather than to stop them from doing things.
So the question needs to be of the type “What would get the Fellowship to attempt the passage through Moria?” rather than “What would make it harder for the Fellowship to cross to the eastern side of the Misty Mountains?”
my primary need is to get characters to do things, rather than to stop them from doing things.
This, yes.
Just try to remember to add “and still tell the story I want to tell” to all these types of questions. The story always comes first.
Otherwise every movie would be a torture-fest or something, right?
Better yet (for me) is to not ask the question at all. It is not helpful in either its simple or its compound form.
Hey, whatever works. And good job discovering what does, for you. Heaven knows it took me more than a decade.
I’m going to try adding that to every process discussion I have. It probably still won’t stop people from going off in unhelpful directions, but at least I’ll hsve put it out there.
I remember one who said, “What’s the one thing a character would never ever do?” is the question — and then you make the character do it.
Except that he then offered an example of someone who would never give blood to a vampire, and I was thinking, “Hmm, what SHE would never do is renounce her magical powers as diabolical and, oh, enter a convent to atone.”
Now, that would be an interesting story. I don’t intend to try to write it, but it would be interesting.