Most writing problems have more than one possible solution. The vast majority have more than two, or even three. Of the possible ways of solving a particular writing problem, one of them always looks easy and safe (often, this is the obvious one that one thinks of first); it’s not exciting, but it’s something the writer knows how to do and it will (the writer thinks) work.
All the other possible solutions look hard. They will require a new viewpoint character, or possibly a new protagonist. The book will need to be totally restructured. The backstory will have to change. Great chunks will fall out of the plot-logic. Characters will develop surprising new problems that don’t tie into the main story at all.
I was explaining this to a fellow writer recently, and she said with utter confidence, “Oh the hardest one is always the right one.”
Well, no, it isn’t. Not always. It depends on the writer, the story, and the choices. It also depends on the writer’s vision, and on what you mean by “hard.”
The decision itself may be hard, but the writing part of it may not be difficult. One writer I know solved a plot problem by demoting three characters from point-of-view characters to major supporting players. The three she cut had been wrapping their scenes around problems that were critically important to them, but which had little connection to the central problem of the novel. They were good scenes, and it was hard to let them go, but ditching them as viewpoints also removed the proliferating subplot problem that had been making the novel feel scattered and bloated. (Yes, this was a “kill your darlings” situation.)
Or the writing part may look hard, but upon closer examination it turns out to be simpler than one thought. Another writer I know was facing a boring-but-safe vs. interesting-but-needs-a-total-rewrite choice near the climax of a novel. At least, that’s what it looked like to begin with. Upon closer examination, all the necessary ingredients that would make the interesting choice work were already present; the writer hadn’t been able to see them initially because they were so focused on the hard way of making the interesting choice work. Once that was figured out, both the decision and the writing part became much simpler than the writer initially thought.
And sometimes, the problem looks hard and resistant to writing fixes, and turns out not to exist at all. When I was working on Mairelon the Magician, my editor requested a bunch of minor changes, culminating in what looked like a profound and difficult change in the tone of the climax of the book. The editor wanted more sense of the dangers Kim would face if she had to go back to the streets. I decided to put that off until last, and instead worked my way through the minor changes in the rest of the story, adding more details and background about Kim’s experiences as a street-thief. By the time I got to that final, huge change in the climax, I realized I didn’t have to change anything. The bits and pieces I’d added earlier in the story did the job.
Writing is a craft that has loads of moving parts: plot, characters, pace, viewpoint, structure, backstory, dialog, atmosphere, internal monologue, style, theme…on and on. Separating out the parts is really useful for analyzing what’s wrong, but it is extremely easy to forget that the ultimate product is still one whole thing, not a collection of parts. We often unconsciously expect a characterization problem to be fixed by working on the characterization, a plot problem to be fixed by working on the plot, and so on.
But the most effective solution to a problem with one element may not be to fix that element. The fix for a pacing problem may be removing unnecessary viewpoints; the fix for a backstory problem may be bringing forward some plot elements; the fix for a problem in tone or atmosphere may be in adding six sentences and five paragraphs of internal monologue scattered throughout the story. Changing a viewpoint type from tight-third to omniscient or to first-person may solve a problem with characters; fiddling with the structure may clarify a plot problem.
The really tricky part is seeing where a problem with X could be handled by changing Y or fiddling with Z. When I say multiple solutions are possible, I don’t just mean that the characters who’re in a plot bind have the choice of clobbering the guard or sneaking past him. Those are valid plot-based solutions to the plot problem of getting past the guard, but one could also solve the problem of getting past by having the guard turn out to be the childhood friend of one of the characters (a backstory solution that would require some earlier setup), or have one of the characters bribe the guard (reflecting characterization of both the guard and the person doing the bribing), set up a distraction to draw the guard away (a slightly more complex plot-based solution), write the scene from the guard’s viewpoint to explain why he saw the characters and decided to turn a blind eye (a change-in-viewpoint solution), skip the whole scene and gloss over the characters’ explanation after they successfully return (both characterization and structural choice), and so on.
When beta-reading, it’s wise to remember the multiple solutions — suggest more than one perhaps if you can to a particular issue — and certainly do not pile all your advice up on the assumption that the writer will pick your particular solution.
This is why I prefer discussion-style critiquing rather than the take-your-medicine approach. It’s so much more likely to get to those not-the-obvious-thing solutions if everybody can interact with each other.
I prefer to get the critique in writing because it’s easier to feign that you were calm throughout it. 0:)
And sometimes, the problem looks hard and resistant to writing fixes, and turns out not to exist at all.
This sounds very familiar! I’ve often found that the fix for some big thing that isn’t working later in the story is a handful of smaller things earlier on. (Problem: the confrontations in chapters 9 and 11 aren’t intense enough. Solution: mention the wedding ring in chapter 2.)
I once fixed a 3000-word story by changing, I swear, not more than a dozen individual words, and suddenly this thing that had been lying there flat and lifeless for a year perked right up and zipped nicely along. I still don’t know why that worked, but it did.
Because they were the *right* dozen words. Lightning bug, lightning….
Neil Gaiman on solutions:
“When people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what’s wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.”
Been there, tried to maintain a polite deadpan expression through the suggested fixes! Often, though, the unpalatable fixes are helpful, because I have to figure out why I’m so convinced that those suggestions wouldn’t actually work (which forces me to examine my characters’ personalities or their society or my writing-stylistic choices more thoroughly).
What about the writing* problems that don’t have any apparent easy, safe solution…? (Such as I-apparently-have-no-strong-sense-of-space-or-time-and-have-therefore-described-some-normal-human-characters-as-easily-walking-across-several-mountain-ranges-in-a-few-days-and-I-didn’t-notice-that-problem-until-250-pages-in? The answer that looks easiest to me involves lots of annoying scene-rearrangement, plot changes as necessary, and shrinking the mountain ranges – because all of that is easier than giving my viewpoint characters the ability to travel faster than a human’s brisk walk/run and dealing with the subsequent biological/plot consequences – but I can’t call this easy.)
*I’m not sure that this counts as an inherent writing problem, as opposed to a stupid-author problem, but it’s definitely a story problem now.
Well, there’s always jump cuts and transitions. Scene break after the last really important event, followed by, “The three weeks spent slogging across the rest of the mountains had been a worse ordeal than George had anticipated, but now, with his goal in sight below, his heart lifted(or sank),” that sort of thing.
The later arrival throwing off the timing for the rest of your plot armature is a separate matter, which might be addressed with more than one small adjustment in your time/speed/distance/course-of-events pattern…
L. Who is all for the minimal effort for the maximal result, when it can be had. Though sometimes, one actually does have to toss five chapters…
I have been stewing for a week on how to “break up” a nearly-2000-word discussion among several of the principal characters about how to handle an imminent battle.
Then I got it. They are going to be interrupted about 3/4 of the way through by an attack of … well, zombies is the closest approximation in English. Mind you, the zombies were my Chekhov’s gun anyway; they’ve already shown up twice and must appear in the ultimate battle, but it came in handy to be able to remind the reader that they’re still on their way.
After the zombies are chased off, the protagonists resume their discussion and come to a solution. On to the next chapter.
There was the time when I needed to stir something up.
Then I remembered that I had had my characters annoy a dragon earlier.