THE DIALOGUE IN A PLAY

First of all, the way you choose to present your script is really important if you want the reader to enjoy your play and to concentrate fully on it. Here are a few things which can make reading difficult:

• Plays presented on brightly coloured paper
• Plays printed with expiring cartridges so that the type is so faint you have to squint at it
• Plays printed on continuous listing paper with the content of each page dropping down on to the next one (one of our readers likened this to reading a toilet roll)
• Plays typed in unusual fonts which are really difficult to read, or typed in very large or very small fonts
• Plays typed in such a way that there's no differentiation between character names, sound effects and dialogue
• Plays hand written in pencil

A common mistake is to abbreviate characters' names down to a single initial so the reader has to keep stopping to think who's speaking. The best way to present a script is not so that it will stand out from the competition, but just the opposite - if it's neatly typed, double-spaced, with the characters' names in capitals down the left margin and sound effects or music described in italics, it'll be so easy to read, the reader will find it effortless. Then they can really concentrate on the content of the play.

As for the content of the play - radio drama is very different from theatre and television. We often get scripts which say 'written for the stage but I thought it might do for radio' on the front cover. It usually doesn't. Stage directions like 'puts glasses on' or 'bends over and picks up a piece of paper' aren't going to be easy to get across to a radio audience. It has to be in the dialogue or sound effects, otherwise it will be lost. Stage plays can be adapted for radio, but not without a great deal of attention to detail.

There are no limits on the imaginative potential of the dramatist and there are no limits on how the radio dramatist can express that potential. The sound medium is free of all the physical and practical limitations of the stage and film set. A radio play can move through any dimension of time. It can move to any location. It can voice metaphysical, surrealist and subconscious feelings and images.

The radio dramatist needs a creative interaction with the listener, and the ability of the radio dramatist to create a unique world in the listener's imagination is a special quality generally denied to TV viewers or theatregoers. Theatre, film and TV plays paint the colours for the audience, whereas the pictures in the mind of the radio listener are individual to that person alone. This gives radio a special intimacy.

Radio is very good at dramatising what people are thinking. The contrast between what people say and what they think can be shown very effectively on radio. 'Interior thought' is a convention which is special to the radio medium. In radio the listener can be instantly transported inside the head of a character and can hear those secret, private thoughts that are often better left unsaid. Radio drama has been described as 'The Theatre of the Mind'. The potential conflict between exterior dialogue and speech and interior thought creates a special ground of conflict which is a fertile area for the creative radio playwright.

The key to writing successful plays for radio is to realise that the listener can only understand what is going on by what he or she hears. The physical environment and the appearance of the characters depends on what they say and the images created in the listener's imagination by words and sounds and/or music.

Radio drama has only one chance to be successful. A dissatisfied listener only has to twiddle the radio dial, or turn the switch off altogether and the playwright has lost the audience. It's important to bear in mind that a radio playwright can't afford to bore or confuse the listener.

All good writing requires a strong element of honesty and integrity from the writer. The great dramatists strive to express a truth about human experience or human nature. This means that superficiality, pretentiousness and ostentation are quickly recognised by the listener and will normally lead to failure when the listener 


AND NOW THE DIALOGUE IN THAT PLAY

Writing dialogue — realistic dialogue, anyway — does not come easily to everyone. Done well, dialogue advances the story and fleshes out the characters while providing a break from straight exposition. However, just as realistic dialogue is one of the most powerful tools at a writer's disposal, nothing pulls the reader out of a story faster than bad dialogue. It takes time to develop a good ear, but noting these simple rules and obvious pitfalls can make a huge difference.

                    1. Listen to How People Talk

Having a sense of natural speech patterns is essential to good dialogue. Start to pay attention to the expressions that people use and the music of everyday conversation. This exercise asks you to do this more formally, but generally speaking it's helpful to develop your ear by paying attention to the way people talk.

Though your mother may have taught you that it's rude to eavesdrop, it is a great way to develop an ear for dialogue. Go to a coffee shop or a restaurant where you can sit unobserved within earshot of other people. Jot down bits of dialogue as you sit there (your activity will actually disguise the fact that you're listening).

If you get really good subjects, you might also be inspired to sketch out descriptions, noting what they're wearing, if they're well-groomed or unkempt, and guessing at what kind of work they do. Notice how much you can learn or surmise just from sitting there listening.

Of course, dialogue has to be shaped before you put it in a story, but notice how people basically communicate. Do they have to explain a lot, or is much understood? Do they talk in complete sentences or fragments? How does rhythm come into play in everyday speech? Also pay attention to how little it takes for you to understand what they're talking about. Your dialogue should operate in the same way, communicating a lot, but spelling out very little.

                    2. Not Exactly like Real Speech

But dialogue should read like real speech. How do you accomplish that? Alfred Hitchcock said that a good story was "life, with the dull parts taken out." This very much applies to dialogue. A transcription of a conversation would be completely boring to read. Edit out the filler words and unessential dialogue — that is, the dialogue that doesn't contribute to the plot in some way. Your first draft of a story may be messy, with a lot of unnecessary words and phrases. You'll probably find that as you edit your dialogue, it will become more succinct. If you've included any filler words, like "uh" and "oh," cut them. Although they are realistic -- we use words like this all the time when we talk -- they look unprofessional on the page. (The same is true with trying to write a stutter.)

In general, keep sentences short. Oakley Hall, in The Art and Craft of Novel Writing, offers the rule, "One thought at a time and keep the lines short." Most people don't talk in perfectly formed, complex sentences. For example, in this passage from Raymond Carver's "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love," note how short and simple most of the sentences are:

"When I left, he drank rat poison," Terri said. She clasped her arms with her hands. "They took him to the hospital in Santa Fe. That's where we lived then, about ten miles out. They saved his life. But his gums went crazy from it. I mean they pulled away from his teeth. After that, his teeth stood out like fangs. My God," Terri said.

Paring down your sentences may not be enough, however. Chances are, there'll be scenes you wrote for yourself, to get to the next part of the story. Cut any unnecessary dialogue. If it doesn't build character or advance your plot, edit it out. In the Gotham Writers' Workshop guide to writing fiction, Allison Amend explains it this way: "The realism of good dialogue is something of an illusion. Readers of fiction have a higher expectation for dialogue than the conversations of real life. Fictional dialogue needs to have more impact, focus, relevance, than ordinary conversation."

A conversation about the correct route to take, for instance, is extraneous if it goes like this:

"So I think we should take Elm all the way to Lincoln," Mary said, the map spread across her lap.
"Is that really the best way?" Mel asked her. "What if we hit traffic?"
"But it's Sunday. We'll be fine."

There's no tension and nothing necessary is revealed here, so there's no reason to include this scene, though it is true to life. Presumably, these characters are on their way to something important: why not fast-forward to those key scenes?

On the other hand, if the scene were to reveal something about Mel and Mary's relationship, something that mattered to the plot, we would keep it:

"Why aren't we taking Elm?" Mary asked.
"Did I ask your opinion?" Mel said, switching lanes a bit too quickly. "When you drive, you can pick the route. But I'm driving, so I'll pick the godd*@n route."
"Fine, fine," Mary said. With a sigh, she reached over to switch on the radio. "If you'd ever let me drive, then maybe I could," she said under her breath.

                    3. Don't Provide Too Much Info at Once

It should not be obvious to the reader that they're being fed important facts. Let the story unfold naturally. You don't have to tell the reader everything up front, and you can trust him or her to remember details from earlier in the story.

When writing dialogue, keep in mind the three-sentence rule: give no character more than three uninterrupted sentences at once. You really can trust your audience to read between the lines: in fact, part of the pleasure of reading a story is putting the pieces together. And most importantly, remember that your characters should not tell each other things they already know.

The classic example of this is Hemingway's story "Hills Like White Elephants." In the story, a man and a woman sit in a train station bar talking. As the scene progresses, it becomes clear that she's pregnant and the man wants her to have an abortion:

"The beer's nice and cool," the man said.

"It's lovely," the girl said.

"It's really an awfully simple operation, Jig," the man said. "It's not really an operation at all."

The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.

"I know you wouldn't mind it, Jig. It's really not anything. It's just to let the air in."

The girl did not say anything.

"I'll go with you and I'll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it's all perfectly natural."

"Then what will we do afterward?"

"We'll be fine afterward. Just like we were before."

"What makes you think so?"

"That's the only thing that bothers us. It's the only thing that's made us unhappy."

Note that the abortion, the procedure, is only alluded to. This helps illustrate their discomfort with the topic, but it's also realistic. Since it's the main thing on both of their minds, why would they spell it out? And while a less skillful writer might assume that the reader requires an explicit set up, Hemingway refrains from offering one. In addition to being more realistic, it's also more satisfying to the reader.

Compare that to this break-up scene from a romance novel:

"Look, I know I should have invited you to my party!" he yelled. "But you hate my parties. You refused to move in with me. You never want to do anything fun anymore. Ever since you bought that old movie house, you are as outdated as the classic movies you show there. And when it comes to sex . . . let's not even go there. You never want to try anything new."

"Maybe because I'm tired after running the classic movie theater all day."

"Which you're always rubbing in my face. I have money, too. I bought this house. I run it. So what if I don't have a real job?"

Think back to your last break up. How much did you explain to each other why things were ending? Chances are, you didn't list every single problem, in complete sentences, in that final argument. The dialogue here is more concerned with communicating certain facts to the reader, which is why it doesn't sound nearly as realistic as the Hemingway dialogue. (Though in the writer's defense, which of us does sound as good as Hemingway?)

                    4. Break Up Dialogue with Action

Remind your reader that your characters are physical human beings by grounding their dialogue in the physical world. Physical details also help break up the words on the page: long periods of dialogue are easier for the reader's eye when broken up by description. (And vice versa, for that matter.) See the link above for examples of how this can work.

Just as straight exposition gets old for the reader, dialogue on its own becomes tedious, too. Just a few simple descriptions solve this problem and provide context. Here's one example of how to combine dialogue with action, from "Big Bertha Stories" by Bobbie Ann Mason:

"Is your little boy still having those bad dreams?" Miss Bailey asks, looking up from her clipboard.

Jeannette nods and looks at Rodney, who has his finger in his mouth and won't speak.

"Has the cat got your tongue?" Miss Bailey asks.

Show her your pictures, Rodney." Jeannette explains, "He won't talk about the dreams, but he draws pictures of them."

Rodney brings his tablet of pictures and flips through them silently. Miss Bailey says, "Hmm." They are stark line drawings, remarkably steady lines for his age. "What is this one?" she asks. "Let me guess. Two scoops of ice cream?"

Those are Big Bertha's titties," says Rodney.

Notice the mix of dialogue and description in this scene. While a scene can be composed entirely of dialogue, it's fairly rare. Note also that each change of speaker means a new paragraph (on the page, the paragraphs would be indented).

                    5. Don't Overdo Dialogue Tags

Veering too much beyond "he said/she said" only draws attention to the tags — and you want the reader's attention centered on your brilliant dialogue, not your ability to think of synonyms for "said."

Veering too much from "he said/she said" only draws attention to the tags. While readers tend to read over these phrases, obvious efforts to insert variety, through words such as "interjected," "counseled," or "conceded," pull the reader out of the action. If the writer is doing his or her work, the reader is already aware that the speaker is interjecting, counseling, or conceding. The writer won't have to say it again in the tag.

A member of the forum expressed this perfectly: "The main reason for all the 'he said' / 'she said' tags is so your readers can keep straight who is doing the talking. You can throw in other business to identify the speaker."

He went on to give the following examples:

ñ  "You're late again, Clarence!" Petunia looked at her watch. "How much time does it take to put on your shoes, anyway?"

ñ  "Didn't anybody do the homework?" Miss Smith tapped her ruler on the desk. "There will be a fifty point test on this chapter tomorrow."

You can often omit the tags altogether if it's obvious enough who said what.

"Hello, what's your name?" Tom asked.
"Susan."
"What an unusual name."
"It was in an opera my parents liked."

                    6. Stereotypes, Profanity, and Slang

Be aware of falling back on stereotypes, and use profanity and slang sparingly. All of these risk distracting or alienating your reader. Anything that takes the reader out of the fictional world you're working so hard to create is not your friend. Read some examples of how to achieve the tone you want without stereotypes, profanity, and slang.

Stereotypes are best avoided altogether, unless you're writing satire, and profanity and slang are best used sparingly. With regard to stereotypes, only write in dialect if you know the culture intimately: Any Southerner will cringe if a character says "Pa" in this day and age, and unless you grew up in Brooklyn, think twice before inserting, "Fugeddaboutit," into the mouth of your Brooklyn cop. Get it wrong, and you risk appearing naïve and/or offending your reader.

As far as profanity and slang go, both will quickly date your work -- rather than make your characters look cool or tough. Hemingway, whose characters included soldiers, fishermen, hunters, and artists, had excellent advice on this subject: "Try and write straight English; never using slang except in dialogue and then only when unavoidable . . . slang goes sour in a short time." And you'll notice that even with his toughest characters, profanity is as rare as slang.

                    7. Read Widely.

Pay attention to why things work or don't work. Where are you taken out of the story's action? Where did you stop believing in a character? Or, alternatively, when did the character really jump off the page, and how did dialogue help accomplish that? You can start reading like a writer with the link above, or pick up an anthology and start your own list of writers to learn from.

While books on writing have a lot to say about the writing process, many valuable skills and strategies can be learned by studying the work -- as well as the lives -- of writers you admire. Writing fiction is a complex process: it requires a suitably nuanced course of study. In the same way, the answers to many questions about how to lead a writer's life can be found in the models provided by successful writers.

                    Learning from Literature

Literature, especially the books that have stood the test of time, offers an endless supply of examples of how to approach various writing roadblocks, as Francine Prose points out in her worthwhile book, Reading Like a Writer. Want to see how to handle an emotional topic without lapsing into sentimentality? Try Eudora Welty's The Optimist's Daughter, for instance. Or how metaphors can establish character and allude to a novel's themes? Raymond Chandler's your man. Contemporary fiction has a lot to teach as well, but don't discount the masters. They continue to be read for a reason. In finding out why, we learn valuable strategies for better telling the today's stories.

                    Make an Author Study

Writers are often urged to immerse themselves in the work of one author, to really absorb that person's style and learn as much as possible from it. It's a good approach, but I advise taking it a step further. Once you've studied their oeuvre, see how they came to write these books.

For instance, this spring, an old Paris Review interview led me to make a study of Katherine Anne Porter. I started with some of her most acclaimed works and then read the biography by Joan Givner.

Through the biography, I got to see how these stories and short novels came into being: what life experiences went into them, what her process was like, and what her stumbling blocks were. I had an epiphany when I saw that she often put stories aside for years. I'm always afraid that if I don't muddle through a story or novel right then, I'll never go back to it. But clearly for Katherine Anne Porter, this was integral to her success. She kept the drafts, returning to them when she had the insight or skill to finish them properly. I imagine that this kept her from ruining or overworking her stories, and let her go on to new work (or, very likely in her case, more drinking!).

I've done this other times, with Raymond Chandler, Eudora Welty, and Jane Austen. Each time I took something away that helped my writing.

How-to's are fine, but writing fiction is a complicated process: simple advice isn't going to work for everyone or for every story. By studying literature and biographies, you collect the examples you need for your writing life.

                    8. Punctuate Dialogue Correctly.

The rules for punctuating dialogue can be confusing: many writers need help getting them right in the beginning. Take some time to learn the basics. A reader should get lost in your prose — not feel lost trying to follow your dialogue.

Nothing marks a beginning writer faster than improperly punctuated dialogue. Learn these rules, and you'll avoid obvious mistakes:

1.   Use a comma between the dialogue and the tag line (the words used to identify the speaker: "he said/she said"):

"I would like to go to the beach this weekend," she told him as they left the apartment.

2.   Periods and commas go inside the quotation marks in American writing (the Brits have slightly different rules); other punctuation -- semicolons, question marks, dashes, and exclamation points -- goes outside unless it directly pertains to the material within the quotes, as in this example from Raymond Carver's "Where I'm Calling From":

"I don't want any stupid cake," says the guy who goes to Europe and the Middle East. "Where's the champagne?" he says, and laughs.

In the next example, the question mark goes outside the quotation marks because it is not part of the material being quoted:

Did he say, "We should all go to the movies"?

Also note that the sentence ends with only one mark of punctuation: the question mark. In general, don't use double punctuation marks, but go with the stronger punctuation. (Question marks and exclamation points are stronger than commas and periods. Think of it as a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, if it helps.)

3.   When a tag line interrupts a sentence, it should be set off by commas. Note that the first letter of the second half of the sentence is in lower case, as in this example from Flannery O'Connor's "Greenleaf":

"That is," Wesley said, "that neither you nor me is her boy..."

4.   To signal a quotation within a quotation, use single quotes:

"Have you read 'Hills Like White Elephants' yet?" he asked her.

5.   For interior dialogue, italics are appropriate, just be consistent.

6.   If a quotation spills out over more than one paragraph, don't use end quotes at the close of the first paragraph. Use them only when a character is done speaking.

Want to take it to the next level? See more tips on writing dialogue. Or, review the editing checklist to make sure you've got other aspects of grammar covered as well.

HAII GUYS, LOOK AT THE SYNOPSIS/SUMMARY OF MY STORY!

SAMPLE SYNOPSIS

Scene One

At Mr. Cons home down in a forested village, 48 kilometres from Community Road and 18 kilometres from Valley Community, 3 kilometres to Champions Bridge where Rocky and Mary crossed the night when they were chased by Uncle Con hours after they were released from prison. Josephine is in a verbal exchange with the Husband Mr. Con, the subject is Rocky and Mary and the controversy is why did Con chase the two from home late in the night during a heavy storm? Con is however sure he did what was right, the two re villains, killers and wicked children as he asserts, deserved the action.

Scene Two

Josephine is restless, she is haunted by the husband’s action, everywhere in the village she is searching; searching for the whereabouts of the two innocent young ones of her in-law, but no intelligence can reveal their location, no hint to have her settled. She meets Lilly a village mate her inquiry of any news receives a similar feedback, Rocky and Mary not heard about, not even their footsteps seen anywhere. She proceeds with her vain search.

Scene Three

It is now a week, Rita has not eaten, her way of life is tears, prayer and singing sad songs. Mummy is challenged by this girls’ behaviour and thinks she can console Rita by promising her the best of everything she wants. Whatever she says can not convince Rita. Rita hits back on her, challenging and questioning whether she is really a mother, whether she has feelings, whether no one has ever offended her, whether Rocky and Mary are the first to do wrong. Brought down by this girl’s audacity, mummy breaks down in tears, but the girls’ words keeps flowing and piercing her heart like a poisonous arrow. The dilemma is to give up her preconceived hatred on Rocky and Mary and reconcile with Rita or uphold her hatred and continue with the headache posed by Rita.

Scene Four

Rita can not sit and feel the warmth of a gold coloured sofa set which still keeps their living room flashing the old times memory of this family house which is now cold, silent and peculiar especially for Rita. She visits captain of the former Rocky’s footballs club to ask for Rocky’s whereabouts. At last it is revealed to Rita that Rocky and Mary headed to the village. Rita’s curiosity is raised and at once she suggests they go together with Captain to the village where she believes Rocky and Mary who are naturally kind, humble and loving will today forgive and reconcile with her. Captain, can not say any no after reading Rita’s miserable face and understanding the urgency of the matter she is up for it. The only issue is transport which Rita says she will take care of. They part after scheduling the journey for tomorrow and the transport is a motorcycle that she will hire.

Scene Five

Today, talks about Rocky and Mary are not the subject matter in this compound but the usual family chat, the common man’s daily transaction of a husband-wife conversation and it is about the Veterinary Doctor who is supposed to come and treat the only bull at Mr. Cons home. Uncle Con as popularly known in the play and his dear wife Josephine is at their merry making moment of a village couple. From a distance, Mr. Con hears the sound of a motorcycle, they think the Veterinary Doctor is at last here but from a short distance as the sound draws nearer, the bike is carrying a girl and the type of the bike is not related to a sub-county or rather a village animal doctor. Josephine, as usual so hospitable an example of a typical African woman welcomes the visitors who turn out to be Rita and the friend captain. Rita greets Uncle Con who dodges a handshake claiming his hand is dirty. Whatever he is up to, Rita is not interested, she asks for Rocky and the sad news which hisses with a lot of discomfort in Rita’s ears is that the siblings are not here and no one knows where they are. Josephine is confused and Rita bursts out on Uncle who too retaliates with hard words. Rita’s emotion is too much and Captain suggests they withdraw from this scene. They take off and leave the uncle shouting with insults to the top of his voice as Josephine crosses with her over the embarrassment.

Scene Six

On their way back to town, some 2 kilometres to town, Rita faints and almost falls from the motorbike, Captain stops abruptly to save the situation after the girl abnormally leaning on his back and telling him to stop. Discovering that the girl is completely weak and can not sit on the motorcycle alone, captains seeks for the assistance of a passer-by who sits behind the bike to support Rita and they rush to the hospital.

Scene Seven

Captain in trouble, he rushes to report Rita’s condition to Mummy and is disappointment by the once dear but now bitter to Rita Mummy. Mummy believes Rita is a disobedient child and repels Captain with insults and swears that she will not appear wherever Rita is. She should die if she should and she as mummy will not be tempted to cry for such a child who does not obey her parents. Captain withdraws from this scene with the brain turning at the speed of the axle of a speedy bus.

THEY ARE MY LIFE AND MY EVERYTHING - I LOVE THEM!

Let them play and enjoy their days! Allow them to be children. Do not force them to do what you want. Don't even imagine them but be their friend and learn more about them! You will really know what they want. They will never forget you, they will love you and they will always run to you for help.

REMINDER!!!

Only few days to start school in Uganda, Get ready to send them back to school, you what it means!

ALL WRAPPED HERE! THE ICEBERG

Hey SCRIP WRITTERS?

Here's ten headlines. Ten rules of thumb. Ten stepping stones I
follow religiously. Follow them conscientiously in order and you
WILL see results. I promise.

1. Make your audience care. Get a person at the heart of your story
who is deeply loved. Make terrible, awful things happen to them.

2. Make sure you are writing in a genre.

3. Happy Ending. You need one. It makes for a happier audience,
which leads to bigger word of mouth, which makes for bigger box
office. Producers know this, and often factor it in to their choices.  

 4. Love your hero, and force them to choose between two equally
powerful alternatives at the end.

5. Design your villain so they can attack your hero in the most
personal, damaging, agonising way. Love your villain as much as
your hero.

6. Get your story right before you write a word of dialogue. Write
a prose treatment of this story, describing what happens to your
beloved lead character.

7. Think about getting a gang of your friends to read the treatment.
If three or more of them pick up on a point independently, you might
have a problem there. If enough people say something it is probably true.

8. Pick the first paragraph in your treatment. Think about it over
and over again, visualise it in the bath, when you wake up, when
you are walking along the street. Visualise what happens until you
can run it through like a little movie in your mind, seeing what
happens, almost hearing the dialogue. This will be your first
sequence.

9. Get out your word processor, or your script writing software,
whatever, doesn't matter. You can format it later. Get that little
movie down on paper now. Write the scenes. Make the characters move,
and talk, and feel.

10. Repeat steps 8 and 9 over and over again, until you have got to
the end of your treatment.

You have just finished your first draft.

Format it. Print it. Weigh it in your hand. Admire it. You should
be proud. Few people get this far. And if you followed these steps,
it's going to be far more readable than anything else you have
written.

I hope you are intrigued by my stepping stones.

Most writers take years and years of trial and error before they
discover how to write in a way that people want to read.

Many of them never ever get there, and give up, having wasted years
of their life.

These ten points may be just the tip of the iceberg, but at least
you know it's the right iceberg..

EMMA - Resources here for you. WIN THAT PRIZE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What is a scene? A scene is a unit of action and interaction taking place more or less in real-time and centering on some event of plot development.

Let's take that apart.  The important elements are:

         Action– Something is happening!  There is movement and progress and change during this time.  Where there is action, there is danger of some kind.

         Interaction– The viewpoint character is interacting with other characters and/or the environment.  This will cause sparks.  The interaction will force more action on the viewpoint character.

         Real-time– A scene usually takes place in a continuous span of time, with a starting time point and an ending time point.  (For instance, "This scene begins when she starts looking for her father, and ends when she learns from the cop that he has been arrested.") This sounds basic, but it's essential.  Unless the reader sees the action unfolding (that is, not in retrospect or summary), she will lose that important sense that this event is really happening.

         Event– Every scene should center on an actual event, something that happens– not a dream, not a flashback, not a passage of introspection.  A character is doing something, experiencing something, not just in her own mind, but in the external reality of the story.
     That can mean she's taking an action, discovering a secret, encountering another character, having a conversation, creating something new, enduring a trauma– but you should be able to identify what event has taken place in this scene.

         Plot development– Events are important because they are concrete and real and have consequences.  Most important, they have consequences on the plot.  This event, this scene, should cause a development in the story.

All this adds up to CHANGE.

  SCENE-BUILDER QUESTIONS:

1. What is going to change in this scene?  How will the world of the story be different when it's done?
In a romance, also, how will the relationship be different?  Think about  the state of this character, this situation, this relationship is in the beginning of the scene.  How are the events of the scene going to change that state?  If they're allies at the beginning of the scene, for example, scene events might lead them to become at odds by the end.  Remember, change is all-important-- otherwise the scene might as well not happen.

2. What is the central event of this scene?  How does it affect the overall plot?
Every scene should be built around a concrete event which somehow changes the course of the plot.  If you make sure that you have a real event in each scene, you'll find that your pacing picks up, because there's little "downtime"-- the characters and the readers are constantly facing change.

3.  Who is the protagonist of this scene?
That might not be the protagonist of the entire book. Who drives this scene?  Whose viewpoint does the reader share?  Who has the overriding goal and encounters the conflict?

4.  Think of the overall external plot conflict. How does it manifest in this scene? (For example, the external conflict is the murder, and she's trying to trap the murderer.)  You can improve your pacing by making sure that the external conflict causes some problem in nearly every scene.

5. Think of the overall internal conflict.  How does it manifest in this scene?  (For example, she is obsessed with the past, so she is prejudiced against Wanda who injured her in the past.)  You can deepen your story by making sure that the internal conflict that this character is grappling with develops in nearly every scene.

6.  When the scene opens, what is this character's goal?  What does he/she hope to accomplish during this period of time?  What's the agenda?
Example: "I want to trap Wanda into confessing to the murder.  So I'm going to meet her in a public place so she can't murder me, and I'm going to ask her a bunch of leading questions, and confront her with my evidence, and then she's going to break down and confess-- on my hidden tape recorder."

7.  What external obstacles can character encounter in trying to fulfill this agenda?
Look for obstacles in the setting, in the antagonist, in allies who won't cooperate, cars that won't start, etc.  These usually don't qualify as conflicts, but they're certainly complications, and that can make the scene much more fun, by testing the character's resolve and resourcefulness.

8.  What internal obstacles is this character likely to encounter in trying to fulfill this agenda?
For example, she's a terrible liar, and she's going to have to lie during this scene.  Use the internal obstacles to individualize the character's response to the scene events.

9. What goes wrong with the agenda?  What happens that he/she doesn't anticipate?
Think of the scene as building towards some surprise, something the viewpoint character doesn't expect.

10.  Does he/she achieve the goal?  Bickham's answers:
Yes, but....  (but something else happens, something unanticipated)
No...  (so they have to try something else)
No and furthermore... (no, and something even worse happens!)

11. What is the setting of the scene?  Can you strengthen that?
For example, a face-to-face confrontation is likely to be stronger than a phone conversation.  An encounter in the middle of the state fair as a storm is building might be more powerful than one in a nice restaurant.
How can you use the setting to increase the tension/conflict of the scene?

12.  Assemble the basic events of the scene into the most powerful sequence.
Think of "greater risk"-- the events should require the character to take greater and greater risks.
(For example, Meggie has to say more and more inflammatory things to get Wanda to confess; she has to surreptitiously fiddle with the tape recorder to keep it running; she has to enlist Mike in her mission even though he's a dangerous ally....)

13.  Plot the emotional arc of the scene.
Where does the character start emotionally?  (Example: nervous but hopeful.)
How does that manifest in her actions? (She checks the tape recorder three times; she starts to imagine the police dragging Wanda away. She speaks cockily when Wanda appears.)
How does her emotional state change in response to the events of the scene?  Any emotional change should be preceded by some event or action or realization that happens within the scene.
How does this character end up emotionally?  It should be different than how she started.  (Now she feels deflated and foolish.)

14. When you finish the draft, how can you revise for greater power?
Try reorganizing the events for ascending risk.  Find new ways to use the setting to increase the danger.  Make things harder on the character– try the "near-miss" disaster to create more tension (that is, she almost gets caught; he almost knocks over the Ming vase but catches it just in time).

15. At the end of the scene, what has changed:
 – in the plot?
 – in the character?
 – in the relationships?
  

 

STORY STRUCTURE: PART ONE

I'm not really a very structured writer, or rather, what structure I write with is internalized. Subconsciously, and later consciously, as an English major and teacher, I analyzed stories for their structure. All that had an effect. Now, though I can't usually outline a structure ahead of time, give me a story start and I'll find "the story within" and "the structure within". It's a modest talent, but a useful one in critiquing.

Trouble is, it doesn't help much when I'm writing an article about structure! That is, I don't seem to have an existing external edifice, if you will pardon the alliteration, like "the three-act structure" or "the twelve-step journey" that are so popular in Hollywood and make so much sense when I see them all laid out. They make sense, that is, until I try to write like that. I know others have done wonders writing books based on the twelve steps of the hero's journey, but I get antsy, and very soon my hero is skipping Step 7 and rearranging Steps 9, 10, and 11....

What works best for me is to find the organic structure within the story, whatever that is, and explore the various ways I can develop that. This works well in critiquing too-- frequently I say, "Well, what your hero has to overcome is his detachment and his belief that emotions are dangerous, and so he's going to have to be forced to feel by the events of the plot--" and the writer will cry, "You must be reading my mind!" No, I'm reading the story, or what there is of it so far, or rather reading the character and imagining what will get him launched on his own journey.

THE STORY JOURNEY

Joseph Campbell, who analyzed myth to come up with "the hero's journey", and Chris Vogler, who applied Campbell's work to fiction-writing in The Writer's Journey, had the right of it. The story is a journey, the journey of the central character (the protagonist) through a highly charged series of significant events which reshape his or her life.

I don't think every journey is going to follow the twelve steps outlined by Vogler and Campbell (not every hero is reluctant, for one thing), but every writer can benefit from keeping the journey model in mind. Where is your protagonist going-- that is, where do YOU want the protagonist to go (that's not necessarily where the character wants to go!)? This is often a psychological journey, not just progress towards and achievement of a goal. What does he need to overcome? How does she need to change? What conflicts must be resolved?

Of course, the protagonist has a journey in the external plot. She is going to solve that murder, or grab that Holy Grail, or win that promotion. That's her conscious, chosen journey. Your task as a writer is often to send her on sidetrip, an internal journey.

In protagonist-centered popular fiction, this journey will generally be towards greater maturity or self-understanding or happiness-- that is, towards a better life or a better self. (In "litfic"-- contemporary literary fiction-- the journey might be towards despair or existential angst or dissolution, but still usually involves some personal or life change.) The protagonist is different at the end than at the beginning, can do something more than she could do at the opening of the book, or has earned something valuable (like love, or self-acceptance, or a home).

Here's my radical thesis: The primary purpose of the plot is to give the protagonist a reason to change in the direction she needs to change.

In other words, that clever murder mystery is more than an intellectual puzzle for the reader. It can serve as a vehicle for the character's journey to growth.

This doesn't mean you have to give up your clever, complex plot-- only that you give it the additional purpose of character-propulsion. That's really easier than it sounds. Just think of it this way: What protagonist could most benefit from the events of this plot?

Now benefit is a funny word to use, because your protagonist is very likely not going to perceive these events as beneficient. In fact, he might very well think he's been cursed by the gods! That's because we generally don't change unless we're forced to, especially if the change is towards the sort of growth that will require more strength and endurance and courage from us. After all, if it were easy to become better people, we'd do it in a minute, right? But it's not. It's hard to overcome the inertia of life, of habit, of familiarity, to take on the challenge of change. That's why we need to give our characters the external conflict that will cause them, once and for all, to confront their internal conflicts and resolve them.

THE JOURNEY INSIDE

Let's take an example-- the priest sleuth. Say you start with the idea of a mystery thriller that takes place in the upper realms of the Catholic church. The murder victim is the cardinal. The murder site is the cathedral, the time of death sometime before Easter Mass, the discovery of the body just after Mass, as the priest exits from the sanctuary. You've got a hot premise (murder in the cathedral!) and a noteworthy situation-- the church hierarchy. And you've got a good plot-- the cardinal was murdered by the bishop who hoped to be named in his place. And there's that other essential component, the investigator/sleuth, who just happens to be the priest who discovers the body.

There's your external plot. That will guide you to all sorts of other elements:

Story question: Who killed the cardinal?

Protagonist goal: Identify the murderer.

Protagonist motivation: Justice.

Plot journey: Priest is drawn into investigating when police arrest a street kid for the crime. He searches for clues at the murder site, then starts asking questions among the employees of the cathedral, and knows he's onto something when someone tries to kill him. He sifts through the evidence he's attained and realizes the murderer had to be someone high up in the archdiocese. In a climactic scene, he gathers together all the bishops and archbishops and tricks the murderer into betraying himself.

Good plot. Good sleuth. But something's missing.... emotional involvement.

If you want to give the readers more than a merely intellectual experience, where they try to figure out the mystery before the sleuth does, you need more than an external plot journey.

If you want the mystery to be more than just a blip in your sleuth's life, you need to send him on a psychological or emotional journey too.

That's where the internal conflict comes in. That's whatever internal issue or problem the plot forces the protagonist to confront. This adds an additional layer to your story, and greater coherence and plausibility too. After all, most people aren't driven to risk their lives to unmask a murderer-- that's why we pay for a police force. This sleuth, if he's to be more than a serial mystery-solver, has to have a good reason, however unconscious, for taking on this task.

And that reason is to grow. Whether he knows it or not, the priest's life and self are constrained by some internal demon. Only the dramatic and extreme events of this external plot will be enough to make him confront that demon and resolve it, or risk letting a murderer go free.

STORY COHERENCE

The goal of story coherence -- everything in the story working together for a profound overall effect-- is served when the plot events (so dry and generic above) are developed to bring this particular protagonist's internal conflict to the surface. While the basic structure will remain the same (the sleuth will search for clues, put them together, unmask the murderer), the individual scenes will take on greater individuality and force as they not only progress towards solving the murder, but also reveal and resolve the internal conflict.

That is, the specific internal conflict will shape the course of the plot journey, and heighten the dramatic tension of the story events.

So let's look at what's going on within those story events listed above. Right away I notice that the murder is an authority figure. Maybe the police think it's just a particularly nasty example of random street violence, or an unusually tasteful burglar after the gold altar fixtures, but in the end the sleuth will reveal that the real murderer is a man of God, indeed, a Big Man in Church. So there's an echoing theme of the bringing down of authority-- the bishop brings down the cardinal, and the priest brings down the bishop.

I don't know about you, but I find that intriguing. And I want to explore that theme of authority. I can do that by figuring out the priest-sleuth's atttitude towards authority and making that a significant motivation (if unconscious) in his decision to investigate the murder.

This is where I start to individualize. For example, the priest can be a rebel. He hates authority. He doesn't like the power bishops and cardinals have. He thinks they waste the power of the church and the money too on trivial things like expensive vestments and fine Communion wines. He wants to bring the church back to its roots among the poor and outcast.

It's no surprise that he will be willing to take on the church hierarchy. He does it every day of the week, after all. So he takes on the establishment, searches boldly for the facts, refuses to be intimidated by the assembled power of the bishopry. And at great risk to himself and his career, he forges ahead until he discovers and reveals the truth in all its sordid glory-- that the bishop he despises most killed the cardinal, out of greed and ambition, just as he suspected.

Ummm.... what's wrong with this story?

Why doesn't it work?

After all, the rebel priest has motivation in his burning passion for truth and justice, and he's got conflict in his constant flouting of authority and the retaliatory actions of the church hierarchy. Isn't that enough?

Well, no. Has he learned anything? Not that authority can be bad. He knew that already. Not that rebels encounter opposition from those in power. He's already experienced that in his other battles with the bigwigs. How has he changed? He's probably a bit more smug, since his claim that authority is corrupt and hypocritical and unworthy got proved right in the end. He's likely to be interviewed on the evening news shows, and maybe that'll open up a new career for him, Father Wapner in the People's Confessional! And he's been tested. Now he knows that he really can stand up against authority and win.

Trouble is, his life and career might be at stake, but his identity never is. He never has to question whether he's really a rebel after all, or if he's truly a moral man surrounded by immoral ones. At the end, as at the beginning, he's a lone voice of truth in a wilderness of lies... only now everyone thinks he's cool.

Yes, he's got problems throughout the story, but all of them are mostly from the outside-- the skeptical police, the lying bishop, the retaliating authorities. He suffers, in a way, but the suffering is that of a martyr, unjust and externally created. He never has to face the long dark night of the soul, because he knows all along he's on the side of the angels. In fact, he's in great danger of being... holier than thou.

Let's face it. This guy needs some internal conflict.

Let's give it to him.

STORY STRUCTURE: PART TWO

THE OTHER STORY QUESTION

The way I add internal conflict is to consider how this person should be affected internally by this plot, or, alternatively, what character is most likely to be changed by the experience of these plot events?

So let's ask: Who is most likely to be changed by going through the experience of challenging authority?

Not someone who challenges authority all the time, or wishes he could. But someone who believes in authority, respects it, wants to become a part of it-- he will find the experience disorienting and life-changing.

Not the rebel, but the good boy. The one who started out as an altar boy and never made fun of the priest's habit of drinking the leftover communion wine. The one who never sneaked out of the seminary for a night on the town. The one who truly believes that the cream rises to the top, and that he can best serve his God by being one of the creamy ones.

Let's see what happens when we make our priest the good boy. Let's give him the heroic but problematic quality of loyalty. (If he's just serving authority because he's a sycophant, it's going to be hard for the reader to identify with him. But loyalty to a leader or an institution is something most of us can understand and even admire.)

Say the bishop was his mentor, and got him his job at the cathedral, and has been kind and generous and helpful throughout the priest's entire career. The priest is uneasily aware that without the bishop's help, he'd be saying Masses in some decrepit old church in a dying neighborhood. Instead, he's on the fast track to diocesan success.

Well, according to our plot journey, outlined above, the bishop is the murderer. His mentor did the murder! That sure sets up a conflict, right? And dramatic tension?

Not necessarily.... only if we make the external events heighten the internal conflict, and the internal conflict complicate the external events.

Remember that your readers already know part of the end, even if they don't skip ahead and read the last few pages. They know that the murderer will be unmasked and brought to justice in the end. They maybe don't know who the murderer is, but they know they'll probably guess before your big Revelation Scene. It's the internal conflict, that extra layer of complication, that will keep the tension high enough to keep reading. See, you've added another story question-- an internal one: not just "Will the murder be solved?" but "Will Father Ryan be able to solve the murder even when he's prejudiced by his loyalty to the bishop?"

INDIVIDUALIZING THE EXTERNAL

Hey! You know, asking the question often shows the way to the answer. Let's go over that internal story question again:

Will Father Ryan be able to solve the murder even when he's prejudiced by his loyalty to the bishop?

Hmmm. Do you see what I see? "Prejudiced." "By loyalty."

Loyalty leads to prejudice. We're automatically prejudiced whenever we're loyal, because we see the best in those we respect and love. That's the conflict inherent in loyalty-- it can blind us to the truth.

That heroic quality of loyalty becomes a conflict the moment it causes that blindness, that prejudice. And so the events of the plot have to cause that prejudice to emerge... and eventually to be overcome.

So the priest has to prejudge. He just knows the bishop who helped him, the patriarch he respects, the "His Excellency" who has done so much to make the archdiocese work efficiently-- he can't have committed a murder. "He's a man of God. Besides, I owe him!"

Now think of how we can make the plot events force this conflict. Why does he have to prejudge the bishop? After all, if the bishop isn't a suspect, it would never occur to the priest to defend him. I suppose we could make the priest get some uneasy suspicion on his own, without any provocation from outside. But somehow that feels too interior to me, too insular, too much too soon.

Yes, I know I've just been pushing internal conflict, but remember, the internal conflict should be forced to the surface because of external events. Until this story begins, loyalty hasn't posed a problem for the priest, or not one serious enough to make him question its virtue and its value to himself. Only this series of events is significant enough, dramatic enough, to force him into conflict, into an identity crisis-- into a reversal.

PERIPETIA

Aristotle called it peripetia-- the turnaround. That's when what seemed true turns out to false. What seemed to be good turns out to be bad. What seemed to be right turns out to be wrong. The dramatic tension, the character torture, is most intense when the plot turns around at that moment of peripetia. Afterwards, the protagonist will never be the same, because his assumptions about who he is and where he fits in the universe are proved invalid.

See how scary this is? Let's skip to the peripetia, so we can know our destination. He learns the bishop is the murderer. What does he do now?

This is the crisis point of the plot. It's that moment of reversal, when all that he knew before is lost to him. He is forced to change his longheld assumption that the man he respects is worthy of respect... but also that he himself is a man of moral acuity, because this immoral man had him fooled. His judgment is going to be proved flawed, and that central trait of his, the one he cherished in himself (and that we admire too), will turn out to be misguided, if only in this situation. Not to mention he's contemplating betraying the man who has been so good to him.

The identity crisis is: Who am I now, when I'm not the loyal apostle, when I'm facing bringing down the man who raised me up? Am I ... Judas?

To get to this point, to make it really hurt, he has to start out as that loyal apostle, not as the first doubter. If he immediately suspects the bishop, the identity crisis will start too early and thus have much less force. We won't have experienced his loyalty before we're experiencing his "betrayal".

So I think the initial suspicion should come from outside. The police find some clue that implicates the bishop-- his surplice is found on the floor of the room beyond the body? He was overheard arguing with the cardinal before the Mass? Only one clue-- we don't want to stack the deck. Just enough for the police to ask him a few leading questions, like "Where precisely were you just before Mass? Can anyone confirm you were there?"

What's a loyal apostle, a good boy, likely to do when his mentor's honor is challenged? He's going to rise to the defense, isn't he? After all, he knows the bishop. The bishop's a good man. A pacifist. And anyway, bishops don't murder! He'll tell that homicide detective to stop being stupid and go look for the real murderer. He'll tell the avid reporters how the bishop took him out of that orphanage and placed him with a nice devout foster family and got him a scholarship to the Catholic high school, that a man so good couldn't do anything so bad. If the police get too difficult, he might even tell the bishop not to worry, that he'll investigate on his own and track down the real murderer. After all, he'll say, "I owe you one."

ON THE ROAD TO REVERSAL

Once we've given him motivation to investigate, we've put him on the road to conflict.

Once we establish his belief in the bishop, we've set up for that painful moment of reversal.

He'll resist it at first. He'll be looking for evidence to justify his loyalty, not destroy it. And he'll find it, since he's prejudiced. He'll find the housekeeper who admits guiltily that she just washed that surplice and must have dropped it as she was putting the vestments away in the cupboard. He'll get the cardinal's secretary to recall that the overheard argument was actually about whether the Bulls would repeat their championship this year.

Maybe he'll even track down some street junkie who is known to have used the cathedral as a shooting parlor.

He'll be triumphant, and the bishop will be grateful. And all will be well.

Except, of course, he's wrong. The bishop really did commit the murder. And he's going to have to start suspecting it... probably right about the middle of the book, just when the readers are thinking, disappointedly, "You mean it was just some stupid junkie?"

Keep in mind his privileged position at the cathedral gives him access to information the police won't have-- employee gossip, secret financial records, knowledge of the bishop's nature and activities. What does he learn, in his attempt to vindicate the bishop, that winds up implicating him?

Whatever it is, it will have to be compelling enough, and dramatic enough, that he will start to doubt what he was certain was the truth-- and once that filter of delusion is cracked, it's only a matter of time before he starts seeing the other evidence in a new light. Still, it's going to take more than a few doubts to make him consider that everything he believed about himself and his mentor is no longer operative. What can be a good dramatic way to force him into that despair we call the Dark Moment?

I say "dramatic" because it usually does take something extreme to force us to change the habits of a lifetime-- and remember, supporting authority loyally has been his habit all his life. In fact, it's a central value in his life. (By the way, these days editors and readers appreciate events which are as heightened and intense as possible within the context of the story-- that intensity contributes to the degree of reader involvement... but that's another article.) What can cause him to question and ultimately betray that central value?

You could go with the tried and true and have someone take a shot at him-- imminent death, as Dr. Johnson pointed out, has a way of concentrating a man's attention. But I wouldn't do that. I see the priest's conflict as one of values, not merely survival. It takes a value to trump a value-- so what event could cause this valuer of loyalty and authority to decide another value is actually more important?

Right. The street junkie is arrested. Sure, he's a sad excuse for a human being, and he's probably guilty of plenty of crimes... but not this one. The priest finds himself in a conflict of values-- between his comfortable and central value of loyalty, and his heretofore untested appreciation of justice and truth. (Values must be tested... or they're mere posturing. It's easy to say "Honesty is essential" if you're never faced with a good reason to lie.) Now he's got conflict. Does he reveal what he's learned and release the junkie, or stay quiet and earn the gratitude of the bishop forever?

DEEPENING THE DILEMMA

To tell you the truth, this might be where I go back to the beginning and texture a bit, just to heighten this eventual conflict. I might make the cardinal a bit of a bad guy, so that his murder isn't so clearly an outrage against goodness. Maybe he's a dictator of sorts, one who opposes something important the priest supports, something nice and liberal like a homeless mission. Or, for greater coherence, I might make the cardinal's sin have to do with that issue of truth and/or justice-- maybe he's been lying about that budget surplus so he can de-fund all those liberal programs the priest supports, or denying the right of the convent sisters to speak to the press about conditions in the parochial schools. Maybe the bishop even breaks down and confesses that he did indeed kill the cardinal, but accidentally-- he only meant to shove him away from the telephone to keep him from calling security to arrest the nuns protesting on the cathedral steps.

My purpose would be to make the priest's eventual decision more difficult by making the bishop more worthy of loyalty. If he has killed the cardinal in order to usurp his position, the priest's loyalty is going to seem misplaced, and his judgment horribly flawed. How much conflict can there be, if he discovers his mentor is not only a murderer, but venal and greedy besides? His loyalty was to an illusion, and once the illusion dissolves, so will the loyalty. But if the bishop is pretty much just as good as the priest always assumed, except for this one lapse, the priest's dilemma is more purely loyalty vs. justice, and his Dark Moment that much darker, because a good man, not an evil one, will be destroyed by his actions.

The choice the priest makes will determine not only the bishop's fate, but his own new identity, as a man who values truth more than loyalty, justice more than authority. The internal story question has been asked and answered through the choices made and actions taken by the protagonist.

In this way, the plot events have significance beyond the external (a murderer is brought to justice): They have caused a fundamental change in the protagonist, and he can never go back to the person he was before. This will transform a conventional story into something at once more individual and more universal, for the uniqueness of the human being is the ability to change in response to experience and choice. A story that demonstrates such a change will, quite simply, resonate on a deeper and more profound level.