We always hear that the best fiction out there is, among other things, multi-layered. There’s more than one thing going on at any one time, basically. I would go so far as to say that having multiple layers isn’t just a factor of excellent fiction, but a basic requirement to it’s success.
Now I’m not saying that every story out there needs to be swelling with metaphor, symbolism, context and social commentary – far from it – but the minimum entry for decent storytelling requires two layers – the dramatic conflict and the emotional conflict. Put simply, all fiction (and most non-fiction as well) is the story of a character of characters navigating a world. That world is undergoing it’s own conflict: a brewing war, a serial killer on the loose, a utopia on the brink of collapse, a dystopia on the brink of revolution are a few examples. Look to some of your own favorite novels, take the characters out of the equation and identify this conflict yourself. This is the dramatic conflict. This can either be a very real conflict that would play out regardless of whether your main characters existed or not (which is basically every disaster movie ever), or it is the conflict that is triggered by your main character which then runs away from itself and becomes it’s own entity (for example Katniss Everdeen may catalyse the rebellion in the Hunger Games, but then that dramatic conflict spins off from her and takes on a life of its own). The emotional conflict is the main character’s internal struggles. This is your protagonist battling their inner demons and trying to reconcile the conflict in their mind. This is Luke Skywalker fighting his fear of becoming his father. This is Aragorn wrestling with his reluctance at becoming King. This is Tom’s revolution of thought in his travails with Puzzle. These are your two layers, running in tandem with each other. Typically the emotional conflict takes the centre of the attention while the dramatic conflict forms the background, and that rotates and develops while the emotional conflict stays front and centre. The protagonist’s emotional conflict is colored and developed as the dramatic conflict progresses and vice versa, and through this we develop the narrative of the story, each bouncing off of one another, likely escalating to the conflict. Usually, the emotional and dramatic conflict come to a head at the same time, when the two dovetail together (for example Katniss’ personal struggles come to a head in her final confrontation with President Snow, which is also the climax of the dramatic conflict of the rebellion as a whole), but more common is when the dramatic and emotional conflict climax in close succession from one another. You see, the risk one runs by having both conflicts resolve at the same time is that they vie for the attention of the audience, and thus cancel each other out. If they occur on after the other, though, it gives the space for both conflicts to breathe and have their moment to reach their own conclusion. If you do follow the latter route, it is strongly recommended that the dramatic conflict is resolved first, followed by the emotional conflict. Despite the dramatic conflict being the ‘bigger picture’, as it were, and the one more likely to be action packed and exciting, it is not the conflict that the audience are primarily interested in. It is the emotional conflict, the conclusion to the clash that matters to their protagonist, that the audience are truly vested in. Look to any of the Lord of the Rings films and you will notice that the large scale battles are always followed by the smaller, character-led moments. These are the ones that matter to us as the audience because whereas set pieces appeal on a visceral level with sheer spectacle, it is the characters having their moments that truly resonate. The battle at the Black Gate and seeing the tower of Barad’Dur collapse is satisfying, but it is the farewell of Frodo before boarding the white ships at the Grey Havens that is the real gut punch to the feels. These are the two layers that every good story should have. Disaster movies often fail in this regard because the dramatic conflict often drowns the emotional conflict, making the movie feel distant and lacking a soul. Having a story with emotional conflict and a subdued dramatic conflict is less of an issue because, again, that character struggle is the heart of your story, but still: neglect dramatic conflict at your peril, because that background informs what is happening to the characters and forms a rich tapestry behind your key players which informs how they interact with the world. Having a weak dramatic conflict may make your story feel ‘small’, as if it operates purely within a bubble, so any resolution lacks punch because the wider implications from your character’s choices and actions don’t seem to resonate. This dual layer of conflict, then, is the minimum level that we should aspire to in our storytelling. The emotional and dramatic conflicts and the way they interact with one another are key in creating rich, meaningful narratives with impactful character choices.
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The Blade Itself has all the ingredients of a book that I should adore. Rich worldbuilding? Check. Interesting characters? For the most part, check. Murderous intrigue and hints at greater things to come from the series? Double check. And yet, I find myself really struggling to love ‘The Blade Itself’. Why, it’s hard to pinpoint exactly, but there are several minor reasons that all ball together to hamper the novel from being truly great.
You see, usually I like to give a quick synopsis, a brief overview of the book. And yet here I struggle. There is no one central character to the book. Instead, we have three: Glokta, a crippled inquisitor (which is part-detective part-torturer) who digs a little too deep into a conspiracy in the big city of Adua. Logen, a lone man in the mountains with a price on his head, takes shelter with a magician. Jezal is a foppish noble-type who is training up to a big fencing dual, also in Adua. This all takes place before a backdrop of brewing war in the far North. Each of the stories carry their own charms and page-turning moments. Glokta in particular is a blast, who is at turns vicious and tender, followed by Logen who has a gruff pragmatism to him but feels too much of a cliché lone-ranger type in comparison. I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes when we get to a Jezal part. The guy is irritating to a fault, and blatantly exists purely to observe other notable events (such as the council meetings) so the reader can keep up. Multiple-character stories are nothing new and can be done extremely well (see Game of Thrones or my personal favourite The Amulet of Samarkand), but unfortunately I can’t say that The Blade Itself follows suit. Two reasons: first, while multiple-character stories will never be perfectly equal in level of interest and pure favouritism for the reader, they all contribute something to the overall narrative. Game Of Thrones has fourteen major POV characters but in their own way they all build on the narrative. The Blade Itself doesn’t have anywhere near that amount and yet I’m struggling to understand exactly why I am following this character. This leads on to the second reason: if you are following one or perhaps two characters, you are following their story. Follow any more than that and your story becomes less about the individual stories of those characters and more about the world they collectively occupy. Game of Thrones succeeds here because Westeros itself is a character, possibly the most important character of all: the history, geography and current plight of the land are important enough to make up the spine of the story, regardless of whose eyes we are seeing it through. In The Blade Itself, however, this isn’t so. In what way are the stories of Glokta, Logen and Jezal linked, apart from living in the same world? What is the shared plot they are all serving? The answer presents itself far too late. And unfortunately, Mr. Abercrombie decides to add yet more viewpoints before then, making matters only worse, not better. It also doesn’t help that, especially in the case of Jezal and Glokta who both live in Adua, there is a massive glut of other supporting characters with names, titles and indistinct personalities. I had to frequently remind myself whether it was Frost of Severard who was the albino with a lisp. It made it especially hard to follow Glokta’s storyline, which hinges on keeping up with who’s who. Am I saying that The Blade Itself is a bad book? No, not really. There’s plenty to like here: the humor is razor-sharp, the mixture of high-fantasy and realistic grit is well blended, and when it takes the time to really zoom in on one particular character and let us live with them through a major event that is not just for the sake of keeping the plot ticking over, it really shines. But compared to the hype and positivity I’d heard surround the First Law series, I was left sorely disappointed. And just like the Robin Hobb title I reviewed, my conclusion is the same: perhaps the subsequent books in the series do improve, and do go on to achieve the full potential of this series. I just wish that The Blade Itself did more to convince me to read on in the first place. Last week, we looked at that tug of war in the writing world revolving around the usage of 'said'. Should it be avoided at all costs? Or should it be the only dialogue tag you use? With a few demonstrated examples we came to conclusion that the answer is somewhere in between.
Where that happy medium is exactly is hard to pinpoint. In all honesty it most likely depends on your genre and your prescribed writing style. But it must be said that that it is better to err on the side of 'said' as opposed to using fanciful dialogue tags. Because the unique thing about said is that, ironically, it doesn't say anything. It's such an inconspicuous word that readers glance right over it. In a way it acts more like a punctuation mark than a word, servicing as nothing more than a marker to indicate that dialogue is happening here. Use that to your advantage! Rejoice in the fact that there is this nigh-invisible word that you can use to tag your dialogue with minimum faff. But wait, you might say: didn't we conclude last time that using only said is a bad thing, because it is dry and emotionless? We did, however the common mistake made here is the belief that single-word dialogue tags are the only means of description you have at your disposal. Let's look again at that dialogue exchange that used only said. Let's look at the first few sentences: "Jill, what are you doing?" said Jack. Jill twisted around, tears rolling into the bucket in her hands. "Stay back," she said, "Don't come any closer." "Don't be stupid Jill," said Jack, stepping closer, "Put the bucket down. It's not worth it." Now, which part here is the most effective, would you say? For me, it's the sentence which describes Jill's tears rolling into the bucket. Whereas the other sections have little for the reader to go on in terms of the tone and feel of the exchange, this little bit of flavor text provides a vivid image of what is happening, not just the words being exchanged. And all in spite of the fact that 'said' was used here. This is much better than using a fanciful dialogue tag like, say, 'admonished' or 'declared' which makes the dialogue feel awkward, as though the speaker is putting on a certain voice while remaining physically still. In that sentence of the tears dripping into the bucket, however, the action carries the weight of the image painted in the reader's mind, which itself informs the way in which the speaker speaks. One who is crying is going to speak like someone who is, well, crying, if you follow me. You shouldn't overdo it, however. Not every passage of dialogue needs to be punctuated by an action, in the same way that not every action should be peppered with dialogue. It's a balancing act between allowing the dialogue to flow naturally and fortifying the text with enough imagery to bring it to life. The best approach is to simply imagine that dialogue playing out for real in your head, and looking out for when those gestures and movements happen: when does this speaker rub their chin? When does that speaker scoff and turn away in disgust? So let's try that original Jack and Jill dialogue again, this time with these new rules in mind: "Jill, what are you doing?" said Jack, chest heaving from his dash up the hillside. Jill twisted around, tears rolling into the bucket in her hands. "Stay back," she said, "Don't come any closer." "Don't be stupid Jill," said Jack, stepping closer, "Put the bucket down. It's not worth it." "You don't understand," said Jill, letting the wind whip her hair up and conceal her face. "But I do," said Jack, running a hand through his hair and glancing around, "Remember how we always used to fetch a pail of water together as kids?" The tiniest twitch of a smile played across Jill's lips. "How can I forget?" she Jill. "And that one time I fell down?" said Jack. "You broke your crown," said Jill, giving a single choking laugh. "Yeah, and you came tumbling after," said Jack. "Those were good times," said Jill, "Simple times. How do we get them back, Jack?" "Not this way," said Jack, brushing the hair out of Jill's eyes with a single finger, "Come on. Put the bucket down." Jill dropped the bucket, water sloshing into the grass. Jack gathered her into a tight embrace. What do you think? It's by no means perfect - by my own admission it's a little melodramatic - but it's light years ahead of the previous two incarnations. So there you have it. The greatest criticism of the word said - that it is a word devoid of meaning - is in fact it's greatest strength. When paired with just the right amount of descriptive passage, you will come much closer to the perfect blend of vivid yet flowing dialogue. I said. ‘Show don’t tell’ is possibly one of the most useful and wide-reaching rules out there. Not only is it a stone-cold must-do rule for good writing, but it also applies to effective moviemaking, teaching, giving business presentations or even giving instructions to someone. And Portal is possibly the best example in existence that this rule applies to the games industry too.
Of course, everybody knows the story to Portal by now, joining the ranks of gaming myth and legend along with a plucky plumber rescuing a princess and a certain elf boy lighting three torches on the wall to open the door. But if we imagine sitting down and playing Portal with no knowledge whatsoever of the events that unfold over its short playtime, we are treated to a masterclass in storytelling and a textbook example of less being more. Look at how little Portal presents to its audience. Two characters – Chell, the character you play as, who is utterly silent, and GLaDOS, the guide and ultimately the antagonist. And that’s the genius of Portal, because at the beginning of the game it really does seem that you are doing nothing more than completing puzzles in the name of science, jumping through literal hoops as instructed by the disembodied voice: GLaDOS. In each room you see frosted windows, supposedly populated on the other side by scientists observing you, yet all you can see are the hazy silhouettes of chairs and filing cabinets. Fair enough, you think: this is just a game saving on the processing power of rending other walking and talking humans. All seems well. GLaDOS even promises you cake at the end. It really does feel like you’re playing a clever but shallow puzzle game. And then the mask of GLaDOS begins to slip. She begins sending you into test rooms of increasing danger, including pools of toxic sludge and live turrets. You begin to question these tests. Perhaps they’re just upping the perceived danger? They surely wouldn’t put a real test subject like Chell in actual peril, surely… And then it happens. Mid-test room, you come across a hole in the wall of a test chamber (which up to this point have been as pristine and clinical as a hospital). You are not forced to go in here: you can just continue straight on with the test as GLaDOS wants you to. So you choose to enter. It's the first real choice you have as a player in this game up until this point. And it is at this point, when the tiniest modicum of power is handed over to you, does the truth begin to reveal itself. Upon entering the den you’re confronted with a messy hideout and the fevered scrawling of a madman. Including the infamous line: “The cake is a lie.” This phrase hasn’t become famous for no reason. What it represents is that moment when unquestionable authority becomes questionable. That moment when the perfect reality peels back ever so slightly to reveal just a tiny hint of the horror beneath. The cake is a lie. You’re being lied to. And GLaDOS is the only other figure in this game. Who or what can you trust? And so, as you play through the next few test chambers you witness increasing evidence of GLaDOS' deranged personality. You question more. Why is GLaDOS like this? Why are the scientists behind the window not stopping her? And eventually you come to the point of betrayal, the point of no return, when GLaDOS attempts to burn you alive. You escape, break free from authority completely and slip through the cracks of the test facility, where the ugly truth is revealed in masterful fashion. There comes a moment when you walk through an abandoned research facility, smashed to pieces with furniture thrown violently around. You step through a door, and you find yourself looking through a window looking down at a test chamber you were in earlier. There never were any scientists. Nobody was looking out for you. GLaDOS killed them. This all ties into what Portal has been doing so well: slowly revealing the story and backstory of Aperture Science by not telling you, but showing you. The ringing silence of the facility speaks volumes. The only 'telling' we get comes from GLaDOS, and she never really tells you anything (at least not until the final confrontation), but rather she tries to obfuscate the truth with lies, encouraging you as the player to read between the lines and draw your own conclusion. Even then the full story of what happened isn't really clear, nor does it need to be. A bit of imagination can fill in the blanks and tell exactly how GLaDOS murdured everybody. Which is why those with a particularly vivid imagination find Portal to be particularly creepy. The devil is in the details, as they say. Portal’s short running length gives the narrative a tightness akin to a movie, meaning the game is able to effectively sustain the pace and the development of the plot without long stretches where nothing happens. Sure, the main spine of Portal is and always will be the mind-bending puzzles courtesy of the portal gun, but Portal would not be a fraction as famous as it is today if it simply played out as a puzzle game. The slow-burn, carefully orchestrated reveal of the story that wraps around it is a masterclass in 'show don't tell', one that we can all learn from - regardless of what industry we work in. One of the most contentious arguments in the writing world, and certainly the easiest indicator of amateur writing when used incorrectly, is the usage of that innocent little four-letter word: 'said'.
Because regardless of what genre you are writing in, what you intend for the length of your final product, or how traditional or experimental you are, you will almost certainly be using dialogue in some shape or form. Meaning you need to decide what dialogue tags you will use. And by far and away the most common form of a dialogue tag is 'said'. Writing advice tends to fall into two extreme camps when it comes to the usage of 'said'. One camp will insist that you avoid 'said' at all costs, and instead push yourself into new creative grounds with flavorful and interesting vocabulary. The other camp insists that you should use nothing BUT said, as any other dialogue tag is flowery, awkward and distracts from the narrative rather than add to it. Let's look at an example of what both camps proclaim to be the best course of action, then. Let's start with the avoidance of said: "Jill, what are you doing?" Jack screamed. Jill twisted around, tears rolling into the bucket in her hands. "Stay back," she cried, "Don't come any closer." "Don't be stupid Jill," Jack replied, stepping closer, "Put the bucket down. It's not worth it." "You don't understand," Jill wailed. "But I do," Jack whispered, "Remember how we always used to fetch a pail of water together as kids?" "How can I forget?" Jill whispered. "And that one time I fell down?" Jack smirked. "You broke your crown," Jill blubbed. "Yeah, and you came tumbling after," Jack added. "Those were good times," Jill pined, "Simple times. How do we get them back, Jack?" "Not this way," Jack explained, "Come on. Put the bucket down." Jill dropped the bucket, water sloshing into the grass. Jack gathered her into a tight embrace. What do you think? Although at first you might think that this isn't too bad, bear in mind that this is a tiny snippet of what is a much bigger story, and even within this sample those fancy dialogue tags were beginning to grate, I'd wager. Can you imagine what dialogue would look like several pages down the line? We're going to have to resort to archaic language like 'admonished' and shoehorning other words into dialogue tags like 'contradicted'. The problem here is that these ostentatious dialogue tags suck up all of the energy of the action. Imagine that dialogue without those tags, and suddenly you're left with a blank husk of a dialogue exchange. So from these dialogue tags, the poor reader has to decifer a huge amount of info from those tags: what the characters are feeling, how they are saying it (which can be hard: who really knows what admonishing looks like?), what actions are happening when they are saying it...the works. It makes for a pretty miserable reading experience. And it's not like you as the writer can remedy that by deciding to add all of these things back into the prose, because when combined with flamboyant dialogue tags it can become extremely melodramatic. Now let's repeat that little exercise with the other extreme - by using only 'said': "Jill, what are you doing?" said Jack. Jill twisted around, tears rolling into the bucket in her hands. "Stay back," she said, "Don't come any closer." "Don't be stupid Jill," said Jack, stepping closer, "Put the bucket down. It's not worth it." "You don't understand," said Jack. "But I do," said Jack, "Remember how we always used to fetch a pail of water together as kids?" "How can I forget?" said Jill. "And that one time I fell down?" said Jack. "You broke your crown," said Jill. "Yeah, and you came tumbling after," said Jack. "Those were good times," said Jill, "Simple times. How do we get them back, Jack?" "Not this way," said Jack, "Come on. Put the bucket down." Jill dropped the bucket, water sloshing into the grass. Jack gathered her into a tight embrace. What do you think this time? Well, we've certainly rectified the problem of the dialogue tags being too distracting. And sure, as an exchange between two people it flows better. But that's because there's nothing to go on anymore: it just reads like a dry and emotionless script. The word 'said' is neutral in its meaning and action and conveys none of the energy and power needed to really make this scene jump out of the page. So what can be done? It's clear that neither of these extremes work, so the best practice must lie somewhere in the middle. Next week, we'll dig deeper in the search of that best practice, and how to plug it into our dialogue to really bring it to life. Childhood memories truly are frail things. I wouldn't even call it nostalgia, personally: nostalgia is the recollection of things from your past when you were at least still lucid enough to see things as they were, both good and bad, though time has stripped away the bad and put rose-tinted glasses on the good. No, I'm talking about true childhood memories, the memories of a time we barely remember at all, the memories so fragile, so perfect, that revisiting them as an adult can actually ruin them. Anyone tried reading Enid Blyton as an adult? What were suddenly the most wonderful and fanficul flights of imagination as a child seem limp and dull later in life.
Some things survive, though. Classic Disney movies seem to be particularly good at this, being almost as good to watch both as a child and as an adult. But one movie in particular from the Disney canon stands out for me: Robin Hood. This charming retelling of the classic tale about a rogue from Sherwood Forest had such an impression on me as a child that whenever someone mentions Robin Hood to me I immediately think of a fox in a fetching green tunic, even now. I rewatched the movie recently, and although I hadn't seen it in some 20-odd years I could still remember all the best lines, the best moments, the music...all while seeming to be slightly different from the extra insight and perspective of being an adult now. And you know what? I still love it. Which is strange: Robin Hood has always been seen as one of the weaker members of the Disney canon, coming out in the company's dark days of the 70s. In fact, Robin Hood was the first feature length movie that Walt Disney himself had no hand in making, having passed away six years prior. Add to this the much-documented financial troubles they were having and the brewing staff troubles (11 of the most prolific animators in the Disney payroll were to walk out 6 years later, including the legendary Don Bluth), must've meant that many audiences and critics sat down to watch Robin Hood expecting something bad from Disney. And you know what they say about expecting something negative... Well, the thing is, when I was a kid in the late 80s and early 90s I didn't know about any of that, and even if I did I wouldn't have cared. My mind was far too small to care beyond my own small bubble of a world, and all I saw was a delightful story of woodland creatures prattling about a forest and wearing middle-age costumes. Oh sure, looking back now, you can see the telltale signs of a studio in trouble: animations recycled over and over (I lost count of the number of times I saw the same animation of the Sheriff of Nottigham walking towards the camera with different backgrounds, and the musical herald of Prince John is used just as many times), and the style is inconsistent at times: just look at that opening credits sequence and see how the rooster is drawn with a finer pen and far more detail than anybody else there. But I honestly don't mind this: not only does the scrappy nature of the production add to the charm, but these problems are small fry compared to what is solid storytelling, classic good vs evil without any complications, and moments of genuine darkness that Disney are so, so good at. If you don't get even just a little bit moved by the whole 'Not in Nottingham' song sequence, from the jail to the arrest of Friar Tuck, then you have a heart of stone. Robin Hood was a huge part of my childhood, and it is one of those rare things which revisiting upon adulthood doesn't break the magic but actually bolsters it. That's the sign of something truly special. I have talked about the seven point story arc in the past. I've also gone into detail about the beginning stages of a story (the stasis and the trigger) and the ending. But those are the easy bits, yes? What about the middle bit?
Now, if you've planned out your novel well in advance, you'll wonder what I'm talking about. Surely opening a story and closing it up are the hardest bits to do, right? Well, technically yes. But here's a little fieldwork for you: go grab any fiction novel close at hand. In one hand pinch the pages that you would class as being the 'beginning' of that story, and in the other pinch what you would class as the 'ending'. Now, unless you've picked up a novel that is especially avant-garde, you're probably only pinching thin slithers of pages at each end, leaving the vast bulk of the novel in the middle untouched. This is the main headache most authors face when it comes to the 'middle' of the novel: the fact that it's so darn BIG. And what does the middle of this novel do for the story? By and large it will see your protagonist proceed through a 'quest' of sorts, overcoming trials and tribulations to that final confrontation, the climax and resolution. To some authors, especially in some genres, this is easy: said quest is explicit and the trials can be laid out pretty clearly like a gauntlet. Crime and mystery novels can pace out the incidents and clues, and fantasy novels may involve a quest which is paced out by the progress of traipsing across a mythical land or collecting items, a la Lord of the Rings or Horcruxes in the final Harry Potter book. But what if your novel takes place in a singular location? What if your protagonist doesn't face obvious obstacles on their way to confront their main foil? If you approach your project with a view of writing a full novel rather than a novella, the prospect of writing tens of thousands of words to take the protagonist across that bridge from the start of that journey to the end is a daunting task. Because to you, as the author who has planned this all out, the resolution may seem direct and obvious. After all, the protagonist has a problem that he or she needs to solve. Why doesn't he just go straight to the root of the problem and solve it? Character logic dictates this, and yet the author in you cowers at doing so, knowing your meticulously prepared story will resolve itself as quickly as it started. The low skilled authors resort to padding. Bulking out the middle of the novel with useless exposition, lore, scene setting, all occupied by a protagonist whom the author seems to have made frustratingly thick or detail-obsessed so that they pussyfoot their way around that main conflict until the author deems that they have padded the word count out enough. But it needn't be that way. Not if we follow the golden rule of questions. I've mentioned this before, but the major driving force that keeps your reader turning those pages are to find the answers to tantalizing questions that you've laid out. What did happen on the midsummer's night of 1983? Why is Timothy refusing to talk about the key-shaped tattoo on his neck? Who kicked Hayato off the rooftop of the festival Shrine? There should always be at least one question running through the spine of your novel that not only drives your story forward but also your audience. And yes, it's okay to set up more questions as you go. But you shouldn't try to juggle too many questions without providing answers: it can muddle the clarity of the narrative as well as switch off your reader who may feel they're in the hands of an author who is trying too hard to keep them in the dark rather than develop the story. I'm looking at you, J.J. Abrams. So what you do is, along with the characters and plot, these questions should also develop. So when you answer them mid-quest, answer them with "Yes, but..." Or "No, and..." In other words, the answer itself invites another question. For example, there are many murder mystery novels and TV shows out there where we learn the identity of the serial killer well before the final resolution. From there spawns questions such as 'Why is he/she doing it?' and 'how will the protagonist deal with this?' The first season and novel in the Dexter series by Jeff Lindsay is a prime example of this. These questions can inform the way your protagonists' quest shapes itself by introducing those "Yes but" or "No and" complications on the way and are a useful tool for integrating obstacles and plot twists for the protagonist to navigate, so it doesn't feel as though the middle of the novel is padded but the protagonist is grinding their way through real difficulties that keep threatening to throw them off course. Let's say our protagonist comes to a bolted door, behind which lies the answer to one of those tantalizing questions that will take them one step closer to their goal. But to open the door? Only Timothy, the man with a key tattoo on his neck, knows how! But for some reason he is deathly afraid of this door. Why is that? And how can the protagonist help Timothy confront his fear and open the door? And so on. That vast middle passage of a novel can be deeply intimidating, but if approached with an intricate setup of questions and answers, it can not only be easily managed without resorting to padding but also provide the most scope for an author to really stretch their wings and take that narrative to new and interesting lengths, far more so than a mere beginning or ending allows. Alrighty everyone, here's the rub: although it's obvious to everyone that I gravitate around the medium of books, the simple fact of the matter is that I'm just flat out into darn good storytelling regardless of where it comes from. That means not just books but also movies, music, TV, video games, heck even real life...if it tells a story worth hearing, reading, watching or playing, then I'm there. I mean, my Off The Shelf series makes mention of movies almost as much as books.
So it makes sense, then, that Showcase should broken itself out to that wider spectrum too. Bear in mind, though, that it will never be a bog-standard review. Showcase will focus purely on storytelling, both good and bad. So it's high time I showcased my first ever movie! And what better way to start than with Disney's latest animated masterpiece: Zootopia. It goes without warning, but I’ll say it anyway: spoilers ahead! My word, what a fantastic story this tells. It tells the story of small-town rabbit Judy Hopps, moving to the big city of Zootopia and becoming a police offer. She holds Zootopia up on a pedestal, believing it to be a place where 'anyone can be anything'. But it quickly becomes apparent that Zootopia isn't that perfect, and she faces barriers, cynicism and discrimination at every turn - including her own. Yes, that description did just use the words cynicism and discrimination. I also deleted prejudice from an earlier draft. And yes, this is a Disney movie. Zootopia works so well for a number of reasons - fantastic use of humor, a rich and impeccably realized world, a clever mystery to solve - but what puts Zootopia head and shoulders above even the cream of the Disney crop is how the whole thing plays out as an allegory for - yep - discrimination and prejudice in all of its ugly forms. Racism, sexism, and other -isms as well...you name it, Zootopia tackles it. And although it's a little heavy-handed and muddled in places, it offers a more convincing argument for tolerance and equality than a hundred 'grown up' movies and books on the subjects have ever managed. The genius is in how Disney uses the concept of anthropomorphic animals - a classic stable of Disney since a certain mouse steered a steamboat - to deliberately play to the audiences expectations and prejudices, then expose them. I mean, in a police department full of big burly creatures like rhinos, buffalos and elephants how on earth could a little rabbit be an effective cop? And of course foxes are sneaky and cunning, right? And oh, haha, sloths are slow! And in a way, the audience is right. In the real world the real animals are exactly like that. But in this world of Zootopia where animals have basically evolved to the same level of intelligence and sophistication as humans, you realize that their prejudices are based not on one’s own understanding of that character’s personality but on their own assumptions, and the fact that the animals judge one another based on that old animalistic form – then the lines start to get blurred with our own real world, and the result is actually a little disconcerting. The short stretch of the movie after Judy sends the whole of Zootopia into social meltdown after suggesting that predators are going savage due to their biology up until she and Nick settle their differences is one of the most poignant, dark, and political moments that Disney has ever committed to screen. The moment of when the mother rabbit pulls her little one closer when a tiger sits next them on a train is uncomfortably real. The thing is, I’ve heard a lot of people talking about how this harkens back to the Disney of old, when they weren’t afraid to tackle heavy topics or go dark. But while I certainly agree that this is right up there with classic Disney in terms of quality, I can’t help but disagree: what exactly are these tough-topic Disney films we’re talking about? Snow White? Dumbo? The Lion King? Perhaps, but lest we forget, these aren’t original Disney stories but adaptions of old fairytales. The Lion King is basically Hamlet by Shakespeare. But Zootopia is an entirely new story cooked up by the House of Mouse. That fact, coupled with just how topical, timely and powerful Zootopia turned out to be, bodes very well for the future of not just Disney but also excellent storytelling with positive messages. I admire Disney for having the chutzpah to do it. More please! I was recently reading a post online asking for some of the more unorthodox advice people had received about writing. It was a wonderful little collection of unusual, off-the-beaten-track ideas, but the most popular piece of advice is also my favorite one: “Every character thinks they’re the main character.” Just take a moment to take that in. You’re smart enough already to figure out why that’s such a wonderful frame of mind to take in to your writing, particularly if it is character driven. But heck, I’m going to go ahead and talk about it anyway seeing as I love it so much. One of the classic hallmarks of Mary Sue characters is the way the world seems to revolve around them. Every other so-called ‘supporting’ character exists in the world of that story in service to the main character. You can spot it in poorly written fiction: oh, here comes the protagonist’s foil, there goes the love interest, there’s the quirky sidekick over there, oh and don’t forget the wise old mentor. Their personalities are fleshed out only to the point where they service the plot and the main character, and it is all too easy to imagine them disappearing in a puff of smoke of non-existence the moment they disappear from the narrative. Now, to that you might be thinking: “Well, what’s wrong with that? The main character is the main character after all, and it’s his or her story. Isn’t everything going to revolve around that one person by definition?” This a perfectly reasonable response, and I can see how one might come to this conclusion, but the main problem lies in that one word: revolve. A story where it really does feel as though the main character is standing still while all of the other pieces of the story shift into place around them. Side characters pop up at just the right moment with just the right piece of information to get past the current obstacle which is just about to appear. You have surely read stories or watched movies like this. And sure, some of them pull it off well. But on balance, there is no beating a story where all of the major characters (and even some of the minor ones) don’t seem to exist on the page just for the sake of the main character but purely of their own accord. They express their own strengths, reveal their own weaknesses, chase their own desires, are driven by their own motivation. Every character thinks they are the main character. The main character isn’t the static hub at the centre of a turning wheel, but is one of many bumper cars on the dodgem track, swerving and bouncing off of everyone else. The reader still experiences the story through that main character’s eyes but it is evident that everyone else out there is jostling to get ahead, to win, to get what they want – just as much as the main character. So why is this better? The previous metaphor is a good one: a main character is the central hub of a wheel of plot and side characters that revolves around him or her is oddly static, and barely develops. Sure, we will watch our character as he apparently learns just enough from the wise mentor (who teaches the protagonist just enough knowledge for the needs of the upcoming battles) and then overcomes the prescribed villain (who has no other motivation than being a villain), but it doesn’t feel earned. It’s like watching a kitschy stage show where every move is telegraphed way beforehand and impeccably choreographed to give the impression of tension and danger. But we as the reader or viewer feel no fear for our main character because of course the danger isn’t real. Of course there will be victory for our protagonist. Nobody else has any motivation or personality fleshed out. If the protagonist fails, it won’t be a sad ending. It just...won't make sense. It’ll be a non-ending. The equivalent of a ‘Game Over’ screen on a video game. The bad guy didn’t ‘win’, the good guy lost. The narrative doesn’t conclude with a victorious villain, it just goes blank. Meaningless. But with a story built where every character has a 3D personality, motivation, fears and desires, suddenly that stage show bursts into life. Because there are other characters on the page or screen that are just as interesting or empathetic as our main character, and they want to win just as much, the tension and narrative authors crave comes to life. Rather than an orchestrated stage show where everything and everyone miraculously moves to make way for the protagonist, suddenly your protagonist is bouncing off of other real people, with real motivations, some of whom may synergize with your protagonist when they bump into each other, while some will clash and, yes, hurt your protagonist. The main character is still center stage, but is now a pinball hurtling around the pinball machine. She can get hurt, and she can fail. So how do you achieve this state of a full cast of characters who think they are the most important one there? The first step is to see how much (or little) you are there already. Try this little activity: write a short skit, perhaps 1000-2000 words, of your secondary characters gathered around a table at a pub. The main character isn't there. Now write about their conversation. The rules are: they aren't allowed to talk about the main character or any of the world or plot. They must only talk about themselves and each other. What do they say? How do they interact? The more interesting conversation you can put together, the more fleshed out they are, and the closer you are to achieving that all-main-character state. If, however, you are struggling to write that conversation then that is a sign these characters haven't been developed beyond their service to the protagonist and the plot. The solution? Write up some character profiles! Things like fears don't need to be complicated or relevant: your wise mentor's irrational fear of dirty socks is not only OK but speaks of someone who has a history and a personality beyond the pages. Another exercise is to take a moment in your story where your protagonist won. It can be a fight, an argument, a test, anything. Now, write an alternate-universe version of that scene where the protagonist fails. Does it still work? Who else succeeds in place of your protagonist? Does it match that other character's motivations, if any? Their desire to win? Does it have narrative punch, or does it play out like that 'Game Over' scenario where the story just grinds to a halt and can't progress any further, like a checkmate? If the latter is happening, then your protagonist is still too much like Truman Burbank from the Truman Show: work your supporting cast's motivations up so that not only can failure for your protagonist work but also make sense. Like a race, the other racers aren't there as lifeless obstacles: they want to be victorious too. If you really want to take this exercise to the extreme, try it out with the final and most pivotal confrontation with the antagonist. Envision a 'bad' ending. If you can write a bad ending that makes sense, that sees the antagonist achieve his or her own aims, then congratulations, you have a real corker of a story on your hands. Your story's tension will be real because the possibility of failure not just believable but plausible. It may be an obscure piece of advice, but bulking out your characters so that all members of the cast consider themselves the most important person there has a great number of benefits to your story, and it's well worth trying it out. When every character considers themselves the main character you create a richer world, a more believable cast and a more satisfying story. A n all around win. Finding a fiver in your pocket.
Waking up in a panic thinking you’re late and then remembering it's your day off. Accidentally overhearing someone saying something nice about. What's it a list of? Pleasant surprises you don't expect. I couldn’t be happier than when I added this book to the list: Varjak Paw by SF Said. And yes, it’s another cat book, much like Warrior Cats. And like Warrior Cats, I picked up Varjak Paw whilst on my mission to research cats in fiction novels. And while I’d heard of the positive reviews surrounding Varjak Paw, I still picked it up due to feeling more of a sense of obligation than actively wanting to read it. After all, it’s a small book, with big and spaced out writing, interspersed even further by illustrations. So all I expected was decent read, aimed at the 8-12 range, and nothing more. Well, what I got was something special. Now I can see why everyone who comes within reading distance of Varjak Paw raves about it. So what’s it about? Well, the titular Varjak is a kitten who lives in an isolated house on a hill. He’s never left the houses walls, until a strange Gentlemen enters the house. Sensing that something is wrong, Varjak’s grandfather ushers him out of the house, with only a slither of information on a secret martial art for cats called “The Way”, and a mission to gather help before the house of cats become another victim to the mysterious “Vanishings”. So far, so standard. Or so you’d think. But my goodness, SF Said has a way with words. The shortness and simplicity of the story belies a depth to it, as if each and every word was painstakingly selected for just the right effect. There is not a drop of fat in this author’s prose. It doesn’t read like it was kept simple for the sake of the target audience, but rather to achieve this timeless, ageless quality. There’s an almost Zen-like feel to it, which is appropriate: Varjak Paw really is Warrior Cats meets Karate Kid. As if the elegance of the prose weren’t enough, the story itself resonates to readers from all walks of life. The main theme is of someone trying to find their right place in the world. Does that ring true for children? Of course. And adults too? You betcha. And that's where Varjak Paw dumbfounds me. At first glance it looks like a simple novel with all the standard nuts and bolts. And even when you take into account the taut prose and wide-reaching themes contained in something deceptively small as a cat looking for help, you still don’t get the full picture of makes Varjak Paw work so well. Tight writing and universal themes aren’t new, after all. But it's only when you sit down with the book that you realize that Varjak Paw has something - something! - that strikes a deep chord with it's reader, the way it sets up a powerful string of empathy between you the reader and Varjak and then proceeds to yank it every direction so you almost physically feel the same highs and lows as this kitten. Is that what sets it a cut above the rest? Or could it be the nervy, stylish illustrations by Dave McKean? Or the easily-recognisable vulnerability and self-doubt Varjak has? Possibly these, and more. Look, what I'm saying is that this book has something very special beating at its heart that will make you think about it long after it's over. I don’t think it’s physically possible to read this book without feeling compelled to read the sequel, to be honest. The gap between finishing this book and picking up the second was painful, like I was suffering severe withdrawal symptoms from a book I’d only just picked up hours before. Sounds nasty, but when a book can make you feel that way it’s a very good thing. I don’t care who you are, where you’re from or how old you are. Go and get this book. It’s for everyone…especially you. |
Off the ShelfHere I share my ideas, musings and advice on the writing process. I also analyse some of my own writing for examples to show how I work. ShowcaseHere I will show off of some of my favorite good and great stories, gushing lovingly over why I adore them and why you should too. I will also show you the other side of the spectrum: bad examples of stories and what we can learn from them.
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