by Art Holcomb

Two pieces of paper hang above my desk.  

One is a quote (more about that next time) and the other is the picture below. It is from One Thousand and One Arabian Nights.

As the tale goes, the Persian King Shahryar would marry a new virgin each night only to slay them the following day. He had gone through a thousand virgins before he got around to Scheherazade, the daughter of the King’s vizier; a woman who was witty, wise and – most importantly – well-read.

So as to avoid being slain, Scheherazade spun for the king a fabulous story but stopped in the middle.  So enthralled by the story was the king that he broke his rule for the first time and spared her life for a day so she might finish the story the next night.  

But the following night, Scheherazade finished that story and then started another – only to stop halfway through once more as dawn approached.  

The King spared her again.

This pattern continued for a thousand and one nights.  By the time Scheherazade ran out of stories, the king had fallen deeply in love with her.

I look at that picture and think about Scheherazade each time I work on a script.  She was THE consummate storyteller and understood that how you tell the tale is at least as important as the tale itself.  I try to always edit my own work with the image of a swordsman’s blade waiting for me if I should ever lose my readers’ or viewers’ interest.

If the greatest duty of the writer is to the truth, then the greatest obligation has to be to not bore his audience.  And since the majority of my work is scriptwriting – with its tight time limits and page counts – I ask the same question of all my efforts:  

Is it dramatic enough?  

I have long subscribed to the famed screenwriter and playwright David Mamet’s definition of the dramatic scene:  

“The quest of the Hero to overcome whatever ever obstacles there are that prevent him from achieving his goal. Each scene must culminate with the Hero finding him/herself either thwarted in his attempt or educated that another way to achieve his goal exists.”

This is the crucible in which all scenes must be tested. Pass this test and survive or fail the test and be cut out.
The three filters Mamet uses for every scene are:

1. Who wants what?
2. What happens if s/he doesn’t get it?
3. What HAS to happen next?

Answer these three questions truthfully and you’ll be able to tell very quickly whether your scene works as drama or not.

For me, I work from outline, not long but broke into beats.  And, invariably, someplace between the outline and first draft sprout all manner of talking head scenes, extraneous material and false starts.  It’s natural and I let it happen because sometimes I learn things about the characters here that I didn’t know before.  

But they never survive the later drafts because here is where I have to be ruthless.  Any scene where two people are talking about a third has to go unless by taking it out I lose my audience’s focus. Applying the filters above, I know that each scene builds – unfold – upon the last.  Each character must have a pressing need that impels him from the last scene into this one and then from this scene into the next.  There must be a real reason for him/her to show up each time.  If there isn’t, the scene will be boring and that violates my First Rule.  

From Mamet again:

“This need (compelling reason) is why they came.  It is what the scene is all about.  His/her inability to get their need met will lead, at the end of the scene, to FAILURE – this is how you know the scene is over.  This failure will then, of necessity, propel us all into the next scene.”

. . . and so on until the final resolution.

These attempts and failures, taken together, constitute your plot.  Note here this is your plot, NOT your story.

Think of it this way: your job here is to make the audience/reader NEED TO know what happens next.

Questions:

Ask yourself these questions about your current piece:

1. How much of the time are you TELLING the readers what’s happening versus SHOWING them through your character’s actions?
2. Be honest with yourself: are there passages in your current work that can’t hold your own attention?  If so, why should they then hold your readers’?
3. Do your scenes flow necessarily from one to another?  Look at the juncture at the end of any given scene.  Is this where your characters should be heading?  Are you still interested in seeing what they do next?

Practice Exercises:

Choose a scene you’re having trouble with:

1. If it’s dialogue heavy, try rewriting the scene without dialogue – just description and action.  See how much of the content you can give non-verbally.
2. Try staging the scene in a different location of the story.  See if the location adds better continuity and drama.
3. If it still doesn’t work, consider eliminating the scene altogether.  Can you move the main element of the scene to another that works better?

Next time: Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock . . .

Art Holcomb is a screenwriter whose work has appeared on the SHOWTIME Channel and a comic book author of such comics as Marvel’s X-MEN and Acclaim’s ETERNAL WARRIORS. He is a regular guest blogger to STORYFIX.COM.  A number of his recent posts appear in the Larry Brooks’ collection: Warm Hugs for Writers: Comfort and Commiseration of The Writing Life.  He appears and teaches at San Diego Comic-Con and other writing and media conventions.  His most recent screenplay is 4EVER (a techno-thriller set in the Afterlife) and is completing a work book for writers entitled,  The Pass:  A Proven System for Getting from Notion to Finished Manuscript.  He lives in Southern California.

“Scheherazade” — A Guest Post from Art Holcomb is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

(Art Holcomb knocked it out of the park for us with a guest post six weeks ago.  He’s back, another killer contribution. This guy is good. L.)

GET OUT OF YOUR OWN WAY

 by Art Holcomb         

 “An exhaled breath must be cast away from you before you can take another.” 

Years ago, a friend of mine was writing a mystery about a famous abandoned house in Northern California.  David had teased me with this book for a very long time and after much cajoling and nagging on my part, he agreed to let me read it.  

He finally showed it to me at a party over the Christmas break from college.  He sat me down in his spare bedroom, handed me this beautiful leather binder, thick with each chapter tabbed and labeled, and then quietly left.

I was in for a treat.  I held my breath for a moment. 

And I read . . .

And, as I read, I grew even more excited.  The first chapter was good, opened well, excellent visuals, with pacing and language that was capable and accessible.  And I loved the characters.  

The first chapter had been 34 pages long and absolutely left me hungry for more. 

I flipped the tab marked CHAPTER TWO over and  . . .

Blank paper. 

Twenty blank pieces of typing paper. 

I went through the rest of the binder and it was the same thing: 18 more tabbed sections of blank white typing paper.

About which point, David couldn’t wait any more.  He came in and nonchalantly asked how I liked the story.

ME: I love it! Where’s the rest?

DAVID: Well, that’s all there is so far.

ME: I thought you’d been at this for a while.

DAVID (proudly)I have been.  I’ve been rewriting the first chapter until I got it right.

ME: For how long?

DAVID: Eleven years this February.

I couldn’t believe it.  I was startled at first and then I experienced something that surprised me:

I started to get angry.

I wasn’t upset that he had been working on a story for eleven years; I, in fact, had several ideas that I’d been working on since I was in high school that I was never able to get out of me.  But eleven years on the same chapter, writing it over and over again, refining, polishing, rewriting, perfecting?  This seemed less a labor of love and more like Sisyphus pushing that boulder uphill.

At this rate, David was scheduled to complete his Great American Novel 54 years after his death . . . assuming he got past the first chapter.

It was a great effort doomed to failure.  The squandering of what I saw as a real and special talent and it upset me. 

We talked about it, but I was never able to get him to see that this was less a novel and more a delicious sort of penitence.  That unless he let that chapter go and move on, this wonderful story would be relegated to that binder forever. We discovered that there was a real fear that lie for him just beyond the tab marking CHAPTER TWO. 

We grew apart in the years that followed and, in that time, I met a number of people like David, who were caught in a loop, unable to take a step out of their comfort zone.

I’ve often wondered what separates the Davids of the world from the writers who go on to have long careers and satisfying relationships with their talents?

In the end, I think it comes down the combination of FAITH and TRUST.

FAITH that you have more than one idea in you, that you don’t have to be defined by a single effort, that your next chapter can be better than your last.

And TRUST in the breadth and width of your talent, and that not only can you see yourself completing that novel but that it will be just one part  in a great body of work . . .

And, most of all, that you will have an audience out there .

In the end, regardless of how any single effort comes out, you have to be able to let it go when finished . . .

And take that next breath.

Success will always lie in the difference between what a person can do and what that person WILL DO!

And you can do it.

Make your talent count for something.  Work hard.  Dig deep.

And then . . . move on to the next challenge. 

Art Holcomb is a screenwriter whose work has appeared on the SHOWTIME Channel and has written for such comics as Marvel’s THE X-MEN and Acclaim’s ETERNAL WARRIORS. He has appeared as a guest and taught at San Diego Comic-Con and other conventions.  His most recent work is THE MEADOWS (with Mark L. Haynes), a science fiction police procedural.

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An “It’s About Time Larry…” Announcement Disguised as an Update

Just added a “Search” function (top right-hand column).  As Storyfix nears 500 posts… well, duh.

“Get Out of Your Own Way” – A Guest Post by Art Holcomb is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

I did NaNo this year and won (50,664 words). It was a blast; enjoyed every moment. Got up at 6 a.m. everyday and wrote until I made my daily word count, usually going well over in around three hours.

Read Story Engineering and planned carefully during October. Wrote an outline, character study, backstory, theme, premise–everything. The idea for the story had rattled around my brain for at least 35 years, and I did attempt to write in once but quit because of circumstances beyond my control.

In October I created a concept and began planning, following your suggestions. It worked. I struggled very little with the writing because I was sure of where I was going.

Having said that, I know I did not plan enough. Could have spent more time planning scenes, refining plot, but overall the product I ended with was not bad. Now, about that product. I see it as a precise of my outline and plans. Thinking back, I recall your touching on that in Story Engineering, except you didn’t refer to it as “précis” (a summary or abstract of a text or speech). With the précis I will do more planning, revise my outline, and refine my scenes. My characters will lie on the couch for analysis. What I hope I produce is a tighter novel with dazzling characters.

But, I do contend a first draft, planned well, is still a précis.

I found gems popping up all the time that I did not expect. Some of them had to be explored right then, so I “pantsed.” Had to. I do believe, however, I stumbled upon to the gems because I HAD planned. They emerged kind of naturally from the grist of my mill, which I had developed via planning.

I’ve written two novels.

Both concepts came from ideas I had thought about for years, but I did not plan them carefully. I placed the seat of my pants on the seat of a chair and went to it. The first For the Heart’s Treasure took me five years, a lot of that time in research. Actual writing took about six months to get a first draft. My rewrites were many, and now I know it was because I hadn’t planned and was searching for the story in each draft. I think it’s a good story, not best-seller quality, but alright for a rank beginner.

My second was planned a bit. It’s called Children of Bast, and it is a memoir of a cat told by the cat. I was a year writing it, and I drafted twice after the first. I was lucky. I think it’s a great story, interesting — I’ve been told so by members of the Cat Writers Association — and unusual. It is not a children’s story or a YA; I aimed it at adults who love cats.

I will do NaNo next year for sure. And I will plan my pants off.

You can read the first two chapters of Frederick’s novel, “For the Heart’s Treasure,” on the Storyfix Peer Review section HERE.  Please enjoy offer feedback… that’s the idea.

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Vote for your favorite writing website HERE.

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Editor’s note: the word précis is a new one on me.  I challenged Frederick on it — I thought he was saying “premise,” which sort of works as used here — but he explained.  Have you encountered this cool word before?  You almost can’t say it without a nifty French accent.

NaNo Now: A Guest Post from Frederick Fuller is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Each writer treads upon a writing path unique to him or her. Hearing about others’ steps along that lonesome and sometimes treacherous path can bolster our confidence as we try to push past life’s detours and persist toward our writing goals. Here’s my story. I hope it encourages you.

My fiction writing didn’t begin until I was fifty-eight years old, but the foundation had been built long before that. My two older brothers and I played school at home, and they taught me to read at a fourth-grade level before I started first grade. Once my mother realized I could read, she gave me a real dictionary – not a children’s one – and showed me how to use it. I fell in love with words.

All through grade school, high school, and college, I got high grades on anything I wrote as an assignment, but I didn’t acquire the writing bug. People all along the way would tell me I should write. I became an editor in the advertising and corporate worlds and spent many years editing other people’s work. In fact, I occasionally composed business letters and resumes and even helped with work manuals and organizational bylaws just as favors to my friends. Still, I had no compulsion to attempt creative writing.

When I was forty-two years old, I suffered a stroke that affected my right side. Suddenly my life turned upside down. I had difficulty walking, talking, and manually writing (I’m right-handed). I lost huge gobs of memory. My physical ability to walk and talk improved rather quickly, thank goodness, but in a strange fashion, my words partially deserted me. While speaking, I often had to search for words I knew and couldn’t bring to mind – a recall problem that still plagues me. But in that strange fashion I mentioned, I discovered I could write words with much less difficulty. I’d always been a computer hound, so I switched from editing manually to editing on a word processor and that enabled me to cope with my job. Still, I had no urge to write stories.

Fifteen years later, several factors conjoined. My mother died, my best friend of twenty-five years died, the owner of the company I worked for retired, and I switched jobs. I was overwhelmed with grief and loss. I had difficulty focusing, and I spent a lot of time watching television, something I had rarely done before. But it turned out to be my salvation.

I got caught up in watching the Xena: Warrior Princess show, a somewhat campy but delightfully entertaining show. After I had watched it for about six months, I learned that fans were writing their own stories for the show that they posted online and I began to read them. I read this fanfic, as it was called, off and on for about a year, and one day it occurred to me that it might be fun to write one of those stories. But I hesitated; I had never written fiction. Then I read an interview of one of the writers who was a consummate storyteller. She said writing was easy. Just put the two main characters in a setting and keep on asking “what if.”

So I did that. I wrote and posted three fanfic novellas. To my surprise, I caught the writing bug and churned out six more. Fanfic is a great way to cut your writing teeth. Fans read your stories and give you instant feedback. My fans were very encouraging and kept asking me to write more. I was co-writing and posting a full-length novel with a friend, and a publisher’s agent contacted us and wanted to publish the story. We were ecstatic. The company published that novel and a sequel. Subsequently, I wrote a story by myself and that got published too.

I stopped writing for a while. I decided if I was going to have stories out there with my name on them, I wanted them to be the best-written stories I was capable of. So I diligently perused books and websites on the craft of writing, studied the conventions of fiction writing for three years, and picked the brains of writers I knew and admired. Lori L. Lake helped me so much and so generously, that I still call her my mentor. Then I went back to writing.

I’ve had two more books of fiction published. I re-edited the first three books and they’ve been reissued. I learned so much in those three years of study that three different publishing houses contracted with me to edit their books, and I’ve written a book on editing. I love to help other writers by editing their stories, but it’s terribly time consuming and “steals” from my writing time. So I’ve started cutting back.

For the past eight years, I published an online ezine called Just About Write (JAW), and December’s issue is the last. I’m clearing the deck to free up more writing time. It took a long while for me to become a writer who yearns to write, but it finally did happen. Now when I don’t write, I get antsy.

My writing path has been a long and winding one with plenty of detours, but once I was sure where I wanted to go, I became persistent about working toward my goals. And I will constantly sharpen my tools by learning from teachers like Larry Brooks. That’s an important part of the process.

Stay on your path. Learn. Write. Persist. It has worked for me. I got a late start, but I’m having the time of my life!

 Visit Nann Dunne’s sites:  

- www.nanndunne.com for her fiction

- www.nanndunnebooks.com for her book on editing

Vote for your favorite writing website HERE.

“One Author’s Writing Path” — A Guest Post by Nann Dunne is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

(Editor’s note: this should be mandatory reading for anyone with a serious writing bug.  One word: brilliant.) 

“I never know what I think about something until I read what I’ve written on it.” 
                                                                                        – William Faulkner

 More about the quote later.

I started my writing career as a 12 year old in San Jose, California when in 1968 I won a contest and had my one act play produced at a small San Francisco theater.  The play, entitled “The Birnbaum Guide to Hell on Five Dollars a Day”, was a goof, a class project that I was goaded into writing by my 6th grade teacher, Mrs. Hanzad.  It was about an old married couple who were accidentally killed during a European vacation and ended up having a wonderful time touring the Afterlife.

The story had a devil and imps and smoke and brimstone and ended up being a gas to write.  It also had a scene near the end where the husband has to say goodbye to the wife when it’s discovered that there was a clerical error and she was actually destined for Heaven.  It was the only really emotional scene in an otherwise funny piece and it was this scene that sold the play, the judges said. I remember that it came out of  me in a sudden rush and took me by surprise when I wrote it. I later thought several times that it should be taken out, that it had no place in the play.

I didn’t take it out.  In retrospect, I knew that it was the only way the story worked. I also came to know that it was this scene was only reason I wrote the play in the first place.

I’ve thought about the Birnbaum play off and on as I wrote other things. In my professional career I’ve scripted animation for television, optioned a film treatment to a production company, written dozens of comic books and published many poems, essays and newspaper pieces.  I came to write this piece today, in fact,  at Larry’s invitation after I sent him a long overdue appreciation for his fantastic books and posts, many of which have gotten me over some difficult writing patches and have supplied excellent motivational pushes when they were needed the most. And once again, the play came to mind as I started to write this article.

Through it all, one thing has become clear: I believe that none of my art – my writing, publications and career – would have been possible had I not written that play and gotten that scene out of me.

Of course, I now know why I had to write the goodbye scene, where the husband has to let go of his wife of forty years.  I had lost my mother to cancer several years earlier when I was six. And I came to realize why it was considered the most powerful scene in the play.

Because it came from the defining moment in my life so far.

Because it was real. Because it was actual.

It was the goodbye scene that I was never destined to have with my own mother, told by a child who had yet to learn how to keep such feelings to himself.  The scene was part of me; part of my personal story arc, and it said more about me and my life than that 12 year old boy knew at the time.

Experts will tell you that a child who has lost a parent at an early age very often turns to the arts in later life; he or she is trying to make sense of their own stories, to explain their experiences to themselves and then learn how to share them with others. The pain and abandonment that comes with such a loss will always create some kind of dramatic reaction such as it did with me. And when I finally wrote that scene out — when I heard it spoken by an actor and felt the hush of the people seated around me in the theatre — I knew I’d found something meaningful to me.  A pathway for my own personal stories. And through it, I moved one step farther as a writer and one step closer to understanding.

So . . . back to the quote.

Faulkner was right, of course. We don’t know who we are and what we know and feel until we write about it or paint it or sculpt it or dance it away into the cool, dark air. We must resist the urge to curb it and dismiss it as art-as-therapy because it can be the force behind the stories we tell. As writers, we must use every bit of whatever emotion is inside to tell our stories because, although we are each special, our experiences are not unique.  Parents die; children grow up and all things eventually change. It is that common thread of shared burdens and joys that tie your readers to you and you to them. To ignore this is to shackle your talent; to use it as part of your natural gifts is to elevate your writing to the realm of the genuine and true.

Every piece you write tells you something about yourself that you had not actively known before.  Make that knowledge part of your process.  It will be the spark that leads to greater understanding and to a deeper and more authentic work.

So, ignore your inner critics.

Learn your craft . . .

But let that six year old in you . . . out.

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Art Holcomb is a screenwriter whose work has appeared on the SHOWTIME Channel and has written for such comics as Marvel’s THE X-MEN and Acclaim’s ETERNAL WARRIORS. He has appeared as a guest and taught at San Diego Comic-Con and other conventions.  His most recent work is THE MEADOWS (with Mark L. Haynes), a science fiction police procedural.

The Personal Story Arc: A Guest Post by Art Holcomb is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

A short, self-conscious intro from Larry:

Here’s my morning: my wife and I go for a power walk.  I’m a little quiet, she asks why.  I tell her I’m mulling today’s NaNoWriMo post, and one other thing.  She asks what.  I tell her that one of my favorite Storyfix guys submitted a guest post, at my request.  Didn’t tell him what to write about, he had carte blanche.  

He wrote it, then sent it, I didn’t read it.  Too busy with this NaNoWriMo series.  But I did plan to run it, because I said I would, and because Dave is… well, you’ll see.  And, it’s been a while.

Dave Monroe and I have been working on his novel together — my role: story coach, with two passes and a handful of exchanges in between) for a few months now.  I have to say, Dave is one of the most gifted voices I’ve encountered.  As good as anyone publishing mysteries and thrillers today.  The fastest, strongest kid at the pro tryout.  If we can get this story right, sky’s the limit for him.  So it’s been a pleasure and an honor to be involved.

On my walk I decided to run his guest post this morning, as a bit of a break from the NaNoWriMo focus.  And because it sucks to write something and then not hear back. 

And then, this morning after the walk, I actually read it.  And that’s my problem… you’ll see what I mean when you read it.  A cynic — I know you’re out there — might feel that running this is over-the-top self-serving of me.  That Dave is returning a favor with some quid pro quo.   He assures the reader that none of this was solicited, so that base is covered adequately and accurately.

So here it is.  Still makes me uneasy. 

There is value here, not so much about me, but about the process.  The availability of inspiration and knowledge that resides outside yourself, while unlocking the writer within.  My hope here is that this view, this endorsement, will open you to this NaNoWriMo series in an empowered way, that you’ll go back and soak it all in, again, and if you need to read my book you will, and that as a result, when November 1st arrives, you’ll be salivating over your story plan.

I promise you a killer NaNoWriMo post later today.  But for now, if what Dave says helps trash any limiting beliefs you cling to, this may be the most important post yet in this series.  Enjoy.

A Guest Post from Dave Monroe

I want to get one thing straight – I’m not getting paid to say any of this. 

No kickbacks, no sweet deals, no nothing.  Why am I’m kicking off like this?  Because what I’m about to say may come off as ad-speak bullshit.  But it’s the truth, and nothing but the truth.

Larry Brooks is the best thing that’s ever happened to me as a writer.

No joke, the guy saved my story-ass, and then some.

And to think I found him by accident.  One night, in a book store, scanning the how-to writing books, I saw his book, STORY ENGINEERING.  I pulled the book off the shelf, and flipped through the pages. 

I went to the chapter 30, The Most Important Moment in Your Story.  I figured I’d give what’s-his-name a chance to sell me on his book, otherwise I’d dump it, like I’d dumped so many others.

And what I read blew me away.  I’ve read stacks of garbage on plot points, midpoints, inciting incidents, and on and on and on.  But when I read Brooks, he got me by the balls.  It was flat out the BEST explanation I’d ever read on plot-point one, or any plot point. 

So I bought the book, read it some crazy ass fashion, skipping from this chapter to that, and everything I read was like ah-ha moments on steroids. I sucked dry two yellow highlighters with my manic underlining, then switched to a ball point and drained it, too.

Man, who was this guy?  I had to know.  So I hopped on his website, locked in with his style, and – well, this is the part I can’t explain. 

Let me back up a bit. 

I had one novel, BLOOD DANCE, published years back.  Some mean life-gumbo got in the way of my writing, but that’s another story.  I’ve written other novels.  They’re in the attic, being revered by a big audience, an audience of not even one.

But here’s the thing – I’ve always worked alone, like too alone and for too long, like nobody would see a single word until after a year or two of writing.  By the time I showed someone my work played out, dead, just give me a match please.  I had nothing left, and I hadn’t even made it to the fourth quarter.  

So the day I was on Brooks’ website, I saw the Click Here tab, the one that led to the blah-blah on his coaching.  I clicked through, got the low down, and it hit me – maybe I should give this coaching a try, send this guy the novel I’m working on now (“The Get-back Job,” a partial is posted on the peer review section).

I always heard, when the student is ready, the teacher arrives.  Yeah, yeah – I don’t put much stock in fortune cookies. But something was going on, because I decided to give Brooks a try and let him coach me.

I sent him my first hundred pages and a behemoth of an outline, and I got back an even more behemoth of a coaching document back.

Brooks had read my submission three (3!) times, and put together a 16 page coaching document.  At first it felt like knockout punch.  To stay with the boxing metaphor – I lay on the mat, praying not to see double, letting what he’d said soak in, and my focus snapped back, and I got up before the ten count.

And it came to me, like I already told you – this guy just saved my story-ass! He probably saved me from a year or more rejections. 

It was brilliant how he handled his coaching document.  He let me know what worked with me as a writer, and what didn’t work with my story.  That’s critical – he let me know I had the stuff to be in the game, and that gave me the drive to roll up my sleeves and work harder on a story that was way out of the game

Let me just say, for the record – the story was bonkers, lost in sub-plots signifying what-the-hell-is-going-on-here-anyways?  It would’ve been easier if the story only signified nothing.

But, back to Brooks – the guy doesn’t quit.  Even in our seemingly ho-hum, back and forth emails, he dropped gold bricks on me.

In one email he turned me onto a writer, Nelson DeMille.  DeMille is now one my kingpins that I model.  I don’t sweat leaning on great writers. Hunter Thompson copied, by hand, hundreds and hundreds of pages of Dickens.  If HT was okay with leaning, then I sure as hell can be.

In another emails, Brooks told me story planning is the most right brain part of the creative process.  Meaning, stories can be fixed.  Or in my case, my mess of a story could be cleaned up.  Damn, what a relief.

And in another email, Brooks tossed me one idea.  He told me it’s the single most important thing he’s learned as a writer.  I ran with it and redrafted everything.

It gave every chapter eye-pop, drive, and burn. A friend of mine Shelly Stoehr, talented novelist (CROSSES) read the rewrite and said it reminded her of James Patterson.  So I’m okay with that. Patterson is only the bestselling novelist in the world these days.

But the most important thing I learned from Brooks – I can’t do this alone.  When I’m writing I get too wrapped up in the dream I’m dreaming.  I get too close to my story, I lose all objectivity.  I get lost in space – danger, danger Will Robinson on crank.  And I burn myself out.

If I don’t have someone setting eyes on my writing, it’s no different than being in a padded room with a typewriter.  Not to put it down, it may be a good career – I could sell my unpublished novels as drawer stuffers at flea markets.  Rejection slips make nice wallpaper for bathrooms, especially if they’re pink.

But if I want to make payday, this is the gig – I NEED another set of eyes on my work, so I can find out what’s working and what’s not.  And I want that set of eyes on my work as early in the game as possible.

Larry Brooks has the best set of “other eyes” I’ve ever come across.  I love the guy.

And here’s a secret – the one thing that almost fucked me up and kept me from getting started with Brooks was fear.  There’s no getting over fear, there’s only going through it, and on the other side of fear, it’s all magic.

So let’s talk about magic. 

As I’m writing this, it’s coming to me, I’ve used Brooks in ways I haven’t even told him about.  He’s hearing about this for the first time, too.

I took a workshop given by agent on how to find an agent.  I’d never written a query letter, so I was sweating it.  Then I decided to I’d roll up the query letter with what I’d learned from Brooks.

So I outlined my query letter according to Brooks – a set-up box one, first plot point, a reactive box two, pinch points, midpoints, pinch points, an active box three, an all is lost moment, a willing-to-die box four, and so forth.  Each story pillar got a slug line in my query letter.

In the workshop we read our pitches out loud.  Before I got halfway through reading my letter, the agent wanted to see the book. 

Actually, it was kind of a problem, because I haven’t finished the book.  But she’s now read the opening hundred pages, the synopsis, and is waiting for me to finish. Maybe she’s the one, maybe not, doesn’t matter.  These days I have no doubts getting published will happen, and work out wilder than I’ve ever imagined. 

And for that, I’ll be forever thankful to Larry Brooks.

So I don’t who you are, or where you’re at.  But if you’re hemming and hawing, sitting on the fence about using a writing coach – just do it, and do it as fast as you can. 

Let Brooks coach you.  I’m sure he can help you turn your writing dream into a reality, into a hardcover book on the shelf, into a movie on the big screen – or why not both?  That’s what I’m gunning for, and Brooks is helping me.

 Why not let him help you, too?

To your very best writing success,

David Monroe 

Guest Post: Dave Monroe on… Story Coaching is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

New Peer Review Submission from Evonne M. Biggins: “The Perfect Shade of Gray” (YA).  Please honor her with your feedback.

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Back last winter, when Larry and I were both voted Top 10 Blogs for Writers, we traded guest posts—his Self-Editing at the Story Level on my site A. Victoria Mixon, Editor, and my The Bootstrapping Writer—The Secret at the Core of Competency here on Storyfix. Then a few weeks ago, I interviewed Larry for the re-release of his previously-published thrillers. We had a great chat, and everyone got a fascinating birds-eye view from Larry into what it’s really like to be a bestselling author.

Now Larry has invited me to guest post for him again here with an excerpt from my new book, The Art & Craft of Story: 2nd Practitioner’s Manual, which was just released on September 30. Thank you, Larry!

Searching for Entertainment-Industry Intelligence

by Storyfix guest blogger Victoria Mixon

My husband and I fell in love under the shadow of SETI.

SETI, in case you don’t know, stands for Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence. When one morning sixteen years ago my new boss (and future husband) pointed out that the company we worked for was right down the hall from the SETI offices, I laughed out loud. I didn’t know you could rent office space in Silicon Valley from which to search for ET!

But as it happens, SETI, in spite of its X Files-type mission, enjoys a serious reputation among scientists and serves as a funding clearinghouse for a great deal of astronomical research, with enormous grants from some very highly-placed institutions indeed.

All this is by way of explaining where I spent a certain weekend last summer.

My husband had spent the week right before that in Boston leading seminars at one of the major Linux conferences, where he was approached by the SETI people to attend their first annual conference. He was one of a handful of open-source advocates invited to be involved in a discussion on moving SETI’s software to open source. He was also invited to their black-tie gala, at which astronauts, Star Trek stars, and big names in astronomy got up and talked about the future of space exploration. They were holding this conference at a large hotel in Silicon Valley, only a few hours’ drive from where we live. So we went. Of course!

But the really important part of the conference came the day after the black-tie gala, when we attended a talk by the Director of the National Academy of Sciences’ Science & Entertainment Exchange on the question: How can we better bridge the gap between science-fiction entertainment and science?

We watched a wonderful pastiche of movie clips to illustrate this intriguing question, and afterward the Director of the Science & Entertainment Exchange spoke long and eloquently. She brought up several points that, in my mind, all fit into the puzzle the same way:

• Laypeople learn “science” from sci-fi entertainment
• Using science in sci-fi entertainment significantly influences the behavior of ‘consumers’ (a sitcom featuring science about breast cancer resulted in a major increase in women across the country getting check-ups, a sitcom based on forensic science resulted in a four-fold increase in enrollment in forensic studies programs)
• The difference between a hacker staring at a screen for twenty seconds and yelping, “Eureka!” is a far cry from the real hacker who stares at a screen for weeks on end before unraveling the complexities in their way
• The stories of scientists and their search for information often make gripping telling
• It’s more interesting to know the truth

She explained that the National Academy of Sciences consults, when asked, on sci-fi movies and TV shows (which is where this Director’s job comes in). They also, when not asked to consult, stand by watching the ensuing confusion.

“What can we do about this disconnect?” The Director of the Science & Entertainment Exchange asked.

She described the elitism among scientists that keeps them from being interested in fiction, the lack of understanding among many writers that science-fiction must be based on—who knew?—science. She even told us about her scientist husband’s attempt to write a screenplay on what he knows about the potential and lack of potential in time travel, outraged by the ignorance displayed in time-travel sci-fi. (”This is really hard!” he finally said.)

She proposed a Writing Workshop in which writers and scientists would be paired off, so the scientists could keep the writers in the real world while they developed their stories.

Fabulous! I thought, This all makes perfect sense.

The truth is that a storyteller is dependent upon the facts of the reality they share with their reader—the hidden life-&-death struggles controlling all human character, the cause-&-effect of events in a temporal world, the meticulous, sensitive selection and accumulation of real details—to create a reflection of life that, when gazed into, resonates with a profundity that’s always present in reality but often missed.

Storytelling is not something that interferes with life. It’s not about faking or trivializing reality for the sake of the writer. Storytelling is about waking the reader up to the life that’s really there.

We must look for true aspects of character that we find utterly riveting. Explore real needs that power enormous agendas. Find ways to embed in these riveting characters with these powerful needs the counter-needs that create, deep inside them, internal conflict that rings inside the reader with devastating recognition.

“I know this person,” the reader thinks. “With all their beauty and horror, their insight and idiocy, their innocence and corruption. This person is me!”

Then we give our characters some fascinating premise. What if ionizing the air could bend lightwaves to alter the paths of lasers? (An example of true science from the Director’s talk.) What if time machines were possible, but altering the past through time travel were not? (Another example.) What if ghosts were the vibrations of the subatomic ‘strings’ that once made up the body of the living, continuing to reverberate after the body is gone? (I made up that one.)

What kind of nightmare could that create?

We put our characters into that nightmare.

And we design a plotline—along the lines of classic structure—around deeper and deeper exploration of the detailed, proven science that not only makes that nightmare possible but contains the only conceivable antidote.

We illuminate the eloquent search for truth that drives us all.

Please check out Victoria’s blog at A. Victoria Mixon, Editor. She is the author of The Art & Craft of Fiction: A Practitioner’s Manual and the recently-released The Art & Craft of Story: 2nd Practitioner’s Manual, as well as co-author of Children and the Internet: A Zen Guide for Parents and Educators, published by Prentice Hall. She spends a lot of time horsing around on Google+ and Twitter.

A Free Sample Chapter From Victoria Mixon’s new book, “The Art and Craft of Story: 2nd Practicioner’s Manual” is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Next week we’ll be launching the deconstruction of “Bait and Switch.” 

Click on the links in the middle column to grab a copy on the cheap and join us for this peek into the hidden architecture of a story.

To tide us over for the weekend, here’s an interesting guest post by Lynn Dean.

*****

Architecture or Art? 

a guest post by Lynn Dean

(Click HERE to read a short, beautifully-written slice of narrative that sets the stage for this article.  Or not… feel free to dive right in if you prefer.)

What, you may ask, has a medieval cathedral to do with story structure? I majored in architecture and missed the connection until I read Story Engineering, but then it hit me like a ton of bricks (if you’ll forgive the pun).

While I would never dream of building so much as a tree house without at least scribbling a sketch on a napkin, when it came to writing I was a proud “pantser”–writing mostly by intuition. Sometimes that works. Sometimes it’s an invitation for disaster as scenes and subplots collapse.

Beauvais (and several other Gothic cathedrals that collapsed during construction) may not have been erected by structural engineers, but the builders were no amateurs. Master masons learned the traditions of building–what worked and what wouldn’t–through years of apprenticeship. They shared ideas with others in their guild. Their training was not so different from the way many of us learned to write. And it worked, if only because failure was a threat to survival. The mason who built the arch was the same man who stood beneath it to pull out the scaffolding.

As do we as architects of our stories, though he risked a bit more than a publisher’s rejection letter.

Because these medieval builders did not understand the principles of physics that explain stress vectors and such like (calculus had not yet been invented), their traditional forms were literally set in stone. In a sense, the lack of formulas made their buildings somewhat formulaic as each craftsman tried to achieve something unique and inspiring–soaring, light-filled art–without varying too much from the proven patterns. Lack of understanding causes timidity.

I had fallen into a similar error–thinking that a planned plot would make my writing mechanical, less artistic. But in writing, as in architecture, it is possible to marry formulas and art to the great benefit of both.

In fact, just as many cathedrals survived notwithstanding their builders’ naivety regarding the principles of physics, a solid story stands because the writer has intuitively hit upon the principles of plotting that work. When I applied Larry’s “structural forensics” to my manuscript, I was pleased to find plot points that support the structure of my story exactly where they should be. And within that structural web, there was art!

Physics indeed… our stories depend on them just as much as the product of the architect’s trade.

Please visit Lynn Dean’s website, A NOVEL WRITING SITE.COM.  She is also the author of a novel, “More Precious Than Gold,” available as an ebook on Amazon.com.

Also, check out the latest entry on the Peer Review Page, an excerpt from a YA Novel by B.J. Culver.  Your feedback on this project would be most appreciated.

Guest Post: Architecture or Art? is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

by Jessica Flory

Theme in your writing is as tricky to pin down as it is tough to implement.  And yet, working in a great theme is absolutely essential to your novel.

If you want to publish, that is.  And, if self-publishing, if you want your work to have an impact.

Dictionary Definition

First of all, what is theme? The definition is pretty elusive, but it can most easily be classified as the overall message of your writing.

Why are you writing in the first place? Writing is hard, so why are you doing it? Ask yourself, why are you slogging through that novel? It’s long, at times tedious, but it’s still worth it. Why is that?

It’s because you have a message.

You have something to say.

Figure out what that is, and you’ve got your theme.

Why Do I Need a Theme?

It’s a good question, one that’s pertinent to every writer. Working with theme is crucial if you want to write and write well. No one wants to read a book that floats from topic to topic. Having a solid core to build your story around, that drives your message home at the oh-so -critical climax, will leave your readers breathless.

Now that’s just about every author’s dream.

Expertly crafted theme will:

•     Give Your Writing Life: We all live, we all have problems that we need to resolve, and we all have core principles. Address these problems; bring to light those values!
•     Add Depth to Your Writing: Theme, expertly executed, will fill your writing with compelling content and a deeper meaning. When you have a purpose to your writing, a message of human goodness that you’re trying to get out there, the emotional level of your writing is dramatically increased.
•     Make Your Writing Stick: With theme incorporated, your writing will stick with your readers! Theme will tie your writing together cohesively and give it an undertone with the same message. Your readers may not remember the details of your words, but they’ll remember what statement you made and the emotional level that you brought them to.

How to Work it In

Theme is tough to define, and it’s even harder when you’re trying to artfully weave it into a story. Here are a few ideas for incorporating theme and giving your writing that extra boost:

•     No Overloading: First of all, know that where theme is concerned, less is more. Loads more. Don’t try to incorporate ten different themes and make them all work. Pick one main theme that you want to address and maybe a few lesser themes that also peek through your story.
•     Work With What’s Important to You: Chances are it will be important to your readers, too. Have you had an experience in your life that tested your courage? Write about that. Readers will immediately feel drawn to your story. It will demonstrate to them true principles of bravery, and it will feel real because you’ve experienced it and you can write about it well. A theme can be anything from courage, hope, peace, love, and sacrifice, to fulfilling your dreams, going for your goals, or hard work.
•     Center Your Story: Place the central points of your story around your chosen theme. Include anecdotes that demonstrate the quality you’re trying to show. The theme should be the main message of your book, and it should come out at the climax.

Extra Tip

A great way to make theme the center of your story is to work with your character’s flaws. Give them a flaw that they must overcome before the conclusion of the story can be reached.

For example, if you want courage to be your main theme, make your main character very afraid of facing their fears. Then have them go through a series of events that demonstrate the need for courage, make them determined to overcome their character flaw, and have them face their fears against all peril for a dramatic and satisfying finish.

Congratulations. You’ve just made courage your main theme.

Theme is as difficult to define as it is to incorporate, but it can be done. When it is, when theme is woven and intertwined in a story so skillfully that it sweeps the reader off their feet and carries them for the ride of their lives, it works. Theme can take your story to new heights, so what are you waiting for? Go for it!

Visit Jessica’s site, Write for Life, for more thoughtful blog posts on the writing experience.

Guest Post: The Thing About Theme – What Are You Trying to Say? is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

An Interview with Chuck Hustmyre, author of “House of the Rising Sun”

(A little set-up from Larry here.)

Admit it.  You’d love to see your novel adapted and playing on the big screen.  You envision opening night, you in your tux or killer heels (heck, maybe both, I don’t judge), you imagine yourself there in the dark munching popcorn while watching the sea of dimly-lit faces staring up at the characters you created, saying your lines (for the most part, directors tend to change things), riveted, unable to tear their eyes away. 

Admit it.

And if you can’t see it there, you’ll take a direct-to-DVD deal.  Happily.

Some writers — the more famous they are, the more this is true — bemoan the adaptations of their work, usually after they’ve spent the big check that gave the filmmakers the right to do anything they want with it.  Sometimes they sue to get the rights back or have their name taken off the credits.  But you and me… no, it’d be a dream come true.  Even if you’re standing in front of a Redbox or in the aisle at Blockbuster instead of a mutiplex marquee.

That’s where I saw Chuck Hustmyre’s “House of the Rising Sun.”  At a Redbox.

I’d known Chuck and was familiar with the pending movie deal, and I’ve posted a link to the trailer here on Storyfix.  (Note: Definately Rated R.)  It’s good stuff, too.  Gritty, smart, a study in noir and a cut above what you’d expect in a film positioned like this.  A darn site better than the latest Nicholas Cage.

Now that the film is out I thought I’d ask Chuck to share a bit about this journey. 

And by the way, the novel is available at Amazon, paper or Kindle.  Amazon also has the DVD (here), in case your local Redbox doesn’t. 

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How did this happen?  What was the status of the story – published, or not – when the movie people found it?  How did they find it?  How did it go down?

The novel originally came out in 2004 from a tiny POD publisher in Oregon. It sold fewer than 100 copies, or so I was told. Fortunately, one of those copies fell into the hands of a local film producer in my hometown of Baton Rouge. He called me and asked if I would consider writing the script adaptation — for free, of course. I had some experience with screenplays and had written two or three by that time, so I said yes.

That began a saga that lasted several years. The local producer brought in a buddy of his from L.A. who he had gone to film school with and who had since gone on to win two Academy Awards for a couple of big blockbuster movies. The awards were in a technical field, and now this guy wanted to branch out more into directing. I was hoping that with his two Oscars he could raise the $4 – $5 million budget. But it seems money is always tight no matter what your trophy shelf looks like.

Fast forward to 2010. I got all the rights back from the POD publisher, and with the producer’s option long since expired, I decided to start shopping the script myself. I sent out dozens of queries on my own and used a query service that sent out hundreds more. One guy — that’s all it ever takes — in L.A. passed my query onto a buddy of his who was looking for a gritty crime thriller. That producer took out another option on it — again, no money changed hands. And then he started shopping it to other produces who had money.

From that point things started to move fast. There were some rewrites along the way, but in October I sold the script to a Toronto-based production company, Berkshire Axis Media, and the producer, Mark Sanders, started shooting the movie in December. The budget dropped to $1.5 million, but the results look a lot more expensive. Mark already had a deal with LIONSGATE for distribution in the U.S. and with Cinema Management Group for foreign sales. So far the film has sold in more than a dozen foreign countries.

With the movie in the works, my literary agent shopped the book around and sold it to Dorchester in New York. We also sold the translation rights in Russia and Poland.

The new edition of the novel came out July 15, and LIONSGATE released the movie on July 19.

You got screenplay credit… how did that go down?  Then the director re-wrote you, were you involved?  Didn’t see your name in the acting credits (did see the Director’s though), were you asked?  How were you treated?

I wrote the script, so I got the screenplay credit. However, this was a non-WGA production, and the director did some rewriting on the script and claimed half the writing credits. When a production is covered by the WGA, a production member, such as the director, has to change more than 50% of the script to claim a writing credit. That wasn’t the case with my script — I think about 70% of the finished film is from the original script — but the director took the credit anyway. I guess a directing credit wasn’t enough for him. He also wrote himself into the movie and took an acting credit.

As far as how I was treated. I think every new screenwriter imagines he or she will be treated with some respect and be considered part of the production team. The truth is, once you sell the script, you’re a nuisance. Nobody wants your input. Nobody asks for your opinion. My wife and I flew up to Michigan to watch a little of the shooting. They actually thought we were extras. Everyone was courteous, but you could tell they had better things to do than talk to us.  

How do you feel about the final product?  I liked it, by the way.  Batista was a surprise.

 I like the movie, but I have to say I do not like the changes the director made. I had a much bigger role for the character Jenny Porter, played by Amy Smart, than made it into the film. I also had a much different ending. My ending was definite and lacked the ambiguity of the film’s ending. And of course, I wish they had filmed it in New Orleans, but that was a business decision.

What has been your experience now that the film is out?  Has it changed the prospects of the novel, and/or your other work?

Having a produced movie has opened some doors for me. I now have a manager who is aggressively trying to sell my new scripts. But things haven’t changed as much as I thought, or at least hoped, they would. Hollywood agents still won’t answer my emails. Producers are not bidding on my next script. Selling my next novel has not been any easier. In fact, even with a movie in production, selling the novel “House of the Rising Sun” was not easy.

That said, the pay for a low-budget screenwriter is certainly better than for a mid-list author, at least in my case. 

Anything you’d like to add, and/or, advise other writers hoping to live this dream?

I really am reluctant to give any advice because every situation is different, but some general principles seem safe to reiterate. Don’t give up. If you give up you’ll never make it. But be realistic. Selling a novel to a big publisher or a script to Hollywood (even low-budget Hollywood) is about as difficult as picking a winning lottery number. Not quite but almost. A hundred things have to fall into place, most of which you have no control over. It’s as much luck as anything, but, of course, you can’t get lucky if you’re not trying.

Also, it’s not true that if you write a great story the market will find you. That’s bullshit. As an unpublished novelist or unproduced screenwriter every door — and I do mean every door — is closed to you. If you want to succeed, you have to find the right door and kick it open.

Visit Chuck Hustmyre’s website HERE. 

He has three other novels out, as well (linked from his website), all of which are waiting for me on my Kindle.  If you like the genre, then you’ll like Chuck’s stuff.  I know I do.

Novel to Script to Screen – One Writer’s Journey is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com