Article No. 1 - September 24, 2004

Today I begin what I am sure will be a long and happy association with Banyon Publishing's Self-Publishing Help website. This is the first column in a weekly series on creative writing. I begin with some background.
     
     I came to the United States from Canada in 1972. With time on my hands after retiring, I took an interest in storytelling that followed naturally from my experience in community theater. My search for tales to tell led to writing my own stories. My early attempts were failures and I realized I did not know anything about creating fiction. After completing four years of creative writing courses, I self-published two novels in 1999 that received creditable reviews. Meanwhile, I invented a storytelling persona named Elijah Taber whose success demanded he should write a book, which became successful, although I made the self-publishers classic error of printing too many copies.
     
     Unexpectedly, my storytelling took me into retirement homes lecturing to seniors on “Life Writing” projects. This lead to my fourth book, Creative Writing for Seniors. I responded to a demand to teach creative writing at local public libraries. I met with instant success. I continued my studies, searching for a simplified teaching technique. This summer, I succeeded in putting together a program that is like no other I have seen or heard. That is a bold statement in the face of the multiplicity of how-to books and programs flooding the market, but I think it has merit. Its uniqueness is simple. I do not linger over do’s and don’ts, or introduce the usual recitation of traditional advice. I lead my students through a simple four-part step-by-step process from finding and creating, to writing and revising.
     
     My program removes the mystique from creative writing. It starts with a question: What motivated Jack and Jill to go up the hill? The answer leads writers through a series of easy steps, ending in the crucial event that automatically allows authors to make their own determination if the story they created is worth writing, or if they should look for another. The beauty is this decision comes before the author has written a word of the tale. If you have a winner, go for it; if not, repeat the process until you find the story that excites you. The sections on writing and revision are succinct, explain the essentials an author needs to know to succeed after finding the story. In short, I offer a practical no-nonsense shortcut to writing success. My new eBook published just a week ago contains all the information.
     
     Future columns in this series will respond to readers’ pleas for help. I invite you to read the information and sample review and comment on my web site and to consider submitting your work through the submissions page. Each week I will present a column in this space about some facet of writing derived from the submissions received. Any words cited from reader’s submissions will be anonymous. I respect your copyright whether stated or not. None of your work will become known or exposed to any other individual. I have no employees, so you may feel confident, I will respect your privacy and work. My fee and procedure is explained on my website.
     
     Until next week, good writing and good fortune.
     
     Stephen P. Byers may be reached at mailto: spbyers@booksbybyers.com or mailto: spbyers@bbbwritingclinic.com
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2004



Article No. 2 - October 1, 2004

USE ACTION-ORIENTED VERBS

     
     A common saying in the writer’s world is the puzzling instruction, “Show, don’t tell.” What exactly does it mean? To avoid telling, use action-oriented verbs. Even in a scene as simple as a man strolling down a street, the job is not to tell the reader, but to depict actions.
     
     Here are two sentences from a recent submission: “The prosecutor paraded around the court holding the jars aloft for all to see the pathetic objects bobbing in amber liquid. The sight of the specimens as they passed from juror to juror evoked disgust, anger and outrage from the entire courtroom.”
     
     The problem in this descriptive passage is the abrupt change in the author’s technique. In the first sentence, what did the prosecutor do? Look at the verbs. This is action—parading and holding. In the second sentence, what did everybody else do? We don’t know because the author stopped the action, substituting telling instead of showing; no character did anything. To deliver images of disgust, anger and outrage, the author must continue the action by describing the characters’ behavior. Here are some typical questions the author could consider while developing the scene.
     
     1. What do the jurors DO [action] that shows disgust, anger and outrage? As written, the sentence suggests every person in the courtroom has the same reaction. That’s not true to life. The jurors could not possibly react in unison as the jar goes from one to the other, to say nothing of the guy in the back of the court reading a newspaper.
     
     2. Does one juror wince? [action]
     
     3. Does another grow pale and put his hand to his mouth? [action]
     
     4. Does the third close his eyes and pass the jar without looking at it? [action]
     
     5. Does the farmer in overalls who slaughters pigs in the fall examine the contents from every angle? [action]
     
     6. What does the judge DO while this goes on?
     
     7. And the prosecutor? Does he watch the jurors reactions or does he look out the window? [Worried or confident?]
     
     8. And the defense counsel? Does he behave nonchalantly as if the evidence is trivial and unimportant? Or, does he spring to his feet with an objection? Or, does he make a fuss to divert the jurors attention away from the evidence. Or, crack a joke to lighten the atmosphere? [Accept the evidence or divert attention?]
     
     9. What about the spectators? The author should not TELL the reader the objects “evoked disgust and anger and outrage from the entire courtroom.” The author must write in detail about the actions that SHOW disgust, anger and outrage and must do it in a manner that never uses those three words. The author TELLS by using specific adjectives or nouns. When the author describes actions, then the author SHOWS the reader.
     
     To avoid a similar mistake in your writing, provide details of characters’ movements and facial expressions that create a mental picture of the scene you intend to portray. Let the reader see the actions. A stage actor does not turn to the audience and say, “Watch this, I’m going to be disgusted now.” Of course not; and neither should an author.
     
     Until next week, good writing and good fortune.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available for downloading. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2004



Article No. 3 - October 8, 2004

THERE’S MORE THAN ONE WAY TO SHOW

     
     An astute reader filed this question drawn from last week’s article. “You wrote to avoid telling, describe action even in a scene as simple as a man strolling down a street. How do I do that? Clip-clop. Clip-clop?” [RJW. Thank you.]
     
     The answer to avoid telling is not to describe the man’s actions, but rather what he senses as he walks. Unless the man’s walk is curious, such as on his hands and knees on a crowded street, every reader knows what walking is. One possibility is to use adverbs, such as briskly, leisurely, or purposively, but there is a better way, which is by projecting images.
     
     When humans go somewhere, or face something even in familiar surroundings, they always assess the experience and surroundings by using their senses. Describing the images our story character senses will show instead of tell. Consider this example taken from my novel The Naked Jaybird. The main character, Roland Royce visits Taipei, Taiwan for the first time. He leaves his hotel room and walks through the market to the river. The questions I asked myself to write this passage are obvious:
     
     _ What would he see?
     _ What would he smell?
     _ What would he hear?
     _ What would he taste?
     _ What would he feel?
     
     Here is the resulting description.
     “I went west toward the river and turned south on Kunming Road. The odd mixture of buildings defied logic, revealing city planning as a neglected art. Motorcycle and bicycle repair shops, convenience stores, restaurants, wedding halls, residential hovels, high-rise apartments, pharmacies, betel nut stands, street sellers, supermarkets and religious temples blended in an incomprehensible mélange. I peered down dark lanes, stepped over puddles of water, squeezed between piles of boxes and walked into markets strewn with decaying garbage. The smell of seafood yielded to that of freshly slaughtered meat, which changed to ripening fruit as I moved along, then back to the stench of fish and garbage. And people! People everywhere haggling in the marketplace, arguing in the street, bellowing in frustration—a cacophony of high-decibel shrieking punctuated by yelling truckers and honking horns. Yet, an indefinable order existed amid chaos. The scene suggested psychedelic works of art in bold colors, badly soiled as if left to weather too long unprotected from the sun. Curved roofs, upswept eaves, brilliant hues, intricate sculptures and ceramic décor combined to create a pattern of infinite complexity amid the squalor of the markets. At the end of Kunming Road, I gazed at the Lungsham Temple, built hundreds of years ago and said to be the oldest temple in Taiwan.” [215 words]
     
     Sight, smell and hearing satisfied my needs. I thought Royce might stop to buy and eat betel nuts, but I didn't know the taste let alone how to describe them, or their taste.
     
     Authorial comments, or exposition, such as Royce’s walk usually lack conflict. Since we want to maximize conflict, we should minimize comments. But, when we must write them, one way is to show our readers images as experienced through our characters’ senses.
     
     Until next week, good writing and good fortune.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available for downloading. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2004



Article No. 4 - October 15, 2004

As a sub-leader at a recent writing conference, I asked some off-the-cuff questions about grammatical construction of sentences. Questions such as:
     
     - What’s the difference between a compound sentence and a complex sentence?
     
     - What is a relative clause?
     
     - What is an appositive?
     
     The lack of responses startled me. I concede a sampling of forty-six people among a population of more than three hundred million cannot have any statistical meaning. Nonetheless, the forty-six participants in the test all claimed to be writers, some published, some not, yet only two could answer the first question and none the other two. A review of grade school grammar seemed fitting. Here are the answers.
     
     A compound sentence is two independent clauses joined by a coordinating conjunction. (Definition 1) Ah! What’s an independent clause? It is a simple sentence that states one thought, combining a verb and a subject with a direct object, although both the subject and object may be implied. It cannot exist without a verb. An example of a one-word sentence; “Speak.” Depending on the context, the implied subject could be “you” and the direct object could be “to me.”
     
     A dependent clause is a subordinate explanatory clause that has a subject and a verb and begins with words called subordinating conjunctions such as: although; when; as; which; that; while; because; and other similar words.
     
     A complex sentence includes one or more independent clauses and at least one dependent clause. (Definition 2)
     
     Let’s consider how to use these sentence structures. I’ll start with a complex sentence using a subordinating conjunction, a dependent clause (underlined), and an independent clause.
     
     While millions of conservatives celebrated the Republican victory in 1896, Democrats blamed their loss on the inflammatory rhetoric never before used in an election.
     
     Remove the subordinating conjunction (while) and put a coordinating conjunction (and) in the middle. The complex sentence becomes a compound sentence (two independent clauses):
     
     Millions of conservatives celebrated the Republican victory in 1896 and Democrats blamed their loss on the inflammatory rhetoric never before used in an election.
     
     Break the compound sentence into two simple sentences.
     
     Millions of conservatives celebrated the Republican victory in 1896. Democrats blamed their loss on the inflammatory rhetoric never before used in an election.
     
     These are the choices as you revise your work, but how is one to choose? Answer: Look at the action words. It is plain in the last example (two simple sentences), one group celebrates while the other blames independently of each other. There is no cause and effect relationship. The first sentence (complex) clearly establishes the cause and effect; while one group celebrates the victory attained through inflammatory rhetoric, the other blames it for the loss. The second example lessens the emphasis tending to diminish cause and effect thereby equating their value.
     
     I would choose the complex sentence to emphasize the cause of the celebration and its effect; the compound sentence to balance or equate the celebration and the blame; or two independent sentences when the cause and effect relationship is unimportant.
     
     Next week, I’ll write about problems with clauses. Until then, good writing and good fortune.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available for downloading. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2004



Article No. 5 - October 22, 2004

Continuing my discussion of grade school grammar, I turn now to clauses. You may remember the second question I posed last week: What is a relative clause?
     
     It is a clause that modifies a noun and usually begins with words like whose, who, where, and similar pronouns functioning as subjects . There are two types of relative clauses: restrictive and nonrestrictive, a distinction that seems to give writers trouble.
     
     A restrictive element identifies which subject, of various possibilities, is under consideration. I have four children, three boys and one girl. Suppose I attend an event with one of my boys. When reporting it, I must introduce a restriction identifying which boy. I went camping with my son Archie. Note that commas do not set off the name. But, suppose I went to the event with my daughter. Then my report would be; I went camping with my daughter, Sheila. This is nonrestrictive in that I have only one daughter and do not need a name identification about which daughter. By inserting her name, I am not restricting the information to a specific identity, I am adding the information her name is Sheila. This is nonrestrictive and should be set off by commas.
     
     The same consideration holds true for clauses. Let’s look at an example. My story concerns hunting with two of my sons. One carries a shotgun, the other a rifle. One of them takes a shot. To identify which boy fired, I must include a restriction not set off by commas. The boy who carried the rifle took dead aim and hit the bulls eye. The italicized clause identifies which boy, meaning it is restrictive.
     
     Change the context to boys wearing a red hat and a green one. Now, I have identified them. The boy in the green hat, who was a better shot than his brother, took dead aim and hit the bulls eye. The italicized clause is nonrestrictive; it adds information about the boy in the green hat, but does not add anything to his identity. This is a nonrestrictive clause set off by commas.
     
     Another example.
     Father gave the collection to the deacon, who stood beside the pulpit.
     Father gave the collection to the deacon who stood beside the pulpit.
     
     What different information do these two sentences deliver? In the first, the comma makes the clause who stood beside the pulpit nonrestrictive meaning there is only one deacon. In the second, there may be several deacons present, but the one beside the pulpit received the collection. The punctuation changing the meaning of the sentence is the presence or absence of commas.
     
     Common American practice uses the pronoun which for nonrestrictive clauses and the pronoun that for restrictive clauses. Europeans writers of English usually do not follow this custom. Here are two sentences demonstrating the which/that difference.
     
     The files, which are on the desk, should be saved.
     The files that are on the desk should be saved.
     
     This first is nonrestrictive; the files should be saved and they are on the desk. The second is restrictive; save only the files on the desk (and presumably get rid of the others).
     
      In restrictive clauses, the pronoun that is often unnecessary and may be omitted without sacrificing meaning. The files on the desk should be saved.
     
     Next week, I’ll finish this little dissertation. Until then, good writing and good fortune.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available for downloading. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2004



Article No. 6 - October 29, 2004

We come to the last of my questions raised in Article 4. What is an appositive? It is a non-restrictive or restrictive noun or phrase that identifies the preceding word or idea. The terms non-restrictive or restrictive have the same meaning as with clauses and use the same punctuation; set off with commas when non-restrictive and without commas when restrictive.
     
     We use appositives as identifiers. For instance, I might write, “The great playwright George Bernard Shaw once said ….” The underlined name is the appositive identifying which playwright is the subject of the sentence. Because there are many great playwrights, the name is restrictive to a particular one and therefore is not set off with commas. In a different sentence arrangement, the restriction would not exist. The author of Pygmalion, George Bernard Shaw, once said … .” In this case, there is only one author of Pygmalion and so inserting the name of the author is non-restrictive; it is informative, but not identifying.
     
     All of this boils down to a simple procedure. When you insert a clause or an appositive, consider this question:
     
     Is there more than one possible identity of the object or person preceding the clause or appositive?
     a. If the answer is no—meaning the object or person is previously identified—then the clause or appositive is non-restrictive and should be set off with commas.
     b. If yes, the identification is restrictive and should appear without commas.
     
     Before I leave clauses, I would be amiss not to mention phrases. A clause has both a subject and a verb; a phrase does not. Common types of phrases are prepositional, infinitive and participial.
     
     A prepositional phrase consists of a preposition and its object.
     Examples:
     • “In the dark of night, …”
     • “To the reader’s minds, …”
     • “From one of the boats, …”
     
     An infinitive phrase consists of an infinitive followed by its object or modifier.
     Examples:
     • “It was time to go to sleep.”
     • “It is better to start by defining …”
     • “To keep me from the golf course, …”
     
     A participial phrase consists of a present or past participle with its object or modifiers. These are the ones that often give writers problems with the so-called dangling participle. Compare these two sentences.
     • Dressed in purple pants, Jimmy opened the door and stepped outside.
     • Dressed in purple pants, the door opened and Jimmy stepped outside.
     
     The error is easy to spot, but here’s one from The Random House Guide To Good Writing (Mitchell Ivers ISBN 0394583809) that is more subtle.
     • Crossing the lawn that morning, Douglas broke a spider web with his face. (The participle crossing does not dangle because it modifies the subject Douglas.)
     • Crossing the lawn that morning, a spider web brushed against Douglas’ face. (Now the participle modifies the spider web leaving the inference the spider web moved across the lawn.)
     
     And the best one of all from the same source.
     • Sautéed, broiled, baked, or boiled, you’ll love our delicious chickens.
     No you won’t—not after you’ve been sautéed, broiled, baked, or boiled. You fix dangling participles by changing the subject of the sentence.
     • Sautéed, broiled, baked, or boiled, our delicious chickens will thrill your guests.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available for downloading. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2004



Article No. 7 - Nov. 5, 2004

A recent article on writing opened with this statement: “Begin with the action. Setting and background can wait.” In my view, this is poor advice, especially since it contains an ambiguity. Does background mean the backdrop or framework of the scene, or does it refer to the back-story? I would amend the recommendation: “Open your story by integrating action and setting. The back story can wait.”
     
     I like to compare opening a story to a theater production. When the curtain rises on Act 1, the audience immediately receives a sense of setting. The scenery depicts where the action will take place. Actors do not usually start on a dark stage. A movie seldom opens without some introductory scene placing the action. I believe setting and place cannot wait. Here are three examples selected at random from my bookshelves.
     
     The point is each combines action with setting.
     
     Graham Greene starts “Travels with my Aunt” with the following paragraph.
     “I met my Aunt Augusta for the first time in more than half a century at my mother’s funeral. My moth-er was approaching eighty-six when she died, and my aunt was some eleven or twelve years younger. I had retired from the bank two years before with an ade-quate pension and a silver handshake. There had been a take-over by the Westminster and my branch was considered redundant. Everyone thought me lucky, but I found it difficult to occupy my time. I have never married, I have always lived quietly, and, apart from my interest in dahlias, I have no hobby. For those reasons I found myself agreeably excited by my mother’s funeral.”
     
     Robert Ludlum starts “The Bourne Identity” with this sentence.
     “The trawler plunged into the angry swells of the dark, furious sea like an awkward animal trying disparately to break out of an impenetrable swamp.” (Two more sentences follow describing the agony the ship is experiencing.) The second paragraph starts with, “Two abrupt explosions …” and the author is well into the action in a recognizable situation. It would be a different opening had he reversed these two paragraphs.
     
     John Le Carré starts “The Night Manager” with the following paragraph.
     “On a snow-swept January evening of 1991, Jonathan Pine, the English night manager of the Hotel Meister Palace in Zurich, forsook his office behind the reception desk and, in the grip of feelings he had not known before, took up his position in the lobby as a prelude to extending his hotel’s welcome to a distinguished late arrival. The Gulf war had just begun. Throughout the day, news of the Allied bombings, discreetly relayed by the staff, had caused consternation on the Zurich stock exchange. Hotel bookings, which in any January were low, had sunk to crisis levels. Once more in her long history Switzerland was under siege.”
     
     In each case, the opening paragraph by these three famous authors shows the reader where the action is taking place. Le Carré includes a date, a practice I recommend, but is not always possible. For instance, a book taking place “some time in the future” may have no date. I do not believe an author should fire the gun at the neglect of some depiction of the place where the shooting occurs.
     
     The first paragraph of a story should integrate action into the scene environment.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available for downloading. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2004



Article No. 8 - Nov. 12, 2004

I went to school this week; grade six to be exact. The teacher asked me to talk to her class about creative writing. I elected suspense as my subject, which hinges on a simple premise: “What’s next?”
     
     The teacher warned me the class consisted of boys, some of whom were difficult at best, impossible at worst. I decided to talk about baseball, to ignore those who didn’t want to listen and to hope for the best. The result was better than I expected.
     
     I selected a question, answer and vote technique to involve as many students as I could. I appointed two boys to count the votes.
     
     The story is about a twelve-year-old who asks to see the St. Louis Cardinals play as his birthday gift. The story question is; “Will he see Jim Edmonds hit a home run or will he not?” Simple; straightforward; everyday situation. Then I began the questions.
     
     QUESTION 1: Saint Louis is a long way from NW Arkansas. To go to the game, the boy must be excused from school. What problem arises?
     ANSWER 1: I managed to evoke two responses, which I wrote on the chalkboard. Then, I called for a vote; “permission denied by the teacher” won.
     
     QUESTION 2: How is the problem solved, meaning how will the teacher’s objections be overcome?
     ANSWER 2: The boy’s “father writes a note” won over three other answers.
     Now I switched my technique to have the students define the problem.
     
     QUESTION 3: They are driving to Saint Louis. What problem arises?
     ANSWER 3: They have a flat tire.
     
     QUESTION 4: What problem arises?
     ANSWER 4: The spare tire is flat.
     
     QUESTION 5: How is the problem solved?
     ANSWER 5: They call road service.
     
     By this time, most of the boys had become involved and the others were at least paying some attention. The class was a bit rowdy, but I didn’t lose control although more than once I thought I might.
     
     When they arrive in Saint Louis, they have difficulties.
     
     QUESTION 6: What problem arises?
     ANSWER 6: They cannot find the tickets.
     
     QUESTION 7: How is the problem solved?
     ANSWER 7: The tickets are in the trunk of the car.
     
     We are in our seats at the game. I asked the students to create an exciting ending. The summary of their best ideas:
     The bases are loaded in the bottom of the ninth inning. The score is 7 – 4 for the visiting team. Edmonds is at bat. The count is 3 and 2. Edmonds swings. We hear the smack of the bat on the ball.
     
     QUESTION 8: What is the question?
     ANSWER 8: Will the boy come home from his birthday party with a home run baseball hit by Jim Edmonds?
     
     The students had a plot. The teacher instructed them to write the story at home. I suggested ideas such as the boy dreaming how much he would like to see Edmonds hit a home run; how he hopes the Cardinals will win; how he fears being late for the game and missing a home run. And, in the end, the reader learns the answers to all these questions.
     
     The teacher called to say the results surprised her.
     
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available for downloading. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2004



Article No. 9 - Nov. 19, 2004

This is the first of a series of articles on characterization. I notice in my lectures on creative writing, a recurring lack of understanding about the terms subjective and objective characters. I begin with a fictional family story of my lawyer uncle who succumbs to political influence. (See Chapter 11, Creative Writing for Seniors.) The first turning point, or inciting incident, affects ten people. They comprise a group in which each individual is different; each has a private goal, a critical flaw, and a motivating force—all of which I will discuss in detail later—that guide personal decisions and actions. Apart from their singularities, some characters may share beliefs; political, religious, ethical, unethical, moral, amoral, and so on. Among them is one particular individual, the central figure in my story, called the Main Character. (I caution readers, the Main Character is NOT the Protagonist.)
     
     To understand the role of the Main Character, consider the legal corporation that employs my uncle. An executive director frames policies and issues orders that control lower level attorneys. The individual labeled Main Character could be one such lawyer; a recent law school graduate regulated by limits over which he has little influence. The organization dictates his pay scale, hours of work, caseload, vacations, all of which affect every facet of his life. I will tell the story through the eyes and emotional experiences of this low-level subjective individual. The story examines a portion of a society through the experience of one person—the Main Character. The author does this by crawling inside the characters’ heads, disclosing their thoughts, and feeling their emotions as the Main Character struggles to achieve his purpose.
     
     Underlying this struggle is a problem affecting all the characters in the story. In other words, what is the story about? The decision falls to the author who must know the answer before he begins. In my case, I choose the integrity of lawyers given the opportunity to exploit their influence within their constituency.
     
      The subjective discontent felt by the Main Character causes him to seek escape. His dream could be an eventual appointment to the Supreme Court. One of the ways lawyers achieve such a goal is to serve as judicial clerks for judges. When my uncle becomes a judge, the Main Character has his opportunity. He gains the appointment, but soon finds he faces a myriad of problems he never imagined, each presenting hurdles difficult, if not impossible, to pass. He flounders in one direction and then another, every rejection being worse than the last one. Throughout this ordeal, a second character appears identified as the Obstacle Character. By definition, whatever the Main Character strives for, the Obstacle Character opposes. For instance, the young attorney’s wife could be a candidate for this role. She sees nothing but disaster ahead and advises her husband to accept his lot in life. With this choice, the story becomes an argument—career dreams versus safety of reality: The devil you know versus the devil you don’t. Another possibility is a competing lawyer who wants the same position and constantly puts roadblocks in the path of the Main Character. The possibilities are infinite, restricted only by the limits of the author’s imagination.
     
     Here are the character definitions:
     MAIN CHARACTER: The central figure through whose eyes readers experience the story, and who is subjective relative to the story problem.
     OBSTACLE CHARACTER: This character forces the Main Character to evaluate his or her beliefs, to face personal problems and to reconsider objectives. This character is also subjective relative to the story problem.
     
      NOTE: Next article will appear on Friday, December 3.
     Happy Thanksgiving to all.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available for downloading. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2004



Article No. 10 - Dec. 3, 2004

In the last article, I defined two characters—the Main and Obstacle Characters—confronting each other about a particular story problem. The next character to consider is the Protagonist who, by definition, is the prime mover of the story with the role of finding a solution to the problem that is the cause of the story difficulties.
     
     The fourth character is the Antagonist who opposes the Protagonist in every way. The objective the Protagonist pursues, the Antagonist seeks to avoid; or that which the Protagonist seeks to avoid, the Antagonist seeks to obtain. While the outcome is a concern to all the characters, the Protagonist is the sole character charged with the responsibility of finding a solution to the story problem, or avoiding a catastrophe if the problem is negative. That suggests the Protagonist is the “good guy” and the Antagonist is the “bad guy.” Indeed, in many stories that is the format, but it is not the only choice. Ronald Tobias in his book 20 Master Plots describes kinds of stories as “good” and “evil,” asserting the best stories are “good versus good” and “evil versus evil.” As examples, Mr. Tobias suggests the movie Kramer versus Kramer as an example of the first; the film Fatal Attraction as an example of the second. In either case, the Protagonist's goal is the story's goal, regardless of the story type.
     
     Much modern writing ignores the difference between the Main Character and the Protagonist by putting them in the same body. Similarly, the Obstacle Character and the Antagonist may sometimes occupy the same body. In essence this unification creates a hero—as in a detective story—and a villain. Having two or four principal characters is a choice the author must make. Regardless of the final decision, I suggest starting the story plan based on four principal characters.
     
     To return to the story about my aberrant uncle, you will recall I selected a junior attorney as the Main Character, and a more senior lawyer as the Obstacle Character. Since my uncle voluntarily becomes involved in deception if not criminal activity, he is “evil” rather than “good” and my inclination is to cast him as the Antagonist leaving me with the problem of selecting the Protagonist.
     
     A District Attorney would be an obvious choice; someone sworn to uphold the law, fight crime and preserve order. Then my story will be about an Antagonist (my uncle) with a negative purpose giving the Protagonist (the DA) the goal of stopping him. The DA will be influential in the political and legal worlds. He becomes suspicious about questionable judgments by the Antagonist. But, I also have the choice of making the DA an unscrupulous character untrue to his oath of office; that is he may also be “evil.” No rule exists about right and wrong choice. The author decides early in the planning stage because it affects a great deal that follows.
     
     Does the type of story make a difference to the young attorney—the Main Character—who wants to clerk for the judge and become a member of the Supreme Court? It doesn’t matter because whatever frustrations he experiences at the hands of the Obstacle Character, eventually he becomes aware of the illegal deceptions by one or more characters, exposes the deception and becomes a pillar of the legal community. The change he experiences is from disillusionment in his selected profession at the beginning of the story to faith in the legal system at the end as the evildoers march off to jail.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available in hard copy or eBook format. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2004



Article No. 11 - Dec. 10, 2004

Before I continue, I want to address the matter of subjective characters in more depth to expose their value in storytelling. In the broadest sense, we may classify story characters as those who are in command, or who control the conflict on one side or the other of the dispute—pro or anti—and those whom the conflict affects. For example, a general remote from the battlefield has a different view of warfare than a soldier in the trenches. The general’s perspective is objective. What strategy must he employ to thwart his enemy’s tactics, and win the war? The soldier’s perspective is subjective. What caution must he exercise to obey orders, and still escape the battlefield alive to return home to his family?
     
     In any master/servant relationship, the master exercises some power or control over the servant. By making the servant the Main Character in the story, the reader perceives the author’s view of what it is like to be in a particular situation. Let’s look at a couple of other examples.
     
     A family company is floundering because of nepotism. They hire a consultant for a stipulated fee to reorganize the company and return it to profitability. The consultant (protagonist) is objective with a defined story problem. A manager (antagonist) who is also objective opposes the consultant for whatever reasons. On the factory floor, rumors begin to circulate; imminent layoffs; moving production overseas; possible bankruptcy; and more. One of those workers is a welder who decides his best choice is to quit his job, and start his own welding service. He takes the problem and proposed solution home to his wife.
     
     “Have you lost your mind?” she shrieks.
     
     Mrs. Welder sees nothing but problems: financial; family; school; car; housing; an endless litany of undesirable results. Despite their differences, they share the concern, namely the welfare of their family, but they are on opposite sides of the issue. In this scenario, the welder plays the role of Main Character. In her opposition to her husband’s plan, Mrs. Welder plays the role of Obstacle Character. In the end, one of them will prevail and the other will change. While this argument ensues, the battle between the consultant and the manager transpires with either a positive result (the company recovers) or a negative outcome (the company fails.)
     
     An author may examine any story in this manner: How will I show the reader the experience of being in this situation under these circumstances? A story that succeeds exceptionally well in accomplishing this is Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. The theme is prejudice, and the story problem is the unjust treatment of blacks in the south. Atticus Finch—Gregory Peck in the movie—is the Protagonist, but he is not the Main Character. He wants to free the black man wrongly accused of rape. The Antagonist is Bob Ewell, father of the girl supposedly raped. Shamed by his daughter’s behavior, he wants the black man to hang. But, the Main Character through whose eyes the reader sees the story is Scout, Atticus’ daughter. The Impact Character is Boo Radley, the “boogie man” who lives next door to the Finch family. Here is a tale in which the author separates the Main and Impact Characters from the Protagonist and Antagonist. The result was successful in both the written form, and the cinematic follow-up.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available in hard copy or eBook format. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2004



Article No. 12 - Dec. 17, 2004

(NOTE: Portions of this article about character roles come from Dramatica, A New Theory of Story, used by permission from Mr. Chris Huntley of Write Brothers, Inc (formerly Screenplay Systems), co-author, with Ms. Melanie Anne Phillips: All rights reserved. Information about Dramatica is available at http://www.dramatica.com. For in-depth discussion of character roles see The Elements of Structure: Character, pages 26 through 87 of their book.)
     
     Every character in the story must have a concern about the problem. Conversely, a character unrelated to the problem should not be in the story. That’s not to suggest every character type must appear in every story, but every character that does appear must have a concern related to the problem. Each is trying to bring a particular conviction to bear and each has a reason to care about the outcome. When introducing a character, the author must know the role that character will play. Also, the author must know each character’s goal, motivation, critical flaw, and connection to the problem—more about these later. The corollary is the author must understand the problem from the outset.
     
     To continue with identifying character roles, Dramatica identifies the next two as Guardian and Contagonist. The former is the mentor, the wise friend, or the helper who carries the action trait of “help.” The latter is like a germ contaminating the efforts to achieve the story goal and carries the action trait of “hinder.” To make their roles plainer, Dramatica identifies the Guardian as the angel sitting on the Protagonist’s shoulder providing wise counsel while the Contagonist is the devil perched on the other shoulder inciting disaster. The group of six roles—these two plus the previous four—constitutes the “stars” of the show. They are the drivers of the action; the people whose names are on the marquee. The remaining four roles are the “passenger” characters. They may be allied with either the Protagonist or the Antagonist.
     
     The Sidekick is forever faithful while his opposite number is the Skeptic who forever doubts. Reason acts on the basis of logic and Emotion responds from feelings. While each of these Characters has its own motivations, they represent different approaches and attitudes toward solving the problem.
     
     To help understand the character roles, let’s return to the story about my fictitious uncle. Remember in planning my story, everything is flexible. While I let my imagination wander over a spectrum of possibilities, I have to start somewhere so I make some initial choices. The Contagonist could be a political ward-healer manipulating both the Protagonist and the Antagonist. My first choices for the Guardian role are often a wife or a church prelate. In the present story, the churchman could be a community activist who perhaps becomes involved with the judge through civil disobedience. Before making my choice, I must remember to find a role for my grandfather who is the object of my uncle’s scorn. Grandfather may fit into the role of Guardian, in which case I would move the prelate to either Reason or Emotion.
     
     Various ideas pop into my head for the remaining roles. Since my uncle is a duplicitous character, he may have a rocky marriage. Possibly a subplot would fit in with a wife, a servant, a son or daughter, even a mistress or lover. Each could have an interest in the story problem and those interests would be widely divergent. Suddenly, I have more characters than I have roles, but is that not always the way in auditions?
     
     This completes the definitions of the ten basic character roles.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available in hard copy or eBook format. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2004



Article No. 13 - Dec. 24, 2004

Next, in the development on my story, I come to what I call Dreaming the Story. In the beginning, I envisaged a tale about my lawyer uncle. I approached the problem by selecting players who might fill the basic ten character roles. A snippet of story popped into my mind as I made my selection until at the end of the last article, an embryonic idea for a subplot developed. The next task is to assign attributes to the characters, which are name, sex, age, goal, critical flaw, motivation, and to classify them as “good” or “evil”. One by one, I put the characters under my microscope. Whether sitting at my computer, driving my car, waiting for my doctor’s appointment, or any other place I have a free moment, I dream the story. I think about each character’s background and how that will influence his or her contribution to the story. Here is a condensed version about my misguided uncle. I don’t think it makes the slightest difference which character you analyze first, but I believe it essential to examine all of them.
     
     The idea germinating in my mind starts with the home life of my father’s family, named Taber. Each of my father’s siblings bore an Old Testament first name; my uncle was Isaac Taber. Their ancestors were of Quaker stock among the early settlers of New England, which they left as a form of protest against the Civil War. The family industriousness in their new Kentucky setting brought wealth and prestige resulting in a formal “old country” upbringing of my father’s generation. My story begins when Isaac has the opportunity to escape the restricted and regimented family life for university in the East. He is like a caged animal released from captivity. His wild behavior filters back to his father who cuts off Isaac’s funds to bring his son under control. Through shear determination, Isaac completes his law degree on his own and never again speaks to his father. Isaac’s rejection turns to spite and a covetous need for wealth that so eludes him he turns to unscrupulous deals, but his father’s image is never far from his conscience.
     
     I like to place my stories in the fifties and sixties, a period when I was active in business leaving me with some knowledge of the conditions in that era. Let’s say Isaac was born in 1912 making him too young to serve in World War I and too old for World War II. He leaves home in 1930, graduates in 1938, and prospers during the war in association with an arms dealer of questionable reputation.
     
     Oh! Oh! Suddenly, another character arrives that I never imagined in my first character contemplations. Where could this fellow fit in? Should he be a mysterious undercover character with a foreign name or should he be Mr. Blank who seems simple and ordinary to the other characters in the story, but who Isaac recognizes as a conniver of the first order? If I do bring this character on stage, who should I drop?
     
     I have not written a word of my story, but through the process of selecting characters and creating backgrounds, I develop a notion of the relationships between my basic ten characters, or as many as I choose to include. This is the process I call Dreaming the Story. I’ll continue this idea next week.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available in hard copy or eBook format. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2004



Article No. 14 - Dec. 31, 2004

Continuing from last week, I continue my character assignments. You will remember, I introduced Mr. Blank. I must decide who knows Mr. Blank. A good possibility might be the ward-healer. His knowledge of the association between Isaac and Mr. Blank could provide Mr. Ward-healer with all the ammunition he needs to exploit Isaac. I already cast the ward-healer as the Contagonist, which fits my plan. You remember the Contagonist allies with the Antagonist by definition. Making Mr. Blank a mole that befriends Isaac would provide an interesting plot twist. I let my imagination run wherever it wants to go until I integrate all the characters into the plot each with a purpose relating to the story problem. Usually, the characters pile up too fast and I must select those who may contribute more to my story. It is an arbitrary process of casting.
     
     Let’s finish with Isaac. We know his name, age and he’s male. His goal is to be wealthy. His motivation is a subliminal urge to avenge his father. Even after his father’s death, Isaac remains consumed by the foolish goal of exculpating himself from his brothers’ charge of dishonoring their parents. But through all his shenanigans, he cannot escape his eighteen years of gracious, well-mannered upbringing in his father’s home. Even in his worst folly, he is always a gentleman. Maybe the title of this story will be The Gracious Folly.
     
     I pause to stress the benefits of this technique in story creation. In Article 9 of this series, I proposed to write a story about my fictitious uncle. I started by picking somebody effected by the story problem; the subjective character called the Main Character. I followed this by selecting more characters to fit archetypal roles, which I chose from Dramatica as a convenience. I could as easily define other role models—love-interest, villain, helper—fitting my characters into relationships. As I do this, the story automatically evolves. I develop an idea of where I’m going as if I’m planning a trip in which I select my purpose, destination, route and traveling companions.
     
     I have attended many conferences in which the leader directs the class to write spontaneously on a particular subject. Before I discovered the technique described in these articles, I always had difficulty in responding. In one such circumstance, the subject was “a road.” I approached it this way:
     1. What is the story problem? An abandon railroad.
     2. Who is the Main Character? A hobo who used to ride the rails.
     3. Who is the Obstacle Character? His sister who married a wealthy man.
     4. Story line: Destitute, the man pleads with his sister for welfare. She refuses to allow him in her expensive home. She relents and lets him sleep in the woodshed.
     5. One night he hears a train whistle. He goes in search of the train, comes an abandoned railroad where he sees a steaming locomotive. In the morning, his sister finds him leaning out the woodshed window in the posture of an engineer. He is dead.
     6. Having given myself a scenario, I could write the story because I knew where I was going on this trip.
     
     Having refined this technique, I find I can write fiction on almost any subject if I define the character features before I start.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available in hard copy or eBook format. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2004



Article No. 15 - Jan. 7, 2005

Before I leave characterization, I want to explore four character attributes— flaws, motives, good, and evil—in more depth. The terms are related in a generic sense. To use the terminology of physics, some attributes are kinetic rather than static. Kinetic implies motion whereas static is lack of movement. The specific kinetic quality I have in mind is continuous and productive energy resulting in change; in other words the qualities that energize the characters.
     
     My dictionary defines a flaw as an imperfection or weakness, especially one that detracts from the whole or hinders effectiveness. Among the examples the dictionary offered, this one seemed apropos: “Vanity was his character flaw.” To pursue this idea further, it could lead to the defeat of a vain Antagonist allowing the Protagonist to solve the story problem. Another use is a Main Character setting aside vanity after realizing it prevents achievement of the goal.
     
     A wide range of choices exists. For instance, any of the seven deadly sins—pride, covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, envy, and sloth—could be a character’s critical flaw. In essence, a flaw is fatal to spiritual progress, which goes a long way to dictate or explain behavior. An interesting feature of fiction is that it allows us to explore prejudices harbored inside our characters’ heads whereas in real life we are never aware of other people’s predilections. Whether a character is mentally able to overcome the flaw and change for the better is a critical story element.
     
     Let’s examine this proposition in more detail through Isaac Taber. In previous articles in this series, I developed some of his attributes. Raised in a refined home by strict parents and plenty of servants to attend to the chores, he develops contempt for his home life. He becomes covetous, revengeful and unscrupulous as he matures. Which of these is his critical flaw? Do we simply choose from the fifteen or twenty synonyms in our thesaurus? Wait now! All these describe the singularity of his character that is open and exposed for all the other characters to appraise. In fact, his behavior comes about because of his motivation to avenge his father. In story life and in real life, everybody shelters his or her critical flaw. What is Isaac masking? Can the readers and the story characters deduce it as the tale unfolds? Perhaps Isaac’s critical flaw is his upbringing. No matter how he tries to deny his father and mold himself into the shameless world of pretense, his Quaker heritage gnaws at him. His critical flaw is his rebellion against the inculcated high moral standards that he denies orally, but cannot do so spiritually. Thus, outwardly he behaves well mannered and solicitous. The world sees him as a gentleman until his eventual unmasking when his true self comes into view.
     
     Let’s analyze another player in Isaac’s story; say the Mayor with high political ambitions who manipulates Isaac into a crooked fund-raising scheme. The Mayor, in the role of Skeptic, is an affable glad-hander, has good leadership qualities, and is well liked; a popular politician. He is astute enough to suspect Isaac’s glossy exterior hides his true nature. Incidentally, note how the attributes of one character—the mayor—feed off another character’s—Isaac. But what does the Mayor keep hidden from the world? This is an easy one. He is selfish. His ambitions are clear. He directs his actions towards his own vanity that he camouflages in a pleasant persona.
     
     The determination of behavioral characteristics is important. The depth of investigation is variable, but in general mental characteristics that evolve from analyses of flaws, motives, good, and evil are more important than physical features, especially remembering that flaws, good and evil may be static while motives are kinetic. If I can deduce how a character will react to stimuli, then I have a realistic chance of maintaining consistent behavior as the character attains, or fails to attain, a particular goal.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available in hard copy or eBook format. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2005



Article No. 16 - Jan. 14, 2005

In the previous article, I assigned the Mayor the critical flaw of selfishness that underlies his lust for power. Does that mean on Valentine’s Day he puts a rose in his lapel and neglects to buy his wife a gift? Not at all! She is the mother of his children and the keeper of his house; she stands beside him on the podium with arms raised after a successful campaign. In short, his love for her motivates him towards consideration for others. But, what if a stronger motivation exists from a different source? Suppose his father lived beyond his means incurring large debts the Mayor wants to settle. His motivation is to ensure his progeny never suffer a similar fate and to care for his destitute mother. When the opportunity of his political career arises, his critical flaw dominates his actions. Alas, he falls into the same trap as his father and drags Isaac Taber with him.
     
     Human motivations are complex issues that change with time; our story characters’ are no different. In the preceding example, my intent is to show the Mayor with two motivations; the welfare of his family and his wish to care for his mother. To satisfy these motivations, he needs money, but alas he expended most of his resources promoting his political career. This leads him to the same pitfall as his father. In other words, at crunch time he put his selfish political interest ahead of his professed interest of his children and mother.
     
     Continuing with the character development of the Mayor, I must decide whether he is “good” or “evil.” What are the qualities that cast a character in one category or the other? To make a character “good,” we assign qualities that we normally admire in other people; to make the character “evil,” we assign qualities we dislike. The objective is to make the reader feel sympathy for the good and antipathy for the evil. Some of the attributes we like in our story characters are:
     
     1. Fair play: the good guy always waits for the opponent to draw first;
     2. His word is his bond; never lies nor breaks his word;
     3. Not self-serving: only undertakes the dangerous job when all other choices are exhausted;
     4. Able to overcome pain and suffering; finds the last ounce of energy to defeat adversity;
     5. Sacrifices self-interests in favor of others;
     6. Courageous, clever, reliable, etc., are qualities we admire.
     
     When writing a story about “good versus good,” share the attributes making sure the characters are different putting the reader in a seesaw state feeling sympathy for first one character, then another. But, don’t forget the flaws. The characters cannot be so perfect as to be inhuman. They must have some qualities that are undesirable even if you resort to such trivialities as sloppy dresser, messy quarters, slouching posture—anything that makes them real.
     
     The opposite qualities are those that make a character “evil.” Again, don’t forget to give the “bad guy” some redeeming qualities.
     
     What about Isaac Taber? I chose to make him “evil.” Therefore I must assign attributes that are usually looked upon as character defects. One source of inspiration is the ten commandments. Isaac does not honor his parents; he steals; he bears false witness; and if we include a mistress, he may be an adulterer. Any or all of these will be distasteful, especially since he masks them behind his well-mannered persona, which is to say he is deceitful.
     
     This concludes my comments on character definition. The more individualization I give my players, the more the plot develops. Here, then, is my argument in favor of character planning: The actions that move my story forward will seem plausible to the reader because those actions are character driven. Because my characters are “good” or “evil” with motivations and flaws, they will appear as real people. Note also my tale has shifted from my initial story problem—the integrity of lawyers—to an exposé of political intrigue. Had I begun composing my story without dreaming it first, I might well have written a considerable amount before I realized I wanted to make a change. With half a story written, or even a few chapters, changing the theme will inevitably lead to confusion, particularly if you overlook necessary corrections. The greatest dangers in writing without a plan are the tendencies to drift off in unrelated directions and to have your characters behave inconsistently, or even worse, not behave at all. They will appear flat and uninteresting. In a word, your story will be boring. You avoid this result by developing your characters first and allowing the action to flow naturally from them, which means to place in-depth character analysis first.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available in hard copy or eBook format. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2005



Article No. 17 - Jan. 21, 2005

[Note to Paul A. (NYC) & Dr. D. Parker (NYC):
     Thanks for your kind words on Banyon’s
     “Your Comments” page. SPB]
     
     In previous articles, I noted some writers combine the Main Character and Protagonist in a single body. How does the author decide why and when to include a Main Character?
     
     The Protagonist and Antagonist concentrate their efforts seeking, or avoiding, a solution to the story problem. That is, they have objective purposes. The Main Character plays a subjective role, and as a corollary, so does the Obstacle Character.
     
     Objective means seeking something, physically or mentally—as a buried treasure, or a spiritual concept—and which at least one character considers attainable. Subjective means feelings arising because of the objective search.
     
     To explore this idea, I briefly list the characters in Isaac’s story.
     • Main Character: Charles; young lawyer; wants to be a judge.
     • Obstacle Character: Henry; wants Charles out of the office.
     • Protagonist: Sydney, District Attorney; seeks to expose judicial crime.
     • Guardian (Protagonist’s ally): Ed, newspaper court reporter.
     • Antagonist: Isaac Taber, victim of the Contagonist.
     • Contagonist [1] (Antagonist’s ally): Abe, conniving political ward-healer.
     
     Ed becomes suspicious of Isaac’s rulings and relays his concern to the DA. This gives Sydney and Ed (good guys) a story problem exploring their suspicions. Abe promises Isaac (bad guys) a payoff for helping his friend the Mayor’s political ambitions that provides a problem they want to hide. These four have objective purposes.
     
     Charles, aware of the maneuvering among the four characters, acts subjectively in a manner he judges to be in his best interests. He and Henry debate the issues with the latter always taking a position opposed to Charles.
     
     These six characters allow the author to examine four story perspectives:
     • All the events of the story that create the reader’s perspective;
     • The Main Character’s subjective evaluation of the events;
     • The Obstacle Character’s subjective evaluation of the events;
     • The argument between the Main and Obstacle Characters that eventually leads to one or the other changing one or more of his value dimensions.
     
     Through exploring these four perspectives, the author examines the real world in fictional terms. The reader experiences the first perspective through watching all the characters from a distance and associating them with a role regardless of whether the reader can name the roles the characters fulfill. Think of the reader as a spectator at a sporting event, watching the players on the arena floor. He may not be able to name the positions the players occupy, but he is able to grasp the sense of the game. In contrast, the Main Character presents the subjective argument supporting whatever theme the author selects, while the Obstacle Character entertains the opposite view. In the sporting analogy, these characters represent individual players on opposing teams concerned about their personal involvement, which is the subjective view of the game from the arena floor. This is not far from real life. Decisions often come through consideration of an alternative view, sometimes called the devil’s advocate.
     
     An author combining objective and subjective characters in the same body, consciously—or by default—takes the argument out of the story by removing perspectives 2, 3, and 4. Although nothing is wrong in such a choice, character analysis as a first step in story creation forces a conscious decision to include, or exclude, subjective characters.
     
     To distill this diatribe to simple terms, the author’s problem is a practical, easy-to-understand choice. Will he or she describe the battle of Sydney and Ed versus Isaac and Abe as action-driven lacking philosophical arguments, or will the story broaden to wider considerations? If Charles and Henry are absent, Isaac’s story explores American judiciary without regard to its effects on others. With Charles and Henry in the story, it expands to include an argument about the effects of such improprieties as graft, duplicity and deception.
     
     Will your story be a two-dimensional game like tic-tac-toe, or a three-dimensional challenge such as Rubik’s Cube?
     
     [1] A term coined by Melanie Anne Phillips and Chris Huntley in their book Dramatica: A New Theory of Story (Copyright © 1993-2001 Screenplay Systems Inc., all rights reserved.)
     
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available in hard copy or eBook format. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2005



Article No. 18 - Jan. 28, 2005

I guess by now, most readers of this column have had enough of my banner-waving in favor of character creation as an expedient method to create a story. Before I move on, I offer an invitation. If you adopt my method and experience difficulty making it work, or would like comments on your plans, I invite your queries through my contact form at http://booksbybyers.com/sup05_cnt.html, or simply e-mail me. (If you opt to e-mail, please put “Book Doctor” in the subject line to help me recognize the origin of your message.)
     
     Before I leave character roles, I want to reiterate an earlier comment. The terminology I used came from Dramatica as a convenience. The terms protagonist and antagonist are in common use, the rest are not. But, the role nomenclature does not matter. You could use terms like protagonist’s helper, or aide, or friend; love interest; mole; and so on. The important point is not the name of the roles characters fulfill; it’s the author’s assignation of competing or conflicting attributes before beginning to write and the fundamental decision to include or exclude two competing subjective players.
     
     Now, I turn to practical considerations of writing and will continue on this vein for several articles to come. In my book Creative Writing Workshop – Second Edition I devoted seven pages to explaining freewriting, a development technique that sacrifices ordinary writing rules in favor of speed.
     
     Imagine telling someone a story on the telephone. You speak without interruptions, perhaps pausing for a second or two to gather your thoughts, but in general, you keep talking. In freewriting, you try to do the same; produce a simple continuous stream of words about your topic.
     
     Suppose you make a mistake in the oral account of your story. You correct yourself by adding the information you omitted. For example, suppose you said, “After Jack found the pail, he went up the hill to fetch the water.” You realize you forgot some information. But, you have already made the statement that your respondent heard. Having said the words, you cannot have them back, erase them, or recover them. Your only recourse is to add the missing information. “Oh! I forgot. He asked Jill to go with him and they went up the hill together.” In a storytelling conversation, you always keep going forward, even when you make a mistake; try to do the same in freewriting.
     
     In freewriting you don’t allow your mind to interfere with your writing. You ignore constraints of grammar, and write as if you are talking, putting in only the grammatical elements that come naturally to you when writing and ignoring those you happen to omit. When you take pencil and paper, you experience “the fear of the blank page.” In freewriting, you train yourself to overcome that fear.
     
     The effectiveness of freewriting depends on obeying these rules:
        1. Write as much and as fast as you can;
     2. Never change a word once written;
     3. Never go back to make corrections;
     4. Never insert an omitted word.
     
      Here is an exercise to start learning. Select a person you knew five or more years ago. Set a timer and freewrite for exactly five minutes about an experience you had with that person. Set your writing aside; do not re-read it or correct it. Repeat the exercise for five days in a row, never looking back at your previous work. After the fifth time, did you feel a story developing? You are writing what you know.
     
     For more on freewriting, visit Professor Charles Darling at: webster.commnet.edu/grammar/composition/brainstorm_freewrite.htm.
     
     Also, see Fast Fiction: Creating Fiction in Five Minutes by Roberta Allen (ISBN 1-884910-27-0 Story Press)
     
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available in hard copy or eBook format. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2005



Article No. 19 - Feb. 4, 2005

Note to Glen S. – Madison, WI: Thanks for your comment on 1/28. I’ll consider your suggestion to “… create a question and answer section, in which (the Book Doctor would) pose questions and then answer them.” While I am happy to comply with your suggestion, nonetheless deciding the questions is a guessing game for me. I would encourage readers to suggest questions, allowing me to respond to topics you want addressed. I assure you, I will treat your questions with respect and courtesy. It’s easy to send direct to the Book Doctor’s Clinic.
     
     I want to continue to address the topic of freewriting because I attach so much importance to it. Here is an exercise I use at the beginning of my Creative Writing Workshops I offer through public libraries.
     
     1. Think of a person with whom you had an association in your past. For older folks, I suggest somebody you haven’t seen or heard from for at least five years or more. If you can go all the way back to your childhood, even better. For younger people, such as high school students, I suggest going back at least two years, farther if you can. Write down the person’s name.
     Example: Mabel Foster
     
     2. Write a short sentence stating your association with this person.
     Example: Mabel was the teller at the bank where I cashed my paycheck on the fifteenth and first of every month.
     
     I pause here to address the subject of events, which are basic to creative writing. The easiest way to understand their use is through examples. I ask you to go back to Article 7 in this series and read the three examples of opening paragraphs.
     
     Graham Greene in Travels With My Aunt: The opening sentence is an event—the meeting with his Aunt Augusta. He follows this with some exposition about his mother, his aunt and him, ending the paragraph with a great line.
     
     Robert Ludlum in The Bourne Identity: Here the author reverses the sequence, opening with three sentences of exposition about the perils facing the trawler, and then introduces the event—“two abrupt explosions.”
     
     John Le Carré in The Night Manager: In this one, the author gives the reader one sentence of exposition before the event—“The Gulf War had just started.”
     
     The only difference in the preceding three examples is one of arrangement; each opening begins with an event ranging from a simple meeting to an explosion. Clearly, it doesn’t matter what the event is, that it is present is the all-important issue. Let’s return to our exercise.
     
     3. Write a statement of the event that caused you to recall this person.
     Example: One day in July of 1987 when I went to cash my check, Mabel wasn’t there.
     
     4. Now, start freewriting. Remember the rules stated in the previous article. Set your timer to five minutes and write the story of this incident in your life as fast as you can. Don’t cheat and don’t go backwards. Always keep moving forward. The moment you stop to read what you wrote, or to make corrections, you defeat the purpose of the exercise. When your time is up, STOP. Do not read your story; simply close your book, or fold your paper, and put it away. You can expect both your handwriting and your composition to be terrible. It doesn’t matter.
     
     5. For the next three days, write the same story without ever reading your previous work. Same procedure; set the timer, write for five minutes, and put your writing away. DO NOT GO BACKWARDS.
     
     6. On the fifth day, forget the timer and simply write the story. What do you expect will happen? I’ll tell you what will happen. As the story filters through your mind day after day during your normal activities, you will recall many circumstances about this story that you have not thought about for years. The purpose of the un-timed fifth exercise is to get all your recollections into this true story from your own life. You will write what you know.
     
     Don’t believe me? Try it, but remember it only works if you don’t violate the rules.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available in hard copy or eBook format. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2005



Article No. 20 - Feb. 11, 2005

After one of my workshops, a participant offered this comment: “The best part of your workshop was about freewriting.” This surprised me. As time passed, I found this was not a rare comment, so I decided to do a little research. I sent the following question to several people who had made similar remarks: “Have you used freewriting in your creative work, and if so, can you describe how you do it?” Half the respondents confessed they had not used it; the other half offered a variety of answers I distilled down to three points:
     
     1. Nobody used a timer to write for exactly five minutes; one said he wrote until he exhausted his ideas; the others did not mention the time restraint.
     
     2. Two people said they did not write connected statements. Instead, they wrote random thoughts about the story they were working on. I construed this to mean they wrote a series of whatifs: What if John has an accident?
     
     3. What if the house catches fire? “One leads to another until I uncover an idea that I think will move my story forward,” wrote one respondent.
     
     4. All respondents using it reported finding freewriting useful for exploring and uncovering story ideas no matter the particular variations they may have infused into the process.
     
     I am neither condoning nor criticizing how people vary the technique. Personally, I employ it often, but I confess I don’t time myself. Every weekday morning, I go for a three-mile walk (unless it’s raining). I direct my thoughts to my current story problem. When I return, I take five or ten minutes to freewrite whatever ideas have arisen. The result is a foolscap book full of scribbling. Occasionally, good ideas pop up. This raises another point that writers must recognize. First drafts are terrible and freewriting is simply a first draft.
     
     I recently heard Joyce Carol Oates interviewed on the radio. She had brought manuscript notes with her. The interviewer described the notes as illegible. “I can’t read this,” he said. Ms. Oates pointed out the notes were a first draft. Ann Lamont in her book Bird By Bird stresses that “everybody writes (poor) first drafts.” Steinbeck or Hemingway—or one of those famous guys—is reputed to have said it takes twelve to fifteen revisions to go from a first draft to a finished story.
     
     Why am I wasting your time telling you this? It’s because I see people at my workshops who fail to write continuously during the freewriting exercise. They scratch out; they stop to think; they correct spelling; these and many other interruptions defeat the purpose of the exercise. By so doing, these folks have leaped the benefits of creating and gone directly to revising the story before they have written it. To put it more charitably, they revise as they progress. My workshop proposes a four-step process: find, create, write and revise. It begins with freewriting.
     
     I recognize not all writers plan their stories. A local writer here in Arkansas contends planning kills his spontaneity and creativity. I argue everything we do in life is planned—going on vacation, erecting a building, going shopping, you name it. Why then would a major endeavor like writing be free from planning?
     
     Next week, we move forward into the process I call creating.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available in hard copy or eBook format. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2005



Article No. 21 - Feb. 18, 2005

Those of you playing by my rules have produced a story through freewriting. In so doing, you wrote what you know. Now, we move on to a more important rule; write what you can imagine. In the next few articles, I will explain my technique for bridging between the two.
     
     Suppose my freewriting has produced the story of Jack and Jill, an illogical tale making no sense. Why did they go up the hill to fetch water? Everybody knows—surely Jack did too—water flows downhill. So why didn’t they go to the river to fetch water? We don’t know, which is to say in my freewriting I omitted the reason they looked for water in the first place. So story creation starts by defining the problem. I must first decide what will be at stake in this story, which brings my imagination into play.
     
     Is it possible they went up the hill because there’s no water in the river? How could that be? Maybe there’s a drought. That thought spawns several ideas. First, the location. This story must take place in an area where normal rainfall is low. The western slope in Colorado, for instance; an area that experiences an annual rainfall of seven to nine inches. I could choose any arid region. Wherever it is, suppose I set the rainfall at less than one inch for five consecutive years? To make the conditions more severe, I’ll say global warming decreases the mountain snow pack and minimizes spring runoff. The reservoirs are low; the rivers run dry. Now, we may surmise that Jack and Jill are being good citizens who go up the hill in the hopes they might find a spring. Looking back at my original freewriting, I know they will fall down and hurt themselves. Let’s leave that idea for the moment; we’ll pick it up later. Meanwhile, I’ll attack the drought problem through characterization.
     
     You will recall the protagonist is the character whose role is to solve the story problem. During a drought, who would have a serious problem? My first thought is a rancher; Farmer Brown for instance. He has a 3,000 acre spread, 5,000 steers and no water. Without water, his crops fail so he has to import both feed and water at enormous cost. Brown has a huge problem he must solve, or lose everything. I’ll make him the protagonist. Everything he’s worked for all his life is at stake, not the least of which is the welfare of his family.
     
     What will it take for Brown to solve the problem? Money! His choices are to drill wells, build pipelines, or seek other solutions. To compound his problem, he doesn’t have much time. The first year of the drought, the water holes drop twenty-five percent, but he thinks it will be different next year and doesn’t take action. The second year, he imports water. The third year, his capital is inadequate to meet the expense. He must borrow money. Suddenly, my imagination produces an antagonist. Who is it? Why Malicious Melvin, of course, the town banker who holds a large mortgage on Brown’s property. Up pops another complication for Brown; he’s out of collateral to secure more loans. He can’t sell; nobody buys arid land and parched animals? That seems like a pretty good start piling problems on poor old Brown.
     
     Note what’s happened. Introducing the first character to populate my story automatically lead to a second character. It is an impossibility to place characters in a story and not think about more characters and their circumstances.
     
     We’ll look at the antagonist next week.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available in hard copy or eBook format. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2005



Article No. 22 - Feb. 25, 2005

Last week, I set up Brown as the protagonist in my Jack and Jill story. I gave him a bunch of problems to solve. I identified the antagonist as Malicious Melvin, the town banker. You will also remember from earlier articles—Number 10 in this series—the role of the antagonist is to oppose the protagonist in every way. I must give him a well-founded reason for his actions.
     
     I suggest the usual banker’s philosophy of lending his umbrella when the sun shines and wanting it back when the storm clouds appear is a weak story justification, at best. After all, foreclosure will not do Melvin any good. His takeover of arid land and dead steers simply transfers the problem from Brown to Melvin. So I need a compelling motivation for Melvin to refuse to increase Brown’s line of credit. Why does he tell Brown the decreasing value of the land and the dying herd justifies his denial? I must invent the reason.
     
     Could Melvin know something about Brown’s property nobody else knows? Suppose he has reason to believe an oil field underlies the property. This thought immediately dates the story; it should take place about, or just preceding, the discovery of the Texas oil fields before wildcatters came on the scene. I do not know when that was, but it’s an easy research problem. A further result of this idea is to introduce another character. Somebody has to reveal the secret to Melvin, who, as a greedy miser, immediately sees the value in foreclosing. Intrigue enters because Melvin must not allow the information to become public knowledge.
     
     As I create characters, not only does the story line begin to appear, but I also produce ideas of character attributes. I see Brown as a hardworking, second or third generation rancher; likable, honest, weather-beaten. Melvin is a deceiver who displays a good-friend persona; respected in the community, Rotary member, church elder, wealthy, and as sneaky and deceitful as they come. The guy who drops the hint about the possibility of oil is a young aviator touring the country in an early barnstorming aircraft. He comes to town to speak at the Rotary Club where Melvin heads the program committee. His topic is aircraft. When Melvin meets him at the airport on the morning of his speech, the young man mentions the odd formation of the land. This sparks Melvin’s interest who researches and discovers the oil possibility.
     
     The young aviator is always broke, buying fuel and repairs, but he’s not a crook. He’s happy to accept a few hundred dollars from Melvin to keep his mouth shut about oil underlying Brown’s ranch. It doesn’t make any difference to the aviator, he’s leaving town anyway. The flyer is a minor character whose sole purpose is to cause the Antagonist to covet the land. After the set-up when Melvin learns about the oil, I’ll probably dispose of the aviator in one sentence.
     
     “Melvin drove Jimmy to the airport, gave him two hundred dollars and warned him never to come back.”
     
     It is important to record your story ideas as you create them. Each new character comes with new ideas some of which will cause changes to the principal role players. For instance, maybe the aviator could reappear later with a guilty conscience; he drops the clue that exposes Melvin.
     
     Always keep your options open.
     
     Next week I’ll move on to the Main and Obstacle characters.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available in hard copy or eBook format. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.
     
     Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2005



Article No. 23 - March 4, 2005

(NOTE: In Articles 9 through 17 in this series, I offered extensive comments about the Main and Obstacle characters, including a discussion of subjectivity. This article, while reiterating some of the same information, considers these two important characters from the slightly different angle of storyteller.)

The next question in planning my Jack and Jill story is: Who will tell the story? I have several choices based on the following general rule:
A reader must experience the story through a lead character.

Notice I did not say the reader must experience the story through the character who faces the problem—the protagonist. That is one choice, but not the only one. The antagonist is an equally workable choice, but is less often selected by authors. Selecting either as storyteller reduces the other story characters to victims of, or accessories to, the story problem, in which case they will not likely receive in-depth analysis because the author concentrates on the battle between the principals. This is often the case in crime stories. I call this technique one-dimensional. That is not to say it is wrong; it is simply narrow.

To broaden the story, consider the community where the characters live. The story problem effects all of them. Is there one character suited to the role of storyteller? If so, this one will be the Main Character and his opponent will be the Obstacle Character. Here is a reminder of the definitions:

Definition: The Main Character is the central figure through whose eyes readers experience the story.

Definition: The Obstacle Character forces the Main Character to evaluate his or her beliefs, to face personal problems and to reconsider objectives.

When either the Protagonist or the Antagonist fills the role of storyteller, then they automatically have dual roles, meaning as well as their base roles, they fulfill Main and Obstacle character roles, too. As individuals, they cannot be simultaneously objective and subjective. Going back to the story of the consultant and the welder discussed in Article 11, the consultant cannot objectively solve the company (story) problem and subjectively feel the impact of his decisions on the welder.

In the Jack and Jill story, I set up a drought as the story problem, which means everybody in the community suffers; each has a concern about the problem. All of them hope it will end. Some will behave passively and some actively. When I select one of them to tell the story of the community drought, then that character becomes the Main Character. I choose Jack; an arbitrary selection ungoverned by any rule. I picture him as a high school senior.

The first obvious choice of Obstacle Character is Jill. But I think I may be able to strengthen the story if Jack and Jill are not opponents. Somehow, the image created in my mind by them going up the hill together precludes thinking of them as anything except sweethearts. Therefore, I discard Jill as Obstacle Character and select somebody else. My next choice is Joe, a classmate of Jack’s.

Next week, I’ll examine the character attributes of Jack and Joe and explain why I selected the latter.

Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available in hard copy or eBook format. Your questions and problems on writing are always welcome at the Book Doctor’s clinic.

Copyright © Stephen P. Byers 2005



Article No. 24 - March 11, 2005

I intend to have ten characters in my story, each with a name, a role to fill and four qualities. I placed Jack in the role of Main Character because I intend readers to see the story through his eyes. He is a local teenager, high school senior, clever, with a swaggering personality and a tendency to be irresponsible [flaw]. He dreams of attending university and having a professional career. He has a summer job on Brown’s drought-stricken ranch. Here’s Jack.
Click picture to ZOOM

Joe, the Obstacle Character, is a schoolmate of Jack’s; likes flashy cars, uses drugs, and dreams of being a big shot making easy money in sharp or illegal businesses like prostitution, drugs and gambling. Here’s Joe.
Click picture to ZOOM

Next, I need somebody I’ll dub pro-second on the Protagonist’s [Farmer Brown] side. I select the mayor whose concerns about the drought involve not only Farmer Brown, but the welfare of the entire community.
     
     To balance the mayor, I need a character an Ant-second who will be the antagonist’s [Malicious Melvin] pal. The sheriff will play this role; a mean and nasty guy who is a double-dealer, portraying himself as everybody’s friend, but who’s secretly in cahoots with Melvin.
     
     Moving on, I come to Love-interest 1 and Love-interest 2. Jill is number one. She is a plain-Jane; straight auburn hair, studious, wears glasses, uses cosmetics sparingly; has been in love with Jack since childhood. Mabel is number two; a curvaceous, curly haired, blond, blue-eyed beauty. She works for Brown as a milkmaid. The conflict between Jill and Mabel arises because they are both in love with Jack. In this case, I made the characters physically and psychologically different, but they have the same goal that results in them opposing each other.
     
     I come to protagonist supporter and an antagonist supporter. The former is a preacher; an activist who does more than pray for rain. He howls about the mayor’s dilly dallying, demanding fund-raising action to build a pipeline from the next county. Note that while he is a supporter of the protagonist—wants the drought problem solved—he directs his efforts against the mayor, another protagonist supporter. By extension, his attitude towards the antagonist is fervent because Melvin has the political connections to fund a new waterline.
     
     Jill’s widowed mother is a character unintentionally on the Antagonist’s side. She frets and fusses about everything, especially her daughter’s reticence. She sees moving away as the only recourse, but she can’t do it for financial reasons. She fusses with everybody about everything. She’ll be a comic character who discovers the link to the oil by accident, but she doesn’t recognize its significance. By holding her tongue, she helps the Antagonist. When she finally tells her daughter about her discovery, Jill relays it to Jack and the game is over for Melvin. Jack recognizes Jill’s competence and we have a happy ending, or he fails to and we have a tragic outcome.
     
     The number of characters to create depends on the length of the story. In a short story—up to about 2,500 words—two or three are enough, four is maximum. In a novella—10,000 words—perhaps six would do. In longer works, the author has more space to develop the interrelationships and can include more characters. Having identified the characters I propose to include, then I develop each character’s attributes and put them in a table like the ones shown here for Jack and Joe.
     
     Note how the story ideas continue to progress simply through imaging characters who will fit into to the story. I remain in the creating stage and have still not started to write. Next week we begin story events.
     
     Stephen P. Byers’ new eBook Creative Writing Workshop-Second Edition is now available in hard copy or