'That to Begin, Implies to End...'

It’s never easy really, starting out, but you have to begin somewhere - as did I. I’ve begun a new writing… let’s call it, ‘venture’, and my boss has kindly decided to help me. I used to actually find it easy to begin writing something, and once I began I could go on for a while with great zeal, before, quite abruptly, coming to a stop. I never quite gave knowing where a story was going the importance it needed, which is probably why I’ve never finished anything to date.

So Helen sat me down, took out an A3 piece of paper, and started firing questions at me. Who is my character? What is her goal? What makes her tick? What’s her External Conflict (EC), her Internal Conflict (IC)? This was a lot of questions. Most of my answers to these questions began with ‘Err…’ followed by a few seconds silence. It’s not that I hadn’t thought about my story, or my characters, I had a general idea of what was going to happen and what it was going to be about, but of course thinking about the details began to give this general idea clarity. And in talking about the main character, I realised I’d thought a lot about the ECs she’d be facing, but not enough about her own IC. What began to develop was something solid, a clearer direction; plot.

Sometimes, the excitement is in not knowing where you’re going, but left adrift it’s not hard to lose momentum, and before you know it beginnings can lead to no end at all. That’s not to say there’s no room to maneuver, or that the events won’t evolve or change, but with a little bit of thought (or actually, a lot), knowing the characters you’re dealing with, and knowing the obstacles that they will face, you should, more often than not, help your beginning find that end.

Show and Tell Continued...

 Following on from our last blog here's a really useful discussion with one of our authors on Showing not Telling and getting inside your character’s head:

Author: I have been working hard to improve my manuscript for the last three months in light of the comments in the report and have a general query.

This relates to getting inside the main character’s head.  I understand that when writing in the third person there are two ways of writing in the character’s voice:
(i)   echoing the character’s thoughts in the narration; and
(ii)  letting the reader hear the character’s internal voice.

Using the last paragraph on page 6 of your ‘Show Not Tell’ notes, I am assuming that an example of (i) would be: What could the old goat have meant? and an example of (ii) would be: He means that it’s going to be me!

I am quite good at using (i) but hadn’t really used (ii) much, if at all.  I would really appreciate some guidance as to how often per scene or chapter I should include Skye’s internal voice.  My concern is if I do it too much it could become intrusive, but I am not sure how to get the balance right.

My opening is currently drafted as follows:

Skye Winters lurched precariously back and forth on the crumbling roof of the church tower as the wind gusted round her.  Night had fallen and her mind whirled.  How did she get here?  Where was ‘here’?  And why was she dressed in her pyjamas?  But of one thing she was sure: the irresistible urge growing within her to jump off the tower!

I could redraft to something like:

Skye Winters lurched precariously back and forth on the crumbling roof of the church tower as the wind gusted round her.  Night had fallen and her mind whirled.  How did I get here?  Where is ‘here’?  Why am I dressed in my pyjamas?  But of one thing she was sure: the irresistible urge growing within her to jump off the tower!

I actually prefer the former version, which I think is stronger, and am having difficulty in seeing the advantage to the latter.

What are your thoughts on this?


Kathryn: What a great question.

There are two ways of including the character’s internal voice – the first, which you prefer, is often known as ‘free indirect’, where the thoughts are in the third person past tense, like the narration itself, and the second, where we actually hear the character’s thoughts in first person present tense, is ‘direct’. Neither of these is ‘correct’ as such, and you certainly don’t need to use both – it’s about finding the method that feels right for your character and story. In contemporary fiction, free indirect is more common and like you, many writers, readers and editors feel that it makes for a more immediate, smoother experience of being inside the character’s head.

As I understand it the opening paragraph in your original version read ‘she had no idea how she’d come to be there’. I think your revised version …

Skye Winters lurched precariously back and forth on the crumbling roof of the church tower as the wind gusted round her.  Night had fallen and her mind whirled.  How did she get here?  Where was ‘here’?  And why was she dressed in her pyjamas?  But of one thing she was sure: the irresistible urge growing within her to jump off the tower!

… works very well. I’d recommend cutting the adverb precariously, and showing in other ways how precarious she is (perhaps her foot slips on the slates etc) - bringing in lots of senses (how cold is it, how does it smell up there etc) is also a good way of getting right inside the character’s experience of the moment. And watch for pacing – perhaps you could introduce the urge to jump off the roof a bit more gradually, building up to it and making it really tense.

Does this help?

Author: Thank you for your comments which are extremely helpful.  I think what you are saying is that if 'free indirect' feels right for my character there is no reason why I cannot stick to it throughout (although I may occasionally use 'direct' if that feels right for the scene).

I like what you suggest in your penultimate paragraph and it is something I can look to improve on throughout the manuscript.  The only issue with bringing in lots of senses will mean lengthening a manuscript which is already too long.  Likewise, with regard to building up to the urge to jump, I understand why you made the suggestion but she actually jumps in (currently) the fourth paragraph and if I build up to the jump that will mean lengthening the first chapter and I am trying to keep it tight.


Kathryn: Again, good question.

With showing/telling and getting inside the character’s head, it’s all about achieving a balance: giving enough rich, sensory detail to make the reader and character feel rooted in the scene without slowing things down too much (although remember that at moments of heightened tension and emotion it can actually be good to slow things down to give the reader time to absorb what’s happening). But ‘showing’ doesn’t have to take up more space; remember that a really strong verb can work hard for you. For instance, if you cut out ‘mind whirled’ (which is shown by the thoughts you’ve included anyway) and the adverb, you have a bit more space:

Skye Winters lurched on the crumbling roof of the church tower as the wind tugged at her. She gripped the slates with numb fingers, straining to see in the darkness. Her pyjamas clung to her, damp with rain.
How had she got here?  Where was ‘here’?  She peered over the edge. It wasn’t far down.
She ought to jump…
What? Where had that come from? It’d be crazy to jump, she’d break her neck!

This won’t be quite right for you and your style, of course, but you can see that it’s not much longer and it’s just one way of introducing extra atmosphere whilst showing the fact that the urge to jump is growing within her rather than telling it.

Show and Tell

We often hear authors ask why they should ‘show’ not ‘tell’, when so much of the published material they read is telling. I’m in the process of reading Ian McEwan’s Enduring Love, and I can’t help but notice just how much he ‘tells’. There’s little dialogue and the reader isn’t really given the opportunity to interpret any given situation as it’s pretty much all told to them.  Yet, I am utterly hooked.

This does go to show that there’s a certain level of literary talent, which can get away with such a thing. You’ll find that most literary fiction is ‘telling’, but it takes an extremely skilled, not to mention, experienced, writer to manage to hook a reader as they’re told a sequence of events. When the writing’s not been developed to that point yet, the importance of ‘showing’ is essential to whether a story will be gripping enough.

So, when is it important to ‘show’ and when to ‘tell’?

To ‘show’ and dramatise everything can slow the pace of a story, and can quite easily end up boring a reader. The main thing is to understand the crucial moments in your story. What are the key turning points in the plot? When are there dramatic emotional moments? Who are the main characters and what are their characteristics and emotional responses? These are all points where ‘showing’ is much more engaging. Less important action can easily be ‘told’ to move the pace along. A reader doesn’t need to know, for example, when a character is getting out of a car and walking up the stairs to open a door, if opening that door doesn’t lead to some kind of significant event or experience.

‘Showing’ and ‘telling’ both need to be done in varying degrees when writing. The key is to recognise which aspects of your story are significant, and which are less so. It’s always a process and something which even experienced writers have trouble with, but to hone these skills could be the difference between a good story, and a great story.

Teen and Young Adult Fiction

There’s been a lot of controversy lately on teenage/YA fiction and the themes of violence it can incorporate. What are the accepted age ranges for both and how might they differ in the UK and USA? A Cornerstones author, JB Toner, raised questions about this to our managing editor, Kathryn Robinson; this is how the conversation went:

JBT: Please thank your editor for her thoughtful and very thorough report.

I need clarification on age groupings.

The new book that I'm working on is aimed at teenagers (maybe 14+). I thought this was what is meant by ‘Young Adult’, but if this market is the age-group (12+) I need to know that before I write any more.

KR: Thanks for your email and I’m really pleased to hear the report seems helpful. ‘Teen’ and YA is usually seen as being 12/13 to 15 years old.

JBT: Just to be absolutely clear about this point, are you saying that 'teen' and ‘YA’ are the same market - 12/13 to 15? I would have thought ‘teen’ might be 12-15 year olds, whereas Wikipedia defines YA as 14-21. Would you agree with that? Also, are you familiar with The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins? There is a lot of killing in that book and yet the book is labelled ‘teen’ on the back cover. I read somewhere (can't remember where) that the trilogy is thought suitable for 12 year olds.

KR: In the UK ‘teen’ and ‘YA’ are the same market – very generally described as12-15, although readers outside these ages will inevitably read these books too. I think there’s a difference in the US, which may be where the wiki definition comes from (and I think the ‘teen’ definition is used more there, too, whereas 'YA' is more common here); there’s a much more defined ‘teenage’ culture in the States, and their ‘teen’ reading age bracket encompasses this. The Hunger Games (of which the second book in the trilogy is in my bag right at this moment!) is marketed as ‘teen’ fiction – so12-15 in the UK. Yes, there’s a lot of killing - the genre is, I guess, dystopian horror – whereas certain other genres – historical, traditional fantasy, romance – would tend to be a bit tamer in terms of violence (the same rule applies to adult fiction).

I’ve read one of the reviews in the inside of the Hunger Games sequel which describes it as ‘post-apocalyptic brutality fiction’ – great definition I think and indicative of what an impact genre has on tone and levels of violence. Interestingly even in the Hunger Games books – at least as far as I’ve got with them – the level of sex is very slight and innocent, particularly when contrasted to the violence. What a strange world we live in…

See below an event that might be of interest to authors who write teen/YA fiction.

Tuesday 5^th July 2011

BOUNDARIES – Who Killed Controversy?
An insight into the future of teen publishing. With guest experts from across the publishing industry.

Venue: 80 Strand, London  (click for a map)

Members: £0

Non-members: £5

For membership information, please visit the members’ section.

It's All About the Flow

It’s not too shabby coming into work and having your boss look at the opening chapter of the book you’re writing. Thank God. I’ve been stuck on my non-fiction piece for a while now. I’d say a year if I were lying, two if I’m practising honesty. There’s something about the tone in non-fiction which you have to get right, or, I suppose as with any other writing, it just doesn’t flow. Mine, suffice to say, has not been flowing. It has been stuck, since 2009 (unlike my tears which have been free flowing since).

It might’ve been easier if it was an academic piece, that way the documentary style my so-called ‘funny’ anecdotal book seems to have taken would not only be acceptable, but expected. And so after Helen kindly read the opening chapter, she looked at me and said these simple words, ‘Narrative non-fiction’. Followed by, ‘Show, show, show!’ Of course. Retrospect all becomes telling and the only thing you have left to show for it is a dull story. Where’s the tension? The conflict? And in this book’s case, the irony? Narrative non-fiction allows some poetic license, lends immediacy to the event (or events), allows the writer to divulge information with action scenes and dialogue, without boring the life out of the reader. Hallelujah! An answer. I won’t get too excited as I’ve only just started writing in this new format, but at least I can say that the only things free flowing now, are words.

Christmas and the Like

It’s that time of year where everyone is winding down and preparing for days of basically, non-stop eating, watching very bad Christmas films, (mine, last year included Herbie Reloaded – or something like that – with Lindsay Lohan, annual re-watching of Mary Poppins, The Wizard of Oz, and of course, It’s a Wonderful Life). When you put your feet up, curled up in front of an open fire (if you’re lucky enough to have one) or just huddled by the central heating, soaking in the deliciousness of resting after a meal which has rendered your body useless, spare a thought for all that hard work you’ve done this year and know that you deserve this rest!

Having sent out our Cornerstones’ author portfolio to agents we’re very excited about what the future might hold. Cornerstones will certainly be thinking about all the wonderful progress so many of our authors have made this year, and all the new talent which we’re looking forward to receiving next year. Having our own works of literature to complete it can be disheartening to not have progressed as far as one might have liked, but a new year brings new hope; it’s all about recharging the creative process and, one way or another, getting it done!

Happy Christmas to everyone, and a wonderful New Year.

You HAVE to read...

A friend of mine suggested I read The End of the Affair. She in fact stopped to take a breath, put both her hands on her chest, or thereabouts, closed her eyes (in the characteristically dramatic way that she does when passionate about something)  and said, ‘Oh my God, you HAVE to read The End of the Affair', I mean, it’s just, like, oh my God’. I’m sure she rambled a little more than that, but that was the gist anyway. And every so often when we’d meet she’d put her hand on my arm, close her eyes again and ask, ‘Have you read it yet?’ and I would, in my characteristically non passionate way reply, ‘No’.

‘But you have to – it’s just, right, well, okay, it’s just about this one moment in time which changes the entire course of this love affair – and I know you’ll love it, because in that moment the woman…(and she rolled her eyes here) ‘…wait for it’ (shaked her head) ’…finds God’. I thought she was about to start sobbing at this point but she managed to contain herself and continue, ‘You’ll love it’.

Of course, it was the mention of God changing said woman’s life that intrigued me, though I intended on reading it anyway. Being, for better or for worse, partial to religion I decided to pick it up and open the first page. I perhaps shouldn’t have done this at the bus stop, because suffice to say from the opening two paragraphs, I was hooked:

A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead. I say 'one chooses' with the inaccurate pride of a professional writer who—when he has been seriously noted at all—has been praised for his technical ability, but do I in fact of my own will choose that black wet January night on the Common, in 1946, the sight of Henry Miles slanting across the wide river of rain, or did these images choose me? It is convenient, it is correct according to the rules of my craft to begin just there, but if I had believed then in a God, I could also have believed in a hand, plucking at my elbow, a suggestion, 'Speak to him: he hasn’t seen you yet.'
For why should I have spoken to him? If hate is not too large a term to use in relation to any human being, I hated Henry—I hated his wife Sarah too. And he, I suppose, came soon after the events of that evening to hate me: as he surely at times must have hated his wife and that other, in whom in those days we were lucky enough not to believe. So this is a record of hate far more than of love, and if I come to say anything in favour of Henry and Sarah I can be trusted: I am writing against the bias because it is my professional pride to prefer the near-truth, even to the expression of my near-hate
Hooked, so that I refused to put it away when I was walking home from the bus stop, on a wet and dark evening (the irony of sharing a similar atmospheric setting with the narrator leant itself to a little more enjoyment on my behalf). And when the following day I put it down after having finished it, I refused to pick up another book for days. It stayed with me in the way brilliant books do. I’m a sucker for a crisis, doomed love, moral agonising, especially when it’s written without being sentimental. Tragedy is key for me, and this had all the great elements of it; the torture of wanting one thing but being completely unable to reconcile with that want because of one’s duty made me want to tell everyone I met to read it. Of course, the subject matter might not be to everyone’s tastes, the tragedy might even be slightly too dramatic for one’s liking, but the narrative! Oh the narrative! I stop to put both hands on my chest, close my eyes, and say, ‘Oh my God, you HAVE to read The End of the Affair.