We’ve all heard the writing advice that we need to throw rocks at our protagonists. More obstacles, more tough choices, and more loss test them and force them to grow and change. This is all true and necessary.

But one of those most overlooked forms of safeguarding our protagonists is by making their problem an everyone else problem.

If their parents could just value them for who they are, your character would be a lot happier. Or if their significant other would understand them, things would be just right. Or if their kids would put in more effort, all would be perfect in their world. If their boss would see what they’re capable of and promote them, everything would be different.

Characters can sometimes focus on the way others are letting them down. And in that case, the behavior of other characters becomes the story problem. Your character’s wellbeing hinges on someone else changing.

Back to those “rocks” we need to throw at our characters. Yes, it’s important to toss obstacles and road blocks at our characters. But I would argue that the largest boulder we can throw at our characters comes in the form of a massive mirror. If our characters are forced to look at their own behavior, their own choices, and the way those things are blocking them from what they actually need, the hardest obstacle of all emerges—changing themselves.

While it’s easy to point the finger, to assign blame, to critique and find fault in others (and it might all be deserved, by the way!), the harder thing is to self-reflect. To have your protagonist evaluate their own behaviors in light of the behaviors of those other characters. To identify choices they can make that not only free them from whatever unhappy construct they’re trapped in, but that usher them toward what they ultimately need, all as a result of their own actions.

In the real world, we know it’s not only impossible to change someone else’s behavior, it’s also not our responsibility. In the world of writing, we want to be conscientious about the way we handle that truth, too. Our characters become the vehicle for conveying a deeper truth readers then carry into their lives.

If your character’s story is an everyone else problem, where is the space for your protagonist to exercise agency? To grow and change? To test out what they can control and to deliver themselves the satisfying ending they crave?

Let’s look at a few ways to move your character from thinking their problem is about someone else to understanding that their own choices will deliver them what they need:

1. Introduce characters that show your character what’s possible behavior-wise. Maybe another character is thriving despite being in a similar situation. Or perhaps another character challenges your character directly on their decision to stay stuck in an unhappy relationship. Who can come along to plant seeds that give your character the courage to try new behaviors? To let go of the expectations they’ve placed on others? To show them that we don’t have to fixate on how others can and will let us down?
2. Introduce characters that mimic your protagonist’s detrimental choices. Maybe your character meets someone and realizes how that character is holding themselves back or making poor decisions. Maybe your character meets someone in the same situation and who is very much stuck in a victim role. Mirror characters are a safe way for your protagonist to see the truth about their own choices and to give them aha moments about themselves. Sometimes it’s not until they see something in someone else that they can then see something about their own lives. Your character might even begin to support or mentor someone else, and that forces them to want to employ change in their own life.
3. Introduce subplots that invite your character to put energy and heart elsewhere. Maybe they take up a new hobby or job, or they go somewhere completely new. Where can they thrive? Under what circumstances can their strengths emerge? Where can they have greater autonomy and see how their own choices can and will lead them to what they need? Where can they be appreciated in ways that they’ve lacked? You might even have some new subplots that reveal what your character doesn’t want—new activities or new places that echo the unhappy aspects of their preexisting lives. That way, they’re empowered to walk away in a lower-stakes setup, and to see that doing so isn’t so bad after all.
4. Present a conflict that moves them away from the rut of missed expectations. If a more significant problem emerges that invites your character in, they can loosen their focus on the way they enter the story mired in unhappy circumstances. In overcoming an unrelated conflict, they may see themselves in a new light and realize their happiness doesn’t reside in others’ hands.
5. Force them to confront the past despite their journey. While we want new people and places and experiences to grow our protagonists, part of their story arc is seeing their past with a shifted perspective. Healing is about coming to terms with the past—not simply moving away from it. If your protagonist has a new support system around them as a result of their own choices, they’re better equipped to confront the past with courage. That way, we see the power those unsatisfying relationships once had as being diminished. Perhaps the protagonist can even reflect on their own counterproductive part in the way things once were.

It’s Important to Note That Blaming Others and Not Wanting to Make Changes Are Normal and Even Expected Reactions.

Your character might enter the story this way and spend your first quarter wrestling with the view that everyone else is their problem. But beware that readers are turned off to characters with a victim mentality. Also, readers come to a story expecting change. For the protagonist’s agency to emerge and story structure to function, the reader will expect that somewhere around the 25% mark, there’s a collapse in that everyone-else-is-the-problem perspective. The character will begin to see that being held hostage by missed expectations is what’s harming them above all, and they’ll begin driving their own quest toward well-being through those five strategies above. If we’re to reach the ending fully believing your character is going to be okay, it will take time all throughout those final three-quarters to see how and why.

While we’d all love to change something about the people around us, controlling others isn’t feasible and it renders us powerless. In story, it’s no different. The more we empower our protagonist to step into new relationships and new experiences, the more we lessen the grip of missed expectations. We position our characters to face a problem that is fixable and give them that satisfying ending they deserve.

MARISSA GRAFF - Resident Writing Coach

Marissa has been a freelance editor and reader for literary agent Sarah Davies at Greenhouse Literary Agency for over seven years. In conjunction with Angelella Editorial, she offers developmental editing, author coaching, and more. Marissa feels if she’s done her job well, a client should probably never need her help again because she’s given them a crash-course MFA via deep editorial support and/or coaching. Find out more about our RWC team here and connect with Marissa below.

The post Five Ways to Get Your Protagonist to Realize They’re the Problem appeared first on WRITERS HELPING WRITERS®.

How to handle a character’s backstory is a universal struggle for all of us writers. How much should we include? How long should a flashback be? When is it okay to give a character’s backstory? Is backstory even necessary?

As an editor, I’ve seen it all. Books that start with a long flashback, books that don’t provide the reader enough footing in a character’s past, and books that nail the balance of keeping the front story moving while sprinkling in backstory.

First, the undeniable truth: Whether we like it or not, backstory is necessary. Otherwise, that inherent feeling that your character needs whatever you have planned in the front story isn’t there, spurning your reader on to find out if this story will help them be okay. Backstory is the battery pack that fuels your novel, giving it purpose.

The good news is that you only need to develop that which is relevant to whatever made the character not okay in the first place.

Long-Form Flashback

Crafting the origin scene is virtually a must in order to establish exactly what happened in the past and to explore the misbelief (also known as the wound or baggage) your character has. In knowing the character’s trauma and how it’s shaped them, you’ve given yourself a road map for what your front story needs to undo.

After that, it’s helpful to develop a few relevant memories that might help your character reach aha moments within the front story. Events that they look back on with new eyes and that afford them perspective shifts as your front story progresses. These might be past incidents that seemed one way at the time. But now, thanks to your front-story plot, the character sees them for what they actually were. The fear they once had is noticeably diminished, earning them inner growth and change.

Shorter Flashbacks

Let’s talk about developing your character’s backstory through shorter flashbacks, even within single sentences. Rather than presenting the reader with fully-developed memories, you might break the flashbacks you develop into digestible chunks that could be scattered throughout your story.

How to Choose the Form and Length of Flashbacks

It helps to think of the depth of the trauma as proportionate to how long you wait to share backstory and how much of it you share. In other words, if the trauma is deep and awful for your character, we will need time to be readied for its reveal, just as the character needs time to confront it. And then, when it comes, you might need to give it breathing room through what’s more of a flashback scene. Things like being held captive, losing a loved one, making a deadly mistake, or witnessing a violent act warrant may fall into this category.

But if the trauma is something less dramatic (a best friend moving away or losing a sentimental object, for example), it’s likely not necessary to wait to share the past, nor should it earn tons of page time. In fact, waiting to share this sort of backstory or doing so in long form will likely backfire because the reader will gauge that withholding and pontificating weren’t necessary for something on that level. It may even feel melodramatic at that point.

No matter your backstory reveal form, whether it be long-form or short bursts of memory, it helps to tap into your left brain. Something I always encourage clients to do is to scene track. This exercise not only helps you outline your novel’s scenes in a bare-bones way, it allows you to keep your eye on all those plates novel writing asks you to spin. Using this task to monitor backstory reveal can be truly helpful to ensure you’re on the right track.

Some Final Backstory Tips

It’s largely advised not to include lengthy flashback until something like 10% or beyond in your novel. The reader needs time to slip into the flow of your front story. If we’re asking the reader to orient themselves in the front story and then to step away to backstory too much or too frequently, the reader can’t settle comfortably into your more current timeline.

Look within your front story for little seeds to generate one-line backstory hints. If your character was in an awful car wreck in the past, maybe you’re showing their hand trembling as they reach for the car door. Hence, a backstory clue is born and you keep the front story moving. Maybe they were robbed by someone wearing a red knit cap in the past. Within your front story, we see your character take a different route to work after someone with a red knit cap appears ahead on the sidewalk. Boom—an interesting clue emerges, pointing to the past. You can use details in the current timeline as springboards for hints of the past based upon how your character reacts when encountering them.

Keep flashbacks as tight as you possibly can. We’ve all been in stop-and-go traffic. Each time you weave backstory in, it’s akin to hitting the brakes on a lovely car ride. The energy of your front story wobbles and the reader starts asking, “Are we there yet?” They itch to get back to the current timeline.

Show, don’t tell. And yes, this rule applies to flashback. The more you evoke what it was like for your character to be in that pivotal moment way back when, the more your reader feels like you’ve transported them to the past.

What backstory methods have you used successfully in your own writing? Are there stories you feel achieve the balance of backstory?

Happy writing!
Marissa

MARISSA GRAFF - Resident Writing Coach

Marissa has been a freelance editor and reader for literary agent Sarah Davies at Greenhouse Literary Agency for over seven years. In conjunction with Angelella Editorial, she offers developmental editing, author coaching, and more. Marissa feels if she’s done her job well, a client should probably never need her help again because she’s given them a crash-course MFA via deep editorial support and/or coaching. Find out more about our RWC team here and connect with Marissa below.

The post Backstory Balancing Act appeared first on WRITERS HELPING WRITERS®.

There’s no better feeling than being in the hands of a great storyteller. They have command of the details we need to know, the scenes we need to see, and there’s a lock-step feel to the way the story advances. Strong storytelling isn’t just a unique premise or a character we love.

Strong storytelling is rooted in trust.

Trust in the person who has crafted the story, but also trust in the viewpoint character. If we feel as though the character shares with us everything they know and allows us to be along for all critical moments of their story, we can feel as though we are that character.

Let’s discuss three very simple ways you might be breaking your reader’s trust, intentionally or not. We’ll also cover what to do so your reader feels like those strong storytelling hands they’re in are yours.

Trust Violation #1: When we allow the character to react before we’ve shown the reader what they’re reacting to.

Example: Holly stumbled backward. What she saw made her gasp. Could it be? There stood the man she thought was dead.

Notice how in the example, we have two lines of body language that point to surprise and shock, not to mention a third line where it’s clear she’s questioning whatever she’s seeing. All of these lines tell the reader how Holly (and how they) should feel before they even know what they’re seeing. On a small scale, this type of writing distances the reader from the character. The reader feels frustration for those three lines, waiting to see whatever it is that Holly’s seen. It backfires on Holly, the narrator, and even the writer because the reader starts to wonder why they aren’t being told what they need to know. In that span of time, they feel other—like they’re not Holly, which is what we don’t want at all. Instead, we want the reader to be in every moment with her, processing all her senses are processing in real time. That reinforces the feeling that the reader knows as much as she knows, and it shows the reader respect in leaving room for them to deduce how to feel when they first observe what the character does.

Bottom line: Present sensory-based action and observation first, and build in character reaction second.

Trust Violation #2: When we withhold a character’s name/identity just to perpetuate tension.

Example: Julie watched the figure make their way down the staircase. The way they moved was slow and sleek, commanding the attention of everyone below. Julie focused on the drink in her hand, determined not to let him control her the way he controlled everyone else. This was exactly why she left her ex-boyfriend in the first place.

In this example (somewhat like the first), we’re getting the character’s reaction before we’re entirely certain who or even really what they’re reacting to. To be fair, we do get movement and sensory-based action prior to Julie’s clear emotional reaction. But notice how for many lines, we have no idea who the “figure” is and Julie and the narrator do. Clearly, the space is well-lit based upon the details. Julie obviously knows who the figure is because she reacts in a specific way. And yet, we don’t get access to that same information in real time. A feeling creeps in from this type of withholding, and it’s something along the lines of being manipulated for the sake of drawing out the tension. The writer reveals themselves as the “man behind the curtain” and the writing draws attention to itself. When we use this type of writing, we aren’t keeping the figure’s identity unknown for a reason rooted in logic or plot. The figure isn’t wearing a disguise or hidden for some other reason. It’s evident Julie (and the writer) knows who he is. So why not just use their name? Why not tell us all that the character knows when she knows it? The answer is that there isn’t a reason, and readers will inherently know we’re pulling strings to tap into their curiosity.

Bottom line: Let us fully know all your viewpoint character knows the moment they know it. Avoid using tricks that withhold names or other information for the sake of making your reader curious because the reader will know they’re being manipulated.

Trust Violation #3: When we catch the reader up on what the character did since we last saw them.

Example: Brian snuck through the front door, clenching the keys to his dad’s truck. Sometime overnight, Brian had come up with a plan. If Dad was going to insist that drinking and driving was perfectly fine, Brian would take charge of things.

There are absolutely times in storytelling when we want to compress time and leap over what happens in a character’s life. Sleeping, eating, traveling…These are often spots where nothing important and plot-bearing is happening, and we can bypass them altogether. But when the character has seemingly made a choice during a gap of time—a choice that relates to the pursuit of their goal—we should have access to it as it occurs. Plan-making should be born out of active scene. In other words, we should be in the scene whereby the threads of the new decision start to emerge, and we should even see hints of what the character might do next. Or, we should simply and fully know what they plan to do by the time we leave one scene and get ready for the next one. In the example above, unless Dad came home drunk the night before and we saw Brian eyeing Dad’s keys with a sense of hope rising in him—all clues that would logically allow us to predict what Brian might do next—then we feel like he’s made a decision without us. On his own and apart from us. And that separation causes us to not only lose trust in the character, but also the writer. As basic as it sounds, a feeling emerges like the character has been off doing important things without us, and we’re a bit bummed to have been left out. This type of writing makes your reader stop and ask, “Wait, what?” because the character’s decision has been made off-the-page without enough clues to feel logical or predictable.

One way you can tell when this sort of thing happens is that there hasn’t been time for the character (or the reader) to weigh the cost of the choice the character is ultimately going to make. We don’t know what Brian is knowingly losing in taking his dad’s truck, the risks specific to his character, or what’s at stake that he’s choosing to risk in pursuit of this goal. We don’t get the benefit of being with him as he makes the decision itself. There’s a feeling like it’s happening too fast and somewhat suddenly, and that makes us doubt Brian—the character we want to feel like represents us.

Bottom line: When your character makes a crucial decision toward their goal, make sure that it’s made (even partially via context clues) during active scene so that your reader feels like the character’s ally in every moment of the story.

What types of craft choices do you experience as a reader that break your trust? Do you struggle with these types of choices as a way of drawing out or generating tension? What other ways do you find help maintain that writer-character-reader trust?

Happy writing!
Marissa

MARISSA GRAFF - Resident Writing Coach

Marissa has been a freelance editor and reader for literary agent Sarah Davies at Greenhouse Literary Agency for over seven years. In conjunction with Angelella Editorial, she offers developmental editing, author coaching, and more. Marissa feels if she’s done her job well, a client should probably never need her help again because she’s given them a crash-course MFA via deep editorial support and/or coaching. Find out more about our RWC team here and connect with Marissa below.

The post Three Ways You’re Losing Your Reader’s Trust appeared first on WRITERS HELPING WRITERS®.

There’s so much emphasis on making sure that we give our character a goal that’s clear starting from their very first scene. Win the game. Find someone to marry. Land the job. Solve the crime.

We tend to think about goal in terms of the character obtaining the thing they don’t have when the story begins. It’s out there. They can grab it, touch it, and get it if they just do the right things and keep going.

But what if you’re like me and so many of my clients, completely unsure of what your character wants, much less why? What if they’re not an athlete, or in a personal crisis, or craving revenge right out of the gate? What if there isn’t a big mystery to solve starting in your first scene?

Cue creative crisis!

If our character isn’t trying to land a record deal or catch a killer or get some other obvious, tangible thing they don’t currently have, does this mean our story is a total bust?

No.

We’ve just been looking at this elusive concept of goal and motivation all wrong. In fact, I’m here to argue the opposite. That starting from a point of fear—losing something the character already has—can be every bit as motivational and arguably more compelling than starting out with a precise goal of obtaining something they don’t have.

How Can You Mine Your Character’s Preexisting Fear in Order To Give Rise to a Goal In 3 Simple Steps?

Consider What Your Character Currently Has in The Novel’s Opening That They Value.

What does your character cling to, possibly (and likely!) to their own detriment? Is it the approval of someone else, the need to control some uncontrollable aspect of their life? An unhealthy role they play largely to the benefit of another character? What do they care for and how can we see it through what they say and do? What do they believe they must continue doing behavior-wise, or what can’t they imagine living without? Again, focus on what they already have in their lives, well before page one.

For example, in Suzanne Collins’ THE HUNGER GAMES, we meet Katniss as being attached to her younger sister Prim. Katniss is committed to this role of providing for and protecting Prim, and it’s clear that while she loves her, it’s almost to Katniss’ own detriment. Her life seems to revolve around caring for Prim and trying to keep her safe in all forms. Is Katniss even remotely thinking of having something for herself, much less winning the Hunger Games as a goal? No. Her goal is to keep the status quo. This might be the same for your character, whatever their status quo is.

Plan An Event—An Inciting Incident—That Threatens That Valuable Person or Thing.

What might happen to this person or thing your character clings to? Does the person they seek approval from reject them somehow? Does someone new come along and shift the existing dynamic? Is that person or thing your character clings to threatened in some way by an outside force? Does your character lose control of something they thought they had control over? Is their ability to continue to fulfill their unhealthy role compromised?

Returning to Suzanne Collins’ THE HUNGER GAMES, this would be where Prim’s name gets drawn to be a tribute in the Hunger Games—a government-run, fight-to-the-death event where it’s very unlikely Prim will survive. The author directly threatens that unhealthy role Katniss has that’s fueled by the fear of losing her sister, or perhaps being a failure in protecting her. This event directly hits what matters to Katniss. It’s something she already has, and Collins mines Katniss’ fear to force the birth of a new external goal.

Focus On the Logical Outward Act/Choice Your Character Would Then Take, Fueled By Their Original Fear In Point 1 Above.

Even though the event you plan should give birth to a clearer external goal—yay!—it’s important to note that their original fear is in play in whatever choice they make as a result. In other words, whatever the goal may now be, it’s wrongly motivated.

So while it seems bold and pivotal that Katniss volunteers herself in her sister’s place in THE HUNGER GAMES, in all actuality, she is still acting out of her original fear. The same fear as the one we observed on page one. She only forms the goal of winning the games in order to protect her sister (the original fear). To try and control Prim’s safety. But even though her motivation is still driven by a detrimental, unrealistic role (a misbelief), it’s enough to get Katniss out the door with an external goal—one we didn’t have in the very beginning. She is now set up for the external objective of winning the Hunger Games so she can come back home and (so she thinks) keep protecting Prim.

If you’re in the first quarter of your draft, all the guidance I’ve offered might help you to generate a clearer goal for your character by dealing a blow to something they already value. But it’s important to remember that the character’s motivation needs to reflect their initial fear, or misbelief, until the 25% mark (Point of No Return). At that point, the motivation will then shift away from their old fear, letting it go, and replacing it with a different fear—not attaining what they actually need—even if the external goal stays the same.

In other words, at that first-quarter mark, your character’s external goal may or may not change after the Point of No Return. Katniss continues to want to win the Hunger Games for the length of the story. But the fear fueling the why changes.

The motivation of what your character is scared to lose evolves so that around 25%, they must choose to let go of what they initially feared losing, and instead, go after something representative of a bigger loss should they not attain it. A fear that outweighs the fear they had in the beginning. And oftentimes, that fear can be facing, wrestling, and coming to terms with a hard truth related to that initial fear.

In Katniss’ case, she starts to see there isn’t any safety for her sister within their wider dystopian world, regardless of what Katniss tries to do. She has to let go of that protective role and risk dying in order to face a bigger fear—a world like the one they live in. Her motivation pivots toward impacting the larger world conflict in hopes that she can make it better for many more people.

What does your character fear losing when we meet them? If they don’t yet have a clear external goal, what could happen that might threaten their ability to avoid that fear? Does the decision they make then give rise to a concrete goal, still driven by their attempt to avoid their fear? At the Point of No Return, are you able to stick with the same external goal but fuel it by another healthier fear? Or, does your character’s goal change to reflect the fear of losing what they truly needed all along?

Happy writing!

MARISSA GRAFF - Resident Writing Coach

Marissa has been a freelance editor and reader for literary agent Sarah Davies at Greenhouse Literary Agency for over seven years. In conjunction with Angelella Editorial, she offers developmental editing, author coaching, and more. Marissa feels if she’s done her job well, a client should probably never need her help again because she’s given them a crash-course MFA via deep editorial support and/or coaching. Find out more about our RWC team here and connect with Marissa below.

The post Three Easy Steps to Generate a Goal Using Fear as Motivation appeared first on WRITERS HELPING WRITERS®.

Whenever we write a protagonist who lost someone important within their backstory, we have some heavy lifting ahead of us. That “unseen” character—a character who has died or who is simply away for one reason or another—is going to need to be developed and brought to the page somehow to deepen the emotion beneath the protagonist’s loss.

It won’t be enough that we tell the reader our character misses that person, or how that we label how the unseen character used to make the protagonist feel—good or bad. That sort of writing reduces the relationship down to what we call “emotional abstraction”—outright naming the way someone feels, rather than letting the reader experience the emotion in a firsthand way.

If the loss or separation is truly crucial to the story of your protagonist, you’ll want to create the illusion of the unseen character so it’s as if we’ve actually met them.

To better understand why developing an unseen character is worth the work, let’s look at an example based on emotional abstraction. The protagonist (Lila) has recently lost her father, and is reflecting on a memory:

Lila was happy every time she and Dad rode in his truck together.

In this example, the writer tells us Lila was happy in an outright way. Though you’d think this would be enough for us to know what she’s lost in losing her dad, it winds up falling flat. The reader knows how they should feel, but the head and the heart don’t quite connect. The difficulty with naming emotions—or emotional abstraction—is that reader doesn’t actually feel the emotion with any precision or depth. The word happy means different things to all of us, and so it’s a missed opportunity for the reader to know exactly how happy Dad made Lila. The happiness in this example isn’t Lila-shaped, or precisely Dad-induced.

Now, consider this example that seeks to avoid emotional abstraction by creating the illusion of Dad:

Lila couldn’t explain why she always preferred to sit right beside Dad whenever she rode with him in his truck. Maybe it was his warm shoulder swaying side to side alongside hers over each and every bump in the road. She never minded sitting on the big tear in the worn leather of the bench seat as long as she was next to Dad. He always gave Lila complete control of the radio, even if the music she chose made his face wrinkle up like he’d eaten a lemon. He kept a pair of drumsticks in the glove compartment so she could practice drumming on the dashboard as they made their way around town for their usual Saturday errands.

“Louder, Lils.” He’d say every time they drove past the town library. She’d grin and he’d wink back.

Dad never learned how to play the drums. But Lila would focus on his rhythm as he thumped his palms the steering wheel, and try to sync her own beats with his.

Notice how in the second example, we accomplish so much more than the first example. We have a sensory-based memory with dialogue and body language that we can picture within our own minds. We feel how it feels for Lila to sit near Dad. We hear that cringey music Dad endures because Lila loves it, or the sounds made drumming along to the music. We can imagine the emotions they likely each feel with far more precision. We can better gauge his love for her, and who he was for her based on his actions. We can even judge the way she loves him back based on the way she tries to cover up his lack of rhythm by adjusting her own rhythm.

All of these details evoke an illusion that allows us to better comprehend and feel what it must be like for Lila to have lost Dad. We have unpacked “happy,” and we’ve given it precision and depth. We’ve made it Lila-shaped and Dad-induced.

In letting us indirectly meet an unseen character, we better understand both who they were as an individual and what their relationship with your front-story character/protagonist was like. As such, we better understand the emotions the protagonist is experiencing due to whatever has put distance between them and the unseen character.

If you have a character who isn’t technically in your front story but who is crucial to your protagonist’s backstory, you’ll want to consider creating the illusion of them on the page.

Let’s pull out our writerly magic wands and talk strategies for bringing an unseen character to life:

1. Backstory/Flashback: As with the second example above, crafting vivid, punchy flashbacks that let us glimpse the relationship your protagonist had with the unseen character can be a powerful tool. Flashbacks are especially effective because they give you the chance to bring an unseen character onto the page despite their absence in your front story.
2. Front-Story Objects: You can use objects to bring an unseen character to life. If we were to step into spaces they inhabited, or to go through their belongings, what would we learn about who they were? What objects does your protagonist hold onto that they were given from the unseen character? What mementos from time spent with that lost character does your protagonist keep? What can’t your protagonist bring themselves to get rid of? Which objects—wherever the protagonist goes—evoke memories?
3. Front-Story Dialogue: What do other characters say about who the unseen character was? What do they not say about the unseen character? What does your protagonist say or not say about them? Are there characters your protagonist avoids ever since they lost the unseen character?
4. Front-Story Locations: Where does your character avoid going because it’s a painful reminder of the lost character? Where does your character linger because they can’t let go of the unseen character?
5. Front-Story Activities: What hobbies or activities does your character avoid because of losing the unseen character? Are there activities they’re especially fixated on since losing the unseen character? What are they losing out on in life because of the loss?

Creating the illusion of the unseen character is only part of the heavy-lifting, though. We have to consider why we’ve chosen to include this lost character in your protagonist’s life in the first place, and how it relates to the journey ahead.

So much of what makes an off-the-page character work is what they do to challenge the protagonist in your front story.

Consider the following questions:

What didn’t your character know about the lost character that your front story might reveal to them? How is losing that character holding your character back when we first meet them? What events might occur to provide your character aha moments about letting go? What plot points might reveal the truth about something the protagonist couldn’t see back when the other character was around?

How did losing that unseen character turn out to help your protagonist figure out what they needed all along? What is it about who your unseen character was that reveals your protagonist to us at each flashback point? What are we learning not just about the unseen character in a flashback, but about your protagonist? How do those flashbacks show us change in your protagonist? Does each flashback reveal something slightly different? Is there a truth that needs to be revealed?

Consider why this specific loss of another character in your protagonist’s backstory matters and how it relates to their needs in your front story. Why, in other words, is losing that unseen character a starting point in what your protagonist needs to do externally and how they need to grow internally? How might the unseen presence of a character slowly draw your protagonist in toward some sort of journey of discovery? How do the memories of the unseen character or new discoveries about who they were shift your protagonist? How do the memories ask them to face some sort of fear or inner truth they’ve been incapable of seeing—likely something about themselves—when the dust settles?

What type of unseen character is part of your protagonist’s backstory? How does the loss of that character give rise to the journey you have planned for your own book? Do you have favorite examples of books, movies, or films that feature an unseen character?

Happy writing!
Marissa

MARISSA GRAFF - Resident Writing Coach

Marissa has been a freelance editor and reader for literary agent Sarah Davies at Greenhouse Literary Agency for over seven years. In conjunction with Angelella Editorial, she offers developmental editing, author coaching, and more. Marissa feels if she’s done her job well, a client should probably never need her help again because she’s given them a crash-course MFA via deep editorial support and/or coaching. Find out more about our RWC team here and connect with Marissa below.

The post Write Like a Magician: Creating the Illusion of an Unseen Character appeared first on WRITERS HELPING WRITERS®.

Imagine inviting us into your protagonist’s house or whatever you deem to be their most sacred  physical space. But while we’re so excited to meet your protagonist, they’re not actually there. We can’t hear what they say or observe the way they move in order to get to know them. Or can we?

Now imagine that you’ve asked us to become a detective in their space. To piece together who your character is based upon what our senses tell us through clues. We’ve been asked to figure out who your character is without ever meeting them. Is this even possible?

In our own writing, we’re most effective when we set up “crime scenes” for our readers and invite them in to snoop around. The more we let the reader’s senses process the story world, the more they engage. The more they work. The more they get the satisfaction of knowing your character with greater precision and depth. In turn, this tricks them into feeling like they’re physically inside the story and into feeling they know your character on a deeper level.

Consider the two examples below. As you read them, feel out which one draws you in more as a reader:

Greg loves the beach.

Or…

Greg’s kitchen cupboard is overstuffed with brightly-colored margarita glasses. Some are hand-painted with palm trees and beach umbrellas and little flip-flops, while others have words printed along the rim. Places like Destin, Myrtle Beach, and Emerald Isle.

Chances are, you felt reeled in more by the second example. Why? Well, because the first one told you about Greg. It outright explained him as a character to you and asked you to take it at face value. There wasn’t any room for you to work. To deduce. To decide who Greg is on your own. The fact was served up cold, and this creates distance between you and the writing. Furthermore, you’re not left with any understanding of the size and scope of Greg’s love for the beach.

Whereas in the second example, you became a detective. Greg’s collection of glasses gives you a sense for just how much he craves that feeling of being on the beach with a margarita in his hand. It tells you not just that he has a lot of glasses, but leaves you room to deduce how much the beach appeals to him and how he probably yearns to be there now. So we don’t just walk away knowing this fact that he likes the beach, we know Greg on a deeper level because our senses have processed clues.

Now, it’s important to note that while offering these physical clues is much more inviting for your reader, there’s actually room to take things up a notch. We’ll break our own rule for a moment and let Greg slip into the scene so we can see what he does with that cupboard of glasses.

Greg’s hand wavers back and forth inside the cupboard packed with margarita glasses. He grins with a distant look in his eyes and carefully pulls one out. “Emerald Isle” is printed along the rim.

Notice how we’ve moved from the efficacy of that second example (Greg adores the beach, has clearly been to many of them, and doesn’t mind annoyingly cheery colors) into an even deeper level of Greg’s characterization. His movement now conveys his emotions both in this moment and as it seems to pertain to a memory. He handles the glass carefully—that tells us about his emotions toward the glass itself, the beach, and the memory. We’re invited in even further to wonder why he’s chosen the Emerald Isle glass in this exact moment, which propels us forward with curiosity in the story.

The takeaway? Physical description of your character’s space + movement is the best way of all to reveal your character to the reader. Rather than pausing the story to describe the setting or who your character is, we employ our readers much more like detectives when we let them put physical detail and character movement together.

Still, for the sake of exploring and getting the most out of the setting, it helps to scoot your character out of their spaces so they can’t grab control and outright tell us who they are or how they feel.

Here are sensory-based prompts you can address to help us get to know who your character is before you invite them back into the scene to interact with those spaces:

Visual

What does the style of the furniture in your character’s home (or even just their bedroom if it’s a younger character) say about who they are as a person? Is it modern, farmhouse style, antique, beat-up, hand-me-down furniture?

How is the furniture arranged? Is it in a way that reflects their tendencies toward being open, closed-off, organized, or chaotic? Intentional or haphazard?

What sorts of objects tell us about the way they spend their time? Are there tools or equipment that reflect their hobbies? Memories they hold dear? Whose pictures are posted, if any? Keepsakes from events they’ve attended or greeting cards from specific loved ones?

Are there patterns on things like bedding or clothing that reveal a deeper tendency toward something?

What colors dominate their decorations or functional items (cups, towels, bedding, etc.)? How do those colors reflect their propensity toward certain moods?

What’s hiding in the back of their closet? Their drawers? What’s shoved far beneath their bed?

How is the lighting? What does this show about their comforts or their fears?

Touch

What sorts of linens have they chosen for bedding? Window dressings? Pillows or throw blankets? Rugs? What might those textures let us glean about their personality? Are linens smooth and crisp, or wrinkly?

What sorts of fabrics dominate their cache of clothing? What do we feel when we open dresser drawers or run our hands through your character’s closet? How do the textures of each of these reflect their need for or rejection of comfort?

If we run our fingers along surfaces, which ones have gathered dust and how does that reflect avoidance or neglect for certain aspects of their life? Which ones are spotless to reveal care and a desire to maintain?

Auditory

What sorts of music or sounds drift through their spaces? How does that music or certain sounds reflect their personality or the way they have sentimental attachment to something? Do the auditory clues change depending on which space we’re in?

Are their windows open or closed to the outside world?

Are there objects that suggest auditory preferences (ear plugs, headphones, earbuds, instruments, white-noise machines, etc.)?

What does the range of their music collection tell us about their range of moods?

What size or how many speakers are around their home? What does that suggest about their reliance upon music and sound in processing emotions?

Scent

What are the scents in the different spaces where they spend time? How might those tell us something more about their interests or what they value?

Are they utilizing diffusers, candles, or plug-in scent items to evoke mood? To cover up something?

How does scent reflect the amount of time your character spends in their sacred space(s)?

Are the scents suggestive of memories or favorite times of year? Favorite places (e.g. tropical candles might suggest a preference for summer and beach getaways)?

Taste

If we open the kitchen cupboards, refrigerator, or the medicine cabinet, are there items that reveal your character’s lifestyle choices to us? Their cultural background? Their financial means?

How do the foods we see suggest a tendency toward snacking versus eating full meals? Having time to cook or relying on conveniences?

What sorts of food wrappers or food waste are sitting in the trash can?

How does the volume of food on hand suggest their outlook on life?

Are items in the fridge expired? Organized?

Again, as shown in that third example above, all of these clue-based details are best mixed with action. Nothing drops the tension faster than the narrator pausing to tell us what a character is wearing or what the character’s bedroom looks like. The most effective descriptions are woven together with movement. The more you concoct the facets of your character’s spaces with intention, the more your reader steps in like a detective, working through your clues and getting to know your character on the deepest levels.

*Marissa also shows you how to approach your novel like a winning trial lawyer,
delivering your reader to the verdict you want.

MARISSA GRAFF - Resident Writing Coach

Marissa has been a freelance editor and reader for literary agent Sarah Davies at Greenhouse Literary Agency for over seven years. In conjunction with Angelella Editorial, she offers developmental editing, author coaching, and more. Marissa feels if she’s done her job well, a client should probably never need her help again because she’s given them a crash-course MFA via deep editorial support and/or coaching. Find out more about our RWC team here and connect with Marissa below.

The post Turn Your Readers into Detectives appeared first on WRITERS HELPING WRITERS®.

A common mistake I see in client manuscripts is a cast of secondary characters that simply exist to help or to outright block the protagonist. They’re either ready, willing, and able to drop everything to help that protagonist reach their own goal. Or they’re a character who is out to make the protagonist’s life hard for no logical reason.

Let’s face it. That’s not how real life works, as everyone has wants and needs of their own. Fictional secondary characters are no different. Their relationship with your protagonist should work like sandpaper, revealing internal growth your protagonist needs, or revealing their commitment to reaching their external goal. If we craft our secondary characters well, they should create a tug-of-war inside the reader. Readers should empathize with each secondary character’s inner motivation and struggle with who to primarily cheer for. This applies to antagonists every bit as much as it does to an ally. Conjuring empathy for each and every secondary character makes those characters more engaging, and it forces you as the writer to create the most compelling protagonist possible. Your protagonist’s desire to reach a particular goal fueled by unmet inner need will have to work that much harder to earn that top spot in reader’s hearts because you’ll have crafted compelling contenders, vying for that spot.

Let’s talk about three ways to achieve this…

They Must Have Their Own Inner Desire/External Goal

It helps to look at any given scene from the perspective of every secondary character you’ve included. If those characters are only on the page to help your protagonist achieve/block their goal, then it’s a missed opportunity. Secondary characters should consistently add tension to scenes—tension that grows your protagonist internally or externally. It’s far more interesting when we get a sense for what other characters want in a scene because we can gauge how that may help or harm what the protagonist wants.

Even if your secondary character is supporting your protagonist and aiming to reach the same external goal, their inner motivation shouldn’t be the same as any other character. What’s motivating each of your secondary characters? Does their motivation conjure empathy in the reader, even if we don’t support that end or we still cheer for the protagonist more? What’s the logic or backstory behind that secondary character’s motivation? Does your protagonist wrestle with the way even an antagonist presents logical motivation to them? Does your protagonist struggle seeing what their allies are giving up in order to support the protagonist’s end?

Tip: A secondary character cannot help or rescue your character without your character losing something they value.

The Secondary Character Must Challenge Your Protagonist in Some External And/Or Internal Way

If your secondary character is an ally or a romantic interest of your protagonist, we might not expect that they’re working like an antagonist, trying to thwart the protagonist’s success. Still, even allies and love interests should be working to grow the protagonist.

*Is that secondary character working like a mirror the protagonist doesn’t want to see themselves in?

*Are they asking hard questions about the protagonist’s hidden fears or motivations?

*Is the secondary character someone the protagonist wants to be like but they’re not ready or unable to accept that they’re never going to be that way?

*Are they asking more from your protagonist than the protagonist is ready to give?

*What does retaining that ally or love interest cost your protagonist?

*How does having that character’s help or support complicate things?

*Are they forcing your protagonist to look at backstory events from a different perspective?

*Forcing the protagonist to empathize with the motivation of any given antagonist?

Tip: The answers to these questions should not be the same for any two secondary characters. Each secondary character must challenge the protagonist differently in order to earn their keep.

Their Dialogue Can’t Solely Exist to Teach Your Character (And Reader) About The Story World

We’ve all heard it. Secondary characters saying things like, “As you know,” or sitting your character down to hand them the handbook on your story world. As much as possible, the dialogue and even the actions of your secondary characters should convey intent and a hint of their own inner world. The problem with dialogue that carries worldbuilding or stark plot-based information is that it oftentimes fails to reveal more to us about your protagonist or that secondary character. Worse yet, it leaves almost no room for the protagonist to respond with dialogue that conveys their own intent or emotion. Unless your protagonist has approached a secondary character with a very specific question that requires an answer containing information, try to think of secondary character dialogue as an opportunity to reveal their intent and emotion as much as possible. To challenge your protagonist.

Tip: Study every line of dialogue to see if you can attach an emotional “label” to it. You should be able to read the line and sense some primary emotional current running through the content. Anger, avoidance, relief, elation, etc. Emotions that are almost always red flags for weak dialogue are characters expressing awe or curiosity. Lines like, “Wow!” or, “What is that?” Those types of lines simply exist to set the other character up to talk at the other character/us more. If the line of dialogue doesn’t leave space for a response of some sort, then you know it’s not reaching its potential for adding tension.

What aspects of secondary character creation do you struggle with most? Do you find secondary characters easier to craft since the pressure isn’t as direct as it may be in crafting the protagonist? When you develop secondary characters, how do you bring them to life effectively?

Happy writing!

MARISSA GRAFF - Resident Writing Coach

Marissa has been a freelance editor and reader for literary agent Sarah Davies at Greenhouse Literary Agency for over seven years. In conjunction with Angelella Editorial, she offers developmental editing, author coaching, and more. Marissa feels if she’s done her job well, a client should probably never need her help again because she’s given them a crash-course MFA via deep editorial support and/or coaching. Find out more about our RWC team here and connect with Marissa below.

The post Three Ways to Make Readers Care About Secondary Characters appeared first on WRITERS HELPING WRITERS®.

We generally craft characters with the intention of making them someone the reader cares about. One of the primary ways to achieve that is to tap into reader empathy, and that’s largely achieved by showing what the character lacks in their “ordinary world” life. But sometimes, we unintentionally present our characters in ways that turn readers off. Without meaning to, we miss the mark of empathy and instead conjure pity. And though you’d think a pitiful character tugs at readers’ heartstrings, pity creates a divide between the reader and the character. Readers don’t want to identify with someone who is self-pitying or who perceives themselves as a victim.

The good news is that there are things we can do to earn empathy and to avoid pity. Let’s talk through 5 techniques that make the reader need to know how the story turns out because they can imagine themselves in the character’s shoes.

Let Your Protagonist Be Ignorant to Their Circumstances.

Story can arguably be distilled to one question that drives it from start to finish: Is your character capable of change? If the character is blaming or envying others, directly pointing to what they lack and how terrible life is without it, overly-aware of their plight, or exuding any other behaviors that spell “victim,” you’re veering into The Danger Zone. Self-pity is one of the primary ways readers are turned off, no matter how likable we think our characters are. Worse, if it seems your character suggests that their circumstances are someone else’s fault or they’re just not as fortunate as others, you’ve written your character’s story off right out of the gate. Readers need to see that the ability to change is within the character’s own hands–not in those of anyone else. If it seems it’s someone else who needs changing, why tell your protagonist’s story at all?

How to avoid the pity party? Avoid using direct phrasing for what your character wants or needs, even if done through a third-person narrator. Let us glean those wants and needs indirectly in what they say and do. Avoid language that suggests envy, blame, or other characters needing to realize something or change in some way. Instead, craft actions and dialogue for your character that have them wrestling with what they can do to change their own circumstances in order to deliver themselves to what they ultimately want or need.

Limit the Amount of Time Your Narrator Has the Microphone.

Sometimes, our writing can suffer from a case of “chatty-narrator syndrome.” The narrator talks at the reader too much, letting them in on every thought and feeling, including pointing to the things the character wants and needs. This doesn’t leave any space for the reader to work, and the character begins to feel high-maintenance. Needy. And even too controlling because they overly handle the narrative. Direct narrative is a notorious gateway to self-pity. Though first-person narrators can be especially guilty of this, it’s important to note that this can happen with a third-person narrator, too.

Chatty-narrator syndrome fails to build trust between the writer and the reader. As writers, we worry readers aren’t noticing how messed up our character’s situations are or how they came to be that way. We fear readers aren’t seeing what the character needs, and we decide to point it out. Heavily. Directly. Annoyingly. Chatty-narrator syndrome is almost always due to us as writers not trusting ourselves to show what we need to show, and not trusting our readers to notice it. Tell your narrator to step away from the microphone, and let the scenes of your story show us what we are meant to notice and feel about your character’s life.

Put Your Character into Circumstances That Reveal Their Wounds.

Sometimes we craft opening scenes because they just came to us or because we imagine that’s where the story starts. But intentionality in crafting scene events is crucial. What external action might your character experience that lets us glean what they lack? Consider characters that can provoke your character to reveal hints of their wounds to us. What might other characters do or say to reveal your character’s baggage? Consider locations and external events that might bring your character’s wounds to the surface. What type of event would trigger “side effects” of your character’s backstory wounds in a way that relies on showing instead of telling?

In Deb Caletti’s HEART IN A BODY IN THE WORLD, protagonist Anabelle encounters teenage boys as she waits in line for her fast-food order. Her anxiety rises as she notices sensory-based details about the boys, and she takes off running. Literally. And that event with those carefully-chosen characters is enough to let us start working out what’s possibly gone wrong in her backstory.

Think of circumstances that can noticeably make your character uncomfortable, or show them deliberately ignoring what’s happening around them. The first quarter is all about the character resisting change. Refusing to act. Reluctant to try new actions. What might you throw your character’s way that can elicit those types of responses?

Start Developing the Logic For Your Character’s Wounds Early And Often.

It’s crucial that your narrator–whoever they may be–start offering up clues about your character’s backstory and why it’s still in play. If all we do is hint at things that trigger our characters, the reader will start to feel frustrated. They will see us behind the words pointing to the character’s wounds, which will begin to feel like pity if the why piece of things isn’t developed.

As you let the reader glean your character’s “lack,” offer them steady puzzle pieces that begin building out the full picture of why your character carries the exact baggage that they carry. Resist the urge to withhold. The more we think we’re manipulating tension by not showing clues of why our characters are how they are, we risk readers leaving our stories. Still, it’s worth a word of caution that giving the why away too quickly and in one fell swoop can overwhelm a reader, too. Instead, piece by piece, one scene at a time, help the reader work through what your character lacks and how that lack came to exist.

In HEART IN A BODY IN THE WORLD, we meet protagonist Anabelle as closed off and unable to openly talk about whatever past she has. This starts to signal to us that whatever went wrong in her backstory, it’s painful. Traumatic. It’s so horrific that it’s going to take time to reveal it. And because we’re only getting clue drops, we’re intrigued, free to feel empathy, and not overwhelmed by a massive suitcase of woe. Caletti masterfully doles out one puzzle piece at a time of how Anabelle is in her ordinary world life, and how she became that way.

Employ a Narrative Perspective That Puts Your Reader Inside Your Character’s Skin as Much as Possible.

Readers are more likely to empathize and identify with our protagonist if we use an intimate point of view, one that puts the reader inside the character’s mind and body. An intimate point of view gives readers exclusive access to a flawed character’s perspective. It allows readers to make an easier connection with a character. Consider the use of a viewpoint such as first-person, or third-person close. In using a viewpoint that brings readers as close as possible to your character, you maximize their engagement with the story. Think of ways to help readers feel as though they are one and the same with your protagonist. To feel the character’s lack as though it’s the reader’s own. Just be sure to avoid that dreaded chatty-narrator syndrome.

What other ways do you find help you as a reader empathize with the character? Which craft techniques tend to make you pity the character? As a reader, do you mind pity in a character, or do you prefer to see the character positioned to change their circumstances as a result of their own actions? Chime in!

MARISSA GRAFF - Resident Writing Coach

Marissa has been a freelance editor and reader for literary agent Sarah Davies at Greenhouse Literary Agency for over seven years. In conjunction with Angelella Editorial, she offers developmental editing, author coaching, and more. Marissa feels if she’s done her job well, a client should probably never need her help again because she’s given them a crash-course MFA via deep editorial support and/or coaching. Find out more about our RWC team here and connect with Marissa below.

The post 5 Ways to Crash Your Character’s Pity Party appeared first on WRITERS HELPING WRITERS®.

We’ve all heard the writing advice that our stories must hook readers from the start, and that pacing our scenes so readers stick around is equally important. It’s all too easy to take that advice and assume we must infuse our scenes with all the makings of a blockbuster movie. Speed, chases, weapons, explosions, scary monsters, you name it. But what this advice fails to remember is that readers largely come to story for character. Specifically, they come to your story for your character, who they want to care for, worry about, and subsequently cheer for in those high-action scenes. If we don’t keep that truth at the heart of our scenes, all the trimmings of an action-packed story won’t matter. Let’s talk about four reasons readers unbuckle their seatbelts and climb out of that fast-moving vehicle of your story so we can understand how to keep them until your ride has come to a complete stop.

It’s Too Soon for High Action

Just about every set of “rules” for writing a riveting set of first pages leads you to believe you have to jump right into action. This is partially right and partially wrong. Inserting readers immediately into action is powerful, but inserting them into high-action too soon can fall flat. Car chases, battles, being pursued by a nefarious actor, or even meeting the protagonist participating in an intense sport don’t yield the reader’s interest in the way we expect. Why? Because the reader hasn’t had time to care about your character, much less their external circumstances. They don’t understand what’s at stake if your character can’t catch the bad guy, or if that zombie gets hold of them, or if they fail to make that winning touchdown.

The outcome of a physical-stakes-based scene scarcely matters without the underpinnings of care for the characters who are involved in it. We are banking on the notion that readers are going to be intrigued enough to know how the scene turns out. But we’ve failed to remember why readers come to story: the character’s journey.

Yes, we want to start our stories as early as possible with scene work. Nothing invites the reader into your book as a co-creator quite like loaded dialogue and interesting, revealing movement. These craft elements let the reader start making a movie in their minds. The more we can sink readers into what’s occurring in the sensory world of our characters, the better. But beware the urge to go for the big blockbuster opening scene as your first scene since the reader hasn’t had time to get their bearings and to care about the characters involved in its outcome.

The Scene Is Making Us Dizzy

A common pitfall of writing action scenes is that we, the writer, tend to see what every character is doing, moment by dull moment, as the scene plays out in our minds. But writing is all about handcrafting and hand-carving these scenes to reflect your protagonist’s experience (or only the most crucial players) most of all. If we’re asking the reader to notice every movement by every character, it can be dizzying. They’re trying to keep every character’s location and most recent movement, all while new character’s movements and locations are coming at them. Worse, readers start to lose track of who represents them in the scene, and what deep internal value is at stake for the primary player(s). It starts to feel like reading a bunch of stage direction instead of an edge-of-our-seats event.

Consider keeping the narrative “camera” as close to your protagonist as much as you possibly can. Everything happening should be filtered through them because they should have the most on the line for internal stakes in that scene. Anything you include that doesn’t stick close to the protagonist should only be included because it impacts the protagonist in a direct, powerful way (e.g., Their loved one is on the brink of disaster across the room and it’s presenting some sort of choice to your protagonist in that very moment.). If you do feel you have to include a few players’ experiences in the midst of one action scene, consider the way writers of shows like Game of Thrones direct their scenes. Oftentimes, the camera is with one player for a sustained period, and what we’re shown is almost like its own “Act.” Then, we rotate to another player for a sustained period and they have their own “Act.” As we rotate back to any given player, their story within the scene is oftentimes presented like its own 3-Act structure, but we aren’t dizzy because we’ve been in any given act for any given character for longer periods.

The Details Have Become the Haystack, And We Can’t Find the Needle

Even if you do stick close to your protagonist, resist the urge to stage direct their movements or what’s being done near them. Sometimes, we see every movement our character makes and we feel compelled to include it so the reader sees it, too. But as we overly burden the narrative with orchestrated movements, a problem emerges: Readers find it hard to pin down what matters most in the haystack of detail.

With my editing clients, I love to use an example from the film It’s a Wonderful Life. Director Frank Capra zooms in on George Bailey stashing his daughter’s flower petals into his pocket, and in drawing our attention to it, we hold onto that moment. Capra’s choice to zoom in guides us with confidence and certainty. The payoff is that George later uses those petals as a way of verifying he’s been given a second chance at life. How might you apply this in your action scenes? If you’ve given readers too much detail, it’s hard for them to judge what matters most. And when they lose their sense of what’s important to notice, they oftentimes start to skim because they can’t possibly hold onto all the details.

We Already Know the Outcome

As much as we want to think high-action scenes inherently pull their weight, the truth is that oftentimes, they don’t. We tell ourselves, what can be bigger than whether the character lives or dies? But readers know we’re not likely to kill off the characters that matter—especially if that character is your protagonist. Whenever we hinge everything on the character reaching safety or staying alive or coming out of a scene unscathed, readers experience the dreaded urge to skim. They know the outcome before they’ve read, so all that physical movement in the scene scarcely matters. It’s just stalling the story until the next scene. What really matters is why your character needs to win that scene in tangible, goal-driven terms.

Ensure that each fight/battle/high-action scene your character goes through has something at stake that’s deeper and more meaningful than their physical safety. What does losing a particular battle or not coming out on top in an action scene cost them? Why must they win beyond retaining their physical safety? What does that scene’s outcome represent that then allows the character to advance the next scene toward a larger goal?

What are some other features of high-action scenes that tend to drive you away as a reader? Are their particular techniques you use in your writing to avoid the pitfalls of too much attention on the action itself? Chime in!

MARISSA GRAFF - Resident Writing Coach

Marissa has been a freelance editor and reader for literary agent Sarah Davies at Greenhouse Literary Agency for over seven years. In conjunction with Angelella Editorial, she offers developmental editing, author coaching, and more. Marissa feels if she’s done her job well, a client should probably never need her help again because she’s given them a crash-course MFA via deep editorial support and/or coaching. Find out more about our RWC team here and connect with Marissa below.

The post Four Reasons Your Action-Based Scene is Failing (And How to Avoid It) appeared first on WRITERS HELPING WRITERS®.

So much about good storytelling mirrors the way a lawyer might lay out the case for their client.  Our job as writers is to select events and characters that reveal the protagonist we hope the reader will see. In effect, we are manipulating scenes so that they present our protagonist’s inner development at any given point in the plot.

Let’s take a look at five ways you can approach
your novel like a winning trial lawyer,
delivering your reader to the verdict you want.

1. Give Your Opening Argument

• Within the “ordinary world” section of your story, make the case that your protagonist is both in need of change and capable of change.
• Convince the reader to empathize with the character by showing the way they have deep, internal needs.
• Make the opening interesting enough that your reader sticks around so you can prove your case.
• Craft scenes that show the protagonist interacting with other characters and being presented with experiences that show what they lack.
• Let us see a moment that signals redemption or hope for your character so we understand what a satisfactory ending will entail.

2. Bring in Witnesses

• One of the primary ways we reveal who are protagonist is along any given point in the plot is by having them interact with other characters.
• In the first quarter, consider interactions that show your character resisting change or refusing to acknowledge some sort of wound/lie/baggage holding them back.
• As you approach the first-quarter mark, bring in “witnesses” who challenge your protagonist to start facing that wound.
• Take advantage of secondary characters for the remainder of your novel to show your character changing and growing.
• Use these characters to draw your protagonist back to their old habits so that we can see them choosing to grow instead.
• Craft interactions with characters in the end that let the reader easily see the way the character has changed.

3. Put Your Protagonist on “The Stand” to Testify in Their Own Defense

• Think about how you might plot scenes that reveal the root of your character’s wounds.
• Resist the urge to make your protagonist out to be a victim of circumstances or to show them exuding self-pity.
• One of the biggest errors we can make is using narration or character dialogue to let the character bemoan their situation.
• Let us observe in active scene how the existing relationships and past experiences of your character have created the flawed protagonist we meet.
• The more you silence your narrator/character and keep them from signaling self-pity, the more the reader deduces how the character must feel, which frees them up to experience genuine empathy.   

4. Let Your Protagonist Be Cross-Examined

• Consider crafting scenes that tempt your character back toward old habits. To slip up and reveal their flaws.
• It’s only in testing your protagonist by presenting them with opportunities they would have formerly been drawn to that you show your reader how they’re changing. How they aren’t who they were when we met them.
• As covered in my post on the zigzag character arc, don’t be afraid to let them make mistakes.

5. Prove the Protagonist’s Change Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

• So often, we arrive at our endings without sufficient evidence that our characters have changed.
• We’ve spent a lot of the story shielding them from obstacles.
• We allow other characters to protect them or we don’t directly hit important stakes that force the protagonist to take action.
• By the time they reach the story’s end, readers don’t have the proof they need to see the character’s agency and to make a confident judgement about their evolution. The proof is insufficient because the reader hasn’t been given evidence scene after scene that the character is, in fact, someone quite different than when they met them.
• As you evaluate your scenes, ensure that your character is being presented in each and every one of them with a choice to make.
• Think of making them choose, as often as possible, between two things they care about.
• The thing they pick should be painful to choose because the thing they give up must be nearly as valuable.
• If the choice the protagonist makes is easy or obvious—escape, fight, follow someone, hide, etc.—it’s a signal that the scene isn’t really presenting them with that hard choice they need.
• Notice how those choices don’t really cost the character anything. They’re expected.
• Let the reader see scenes with all the proof they need to reach the verdict that your character has truly changed as a result of their own actions.

How else might you approach writing your novel like a lawyer? Are there specific areas that you can foresee as spots where you might make a stronger case for your protagonist?
Chime in with your thoughts!

MARISSA GRAFF - Resident Writing Coach

Marissa has been a freelance editor and reader for literary agent Sarah Davies at Greenhouse Literary Agency for over seven years. In conjunction with Angelella Editorial, she offers developmental editing, author coaching, and more. Marissa feels if she’s done her job well, a client should probably never need her help again because she’s given them a crash-course MFA via deep editorial support and/or coaching. Find out more about our RWC team here and connect with Marissa below.

The post 5 Ways to Approach Your Novel Like a Trial Lawyer appeared first on WRITERS HELPING WRITERS®.

Ah, first pages. We angst over them. We change them incessantly. We hope they’ll nab readers and agents and editors. No pressure, right? While there are many big considerations for what your first page must do, today we’ll be covering five micro-edits you can apply that work like stealthy secret weapons. Those people you hope will fall in love with your first page won’t even know you’ve clenched them until it’s too late to close the book.

Make Your Protagonist Part of the Very First Line

Research shows that readers are looking for who represents them as soon as the very first line of our stories. The faster we signal who that character is, the more likely they are to bond with them and become invested in the story. Even if your story starts with setting, or a line of dialogue or action that belongs to a character who isn’t your protagonist, consider a way to bring them into that first line. Perhaps the action of the other character leads to an immediate reaction in your protagonist, or there’s a way to start the story one line earlier. Maybe the dialogue of the other character hits your protagonist’s ears a certain way. Attaching the reader to their story “guide” in that first line increases your chances for getting them to stick around for the rest of your book.

Give Your Characters Indirect Lines of Dialogue

The mind loves to wrestle with clues. To work on solving mysteries. One common mistake in writing our first pages is that as we get to know our characters and their dynamics, we play interactions out from start to finish in ways that reflect unfamiliarity. We include greetings. We have the characters use one another’s names. We utilize dialogue as a way to include exposition. All of these read in a somewhat contrived way because, in theory, your characters’ lives are in-progress when we meet them. They wouldn’t need to call each other by name, or exchange standard greetings, or pass along information that the other character probably already knows. Challenge yourself to bypass the stock interactions and sink into the world en medias res. What are your characters not saying that evokes our curiosity? What are they saying that makes us “read between the lines?” Are you utilizing movement and body language that hints that more is lurking beneath the surface? Clues that contrast the dialogue? For any given line of dialogue, is there an emotional “cloud” hanging over it that we can feel? Are the characters conveying a goal in their line, even if that goal is avoidance or resistance? Do we feel the push and pull of tension between what each character wants in the scene through what they say? Consider crafting each line of dialogue as a clue—a line that gives rise to a question as soon as read it.

Manipulate White Space

Sometimes, we’re so focused on what our writing is saying that we might overlook the way what we don’t say plays into the reading experience. We tend to forget that the physical words we put onto the page can impact our readers in powerful ways. Think about how you feel when you turn the page of a book and take in lots of writing. Blocky, long paragraphs and few paragraph breaks steal the “wind” out of your sail before you even start tackling the page. This type of writing slows our readers down and induces them to want to take a break. Or worse, to stop reading altogether. Conversely, think about the way a novel-in-verse reads, or poetry. We breeze through the pages, our eyes flying through the words thanks to all that white space. If getting readers to turn pages means they stay inside our stories, breaking up chunky blocks of text and maximizing white space encourages them to keep reading. Before they know it, they’ve several pages into our books and they’re invested.

The other benefit to manipulating white space is that new paragraphs shift a reader’s attention. It alerts them that something is changing, whether it be the character, the idea, or something else. Any time we want the reader to pay extra attention and to add emphasis, new paragraphs can be a powerful tool.

Avoid Complex Sentences

We can mistake good writing as beautiful, impressive writing. Long, lyrical lines that have our readers oohing and aahing. But writing that draws attention to itself is largely quite distracting. The reader’s focus shifts from the story to the words. It’s important that we remind ourselves that generally, readers don’t open a book for the writing. They come for the story. If the reader trips over the clever words we’ve chosen, or has to focus on a lengthy line, or digest a clever, complex metaphor, they may feel the need to go back and reread it to ensure comprehension. Or, they completely lose track of the story itself as they turn over the words. As writers, we want to avoid anything that stops readers and causes them to yank out of the reading experience. Direct, easy-to-read, smooth lines are our secret weapons in keeping the reader in our stories. The fewer multi-syllabic words, the fewer commas and clauses, the fewer fancy things to hold onto in any given line, the better. Remember, story over writing. And on a first page, this will be especially important so that the reader is onto all the pages ahead before they know it.

Manipulate Sentence Length to Evoke Mood

I often tell my clients that one of their primary jobs is to make the reader worry. Circling back to the points above, direct sentences not only ensure comprehension, they can be used to create emotions in your reader. Short, staccato sentences evoke the feeling of a pulse. Jolted, tense movement. Worry. While we wouldn’t want our entire first page to read this way, it’s important to apply this knowledge deliberately to the lines where we want the reader to worry. Where we want their pulses to race, and fear to grip them. If our first page is a sea of long, leisurely lines, tension falls and the reader gets the sense nothing is wrong. There’s nothing to fix and no story question nagging at them. Think about how you can deliberately play with mood by structuring each sentence.

What are some of your go-to micro-edits for first pages? Are you maximizing any of the ones we’ve covered already and seeing the impact? Open a favorite book and see if the author applied any of these micro-edits in ways you hadn’t even noticed at first glance. We’d love to hear your thoughts!

This post is packed with tips that will help strengthen your first page before our Phenomenal First Pages Contest on October 25.

MARISSA GRAFF - Resident Writing Coach

Marissa has been a freelance editor and reader for literary agent Sarah Davies at Greenhouse Literary Agency for over seven years. In conjunction with Angelella Editorial, she offers developmental editing, author coaching, and more. Marissa feels if she’s done her job well, a client should probably never need her help again because she’s given them a crash-course MFA via deep editorial support and/or coaching. Find out more about our RWC team here and connect with Marissa below.

The post Five Micro-Edits to Hook Readers On Your First Page appeared first on WRITERS HELPING WRITERS®.

We oftentimes hear the word flashback and we begin to think of all the don’ts associated with them. Don’t use them too early. Don’t let them go on too long. Don’t include too many. The list goes on and on. Flashbacks get a bad rap because they’re oftentimes misunderstood in terms of how to use them. If used intentionally and with deliberate purpose, flashbacks can reel your reader in, transforming their understanding of your character and transforming the way your character’s journey evolves. Let’s talk through four ways flashbacks can achieve these wonderful ends without drawing any sort of negative attention via all the don’ts we’ve come to know all too well.

1. Flashbacks can give rise to emotional attachment to facets of the character’s ordinary world.

If you’ve sent your character away from their normal world somewhat early in your story, flashbacks can work like a gauge for where your protagonist is emotionally inside their new world versus when they were in their ordinary world. When they arrive to a new setting, they will encounter new faces, places, objects, and other unfamiliar things. Consider how you can bridge elements about these new things to elements from the ordinary world to evoke a sense of longing. For example, if the character settles in for the night in a strange room, maybe there’s a mirror hanging in a spot similar to where their favorite picture of them and their best friend is back home. Recalling that picture can be a gateway into a small flashback that lets us glean that friendship, and how being away from it makes the protagonist feel. Think of this as a sliding scale. We might expect more of these types of flashbacks closer to when the protagonist enters the new world, signaling their reluctance to be comfortable in the new world. But as time goes on, the flashbacks signal old attachments are fewer and further between to suggest growth and a “letting go” of the ordinary world.

2. Flashbacks can give rise to an aha about something in the ordinary world.

Time and distance away from the ordinary world can afford your protagonist an aha as they look back. Piggybacking on the point above, you can use new faces, new places, new objects, and other unfamiliar things to show a shift in their perspective. Maybe a new character has the same hair color as your protagonist’s friend back in the ordinary world. Only this new character is always upbeat and encouraging and eager to help your protagonist, which gives rise to the realization that the friend back in the ordinary world actually isn’t the friend your protagonist once thought they were. Or maybe your character visits a wonderful place in the new world and realizes that in their ordinary world, they didn’t take risks or explore enough. The dichotomy of the old and the new can evoke a realization and mark inner growth for your character.

3. Flashbacks can be tools to gradually reveal a character’s hidden past if they’re not yet ready to face it.

In books where the protagonist has trauma buried in their past, it makes sense that we may choose to unroll that past as the front story increases their confidence and comfort to do so. In other words, flashbacks can be like you handing the reader (and the character) puzzle pieces of the protagonist’s past. Little by little, the reader gradually understands the traumatic event that created the character they meet on page one. And to honor the nature of trauma and the authenticity of a healing journey, we can deliberately select flashback snippets that build—almost like a plot all their own—to a full reveal. Some of the most masterful examples of this are HEART IN A BODY IN THE WORLD by Deb Caletti and WALK TWO MOONS by Sharon Creech.

Despite the way flashbacks can enrich our stories, yes, there are caveats to consider:

Flashbacks Should be Written Tightly

Because we effectively stop the front story for them, they risk pulling down tension and they cause the reader to start forgetting what was going on pre-flashback. As I often tell clients, get in and get out. Consider showing us only what we absolutely need to see and build the flashback around one snapshot of emotional punch and plot reveal. Flashbacks can be a small as one sentence. And while you might expect I’m going to say wait to show flashbacks, I’m going to say the opposite. Don’t wait to start sprinkling in those mini-flashbacks. The one-liners that pique curiosity and start giving shape to why you started your novel where you did. Those clues that keep your reader engaged as they piece together your character’s past and how your front story is going to address it.

Flashbacks Should be Logically-Timed

It helps to have a concrete thing the reader can point to that kicks off the timing of the flashback. For example, your character may walk down a gravel path as they approach the front door of their new foster family, and the sound evokes a memory of driving down a gravel road, singing alongside the father they lost. Connect the flashback so the narrator isn’t manipulating their timing strictly for tension’s sake, but rather doling them out in a way that feels intentional.

Carefully Plan Flashbacks

Any time we choose to unroll a character’s past through flashbacks, we must do so with solid reasoning that goes beyond setting up a twist for the sake of shock factor. As I mentioned above, books with trauma have grounds to utilize this technique because we can assume characters have been too traumatized to give their full backstory to us up front. But if you withhold past memories in an effort to keep the reader’s attention, chances are it will backfire.

Each Flashback Should Show Something New

If we have multiple flashbacks showing us how much your protagonist loved their pet lizard, the flashbacks flatten the plot arc. They’re interchangeable since they’re more or less the same. But if each flashback shows something more secretive, or something harder for the protagonist to face, or something higher in terms of what your character values, the sequence of flashbacks create an arc all their own.

Flashbacks Should Not be Your Only Connection to Your Character’s Past

We should still see hints of the flashback inside the front story itself. We may not know what caused the character’s wounds, but we see the scars. The past we don’t yet fully know should drive their behavior, their choices, their interactions, and their dialogue. As the writer, you know the backstory and so you can craft clue drops that let us puzzle our way along until we get the full story.

How else can flashbacks be used to enrich the reader’s experience? As a reader, how best do flashbacks resonate with you, and what flashback features turn you off? Chime in! Happy Writing!

MARISSA GRAFF - Resident Writing Coach

Marissa has been a freelance editor and reader for literary agent Sarah Davies at Greenhouse Literary Agency for over seven years. In conjunction with Angelella Editorial, she offers developmental editing, author coaching, and more. Marissa feels if she’s done her job well, a client should probably never need her help again because she’s given them a crash-course MFA via deep editorial support and/or coaching. Find out more about our RWC team here and connect with Marissa below.

The post 3 Tricks to Reel Your Reader in With Flashbacks appeared first on WRITERS HELPING WRITERS®.