Layers

Attention novice writers! Stop comparing your first draft to published stories and books. It’s just silly.

Today I turned in the final proofreading on my next novel, They Promised Me The Gun Wasn’t Loaded. This was my very last chance to change the book in any way…and while it’s highly frowned upon to make significant alterations at this stage, I still made a number of tiny tweaks that were artistic improvements rather than just correcting typos.

This was the end of a lengthy process of writing and rewriting—mostly rewriting. The very first time I write a passage, I typically go back the next day and read it over to improve the flow of the text. Also during the first draft stage, I decide I have to make large-scale changes, e.g. throwing out one or more scenes and putting in something different. By the time I’m finished the “first” draft, I’ve probably combed through every word at least three times, and a number of sections are completely different from the way they first emerged from my head.

Then I do the same thing again. I go into the “second” draft knowing much more about the story I want to tell—the conscious

and unconscious elements which were brought to light by writing the first draft. The second time through, I can shape the narrative and the details more strategically. I can layer in more richness and more set-up for things that matter. I can also deal with problems I decided not to fix while I was writing the first draft…because during a draft, I repeatedly face the question, “Do I go back and deal with that problem right away, or do I leave it till later?” Sometimes I decide, “Fix it now,” and sometimes I decide, “Leave it till later.” The second draft is “later”; it’s when I tie off loose ends and patch up holes that I didn’t do the first time around.

(For those who care, I make notes in Evernote whenever I realize there’s something I need to fix. I also use Evernote to record details I need to remember: character descriptions, timelines, and so on.)

After the second draft, I share the book with first readers. That leads to another draft, which may or may not mean a ton of rewriting. The result goes to my agent, Lucienne Diver, who also gives feedback and advice on changes. After I’ve dealt with that, the result goes to an editor…which leads to more changes. Then copy-editing. More changes. And finally, proofreading the typeset version of the book for one last kick at the can.

Because of the repeated nature of the process, and the constant reworking of the text as I go along, it’s difficult to say how many drafts a book actually goes through. It’s like an oil painting: all such paintings are made by adding layers of paint on top of layers, with later layers adding detail, color and texture to earlier ones. Paintings start with broad strokes; subtleties are added last. The same is true of writing. We constantly remove weaknesses and layer in higher quality material. Stories and novels aren’t born perfect, they’re built a layer at a time.

And yes, once in a long while, an almost-perfect story just blurts out from your subconscious without needing much additional improvement. Writers should be grateful if such a miracle happens, but depending on miracles is not a reliable career path.

Develop a process. Learn to layer. And don’t judge yourself when the first words you put on paper aren’t as great as someone else’s umpteenth draft.

(Paint layer image: Hariadhi [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)%5D, from Wikimedia Commons)

Fiction is Fictitious

Permit me to rant: fiction consists of lies that a writer makes up.

The characters don’t really exist. The things they do aren’t real. To quote the usual boilerplate, “All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.”

Of course, real people and events are occasionally depicted in fiction, especially historical fiction…but even then, it’s a trick.

It’s like when a stage magician lets a random member of the audience examine a deck of cards to make sure the cards are ordinary. It helps make the act more convincing. When a piece of fiction includes people who actually existed and events that really truly happened, it’s a psychological ploy to make readers more likely to swallow the stuff that’s complete make-believe.

It’s a good trick that writers use all the time. In my most recent books, I use actual everyday things like Wikipedia and mobile phones to create a setting that seems real and convincing…so that when I introduce vampires and superheroes, the world still retains a modicum of believability.

But it’s all made up.

I’m writing this rant because I read an essay on The Turn of the Screw by Henry James. The Turn of the Screw may or may not be a ghost story. Perhaps the ghosts are real; perhaps they’re just delusions in the mind of an unreliable narrator. The essay I was reading spent a great deal of time on this question, even though there’s a blatantly obvious answer.

Spoiler alert: the ghosts weren’t real. Neither was the unreliable narrator. Neither was anyone else in the story. It’s fiction. It’s all made up.

Henry James clearly wanted to create ambiguity. He positioned the story right on the boundary line between yes and no. He did a good job of splitting the difference, and we can admire the skill that he shows.

But to me, asking if the ghosts are real is like asking if Penn and Teller can really catch bullets in their teeth.

They can’t. It’s a trick. It can be an engaging trick, skillfully done and winningly performed. While it’s happening, you can let yourself believe it’s real…the same way you can let yourself believe a good story is real while you’re reading it. You can even let yourself get carried away by a story, getting caught up with the characters and coming away with deep emotions or even lessons from the tale.

But it’s still a trick. If a writer is good, it’s a meaningful and affecting trick. But fiction is still fictitious. Let’s not lose sight of that.

[Rabbit picture from “Easter Bunny Rabbit The Magic Hats Clip art – Hat Bunny @kisspng”]

Villains (Part 5)

So after a series of posts about villains, we come to the question of how to make a good villain. As always with writing, the answer is, “It depends what serves the story best.” But since that’s too vague to be much help for beginning writers, let’s try to get some more specific suggestions. (Suggestions! Not rules, suggestions.)

Villains only exist because they make the heroes’ stories better. If a villain is a great entertaining character, but doesn’t fit with the hero’s story, the villain has to go. (Save such villains for later; maybe give them stories of their own.)

So what does it mean for a villain to “fit” with a hero’s story? At the very least, the villain must provide enough opposition that readers think the hero might fail. If a villain is a pushover, there’s no dramatic tension.

But that’s the easy part. There are plenty of straightforward ways to make someone imposing: make them stronger, smarter, better equipped, better prepared, more connected, less inhibited…the list goes on. But which qualities from this list are best suited for opposing a particular hero?

That depends on the hero’s personality and character arc. How is the hero going to change in this story? What are the temptations that might lead the hero astray? What kind of villain might threaten to induce such changes? What kind of villain reflects the hero’s personal demons? What kind of villain may have strengths that the hero lacks?

As a case study, let’s take Batman. He’s famous for having some of the best villains in comics. Some are just physically imposing (e.g. Killer Croc or Solomon Grundy). But many are more distinctive and tailored to Batman himself.

The Penguin is a rich kid gone wrong…as opposed to Bruce Wayne, the rich kid with moral fiber. Poison Ivy crusades for a noble cause (just like Batman), but she takes it too far and doesn’t care who gets hurt. Two-Face went through a traumatic experience (much like Bruce Wayne losing his parents), but instead of gaining a purpose in life, he gave up and decided that everything is completely random.

All these villains (and more) are twisted reflections of Batman, suggesting ways he might have gone—ways that he still might go if he loses his resolve. But of course, Batman’s foremost enemy is the Joker, because of Joker’s threat of corrupting what Batman is.

The Joker kills for fun. Batman never kills at all. The Joker is guaranteed to keep on killing—he’ll never stay locked up long before he escapes and starts killing again. Everything about the Joker is aimed at tempting Batman to kill him, thereby saving numerous future victims. That’s the challenge that the Joker presents: not whatever scheme the Joker is up to, but whether Batman is going to resist resorting to murder. And the Joker knows exactly how to push Batman’s buttons to bring him to the edge of finishing the Joker once and for all.

Of course, the Joker is also colorful, unpredictable, and sometimes even funny. But that’s not why he works so well in Batman’s stories. The Joker is the guy who does something awful, then laughs in Batman’s face and says, “What are you going to do about it?”

The Joker is perfect for making Batman prove himself. And that’s the sort of villain that’s worth aiming for in any story you write.

Villains (Part 4)

In three previous posts, I talked about villains in fiction and the nature of their motivations. Today, I want to look at actually developing villains for use in a story.

Stories grow from many kinds of seeds: little bits about characters, or a setting, or plot elements, or images, or twists, or conceptual frameworks, or memories, or…

But as soon as you have a seed that grabs you, then you have to start gathering and/or inventing all the other elements that the story needs. You need characters, a setting, at least the start of a plot, and much else. If you’re the type of writer who plans a lot in advance, you’ll need a firm grasp of all these components before you get started. Even if you’re the type of writer who mostly improvises, you still need a sense of what kind of story you’ll be writing and why it’s worth your time. (I’m prepared to believe that a few good stories have resulted from writers sitting down to write with absolutely no ideas of what might come out, but this strikes me as an unreliable way to build a career.)

One of the elements you need in order to build a story is an answer to, “Who is this story about?” Who will readers be following? And why will they want to keep following that character’s experiences? Even in a story like Ray Bradbury’s There Will Come Soft Rains, there may not be any humans, but there are “characters” with whom the reader connects: the dog, and of course, the house itself.

Such central characters may be called “heroes”, “protagonists”, “viewpoint characters” or several other names, depending on how technical you want to get and how useful you may find it to make subtle literary distinctions. One way or another, however, they’re who the reader makes a connection with. Readers soon know whose story they’re following…and if the story is any good (or at least halfway conventional), they’ll realize when the story has come to an end, because they’ll recognize when something significant has changed in the central characters’ lives.

Villains are the agents of change. They may force the heroes out of a rut, or they may push back when the heroes try to change on their own. Classically, villains constitute the foremost obstacles to the heroes being able to change in positive ways. Remove the villains, and the heroes just romp across the finish line without resistance.

So when you’re developing a story, devising a suitable villain can be crucial. The villain must suit the tone of the story—comedies need comic villains, thrillers need thrilling ones, etc. And this is where the villain’s motivation comes in: what villains want and why they want it has a huge effect on the feel of a story. Grim motives create grimness. Sincere sympathetic motives create a sincere sympathetic ambiance. And so on.

As a simple example, consider a story about a music competition. The hero and the villain both want to win the prize. If the villain is an arrogant scumbag who wants the prize for the sake of ego, that gives you one type of story. If the “villain” comes from a poor family and really needs the prize money in order to go to music college, that’s completely different…and your hero damned well needs to have an even better reason to win the prize, or else the hero is at risk of switching into the villain.

The big question is what kind of story you want to write. The nature of the conflict between the hero and the villain determines what the reader feels as the story unfolds.

Next time, I’ll talk more about the hero-villain dynamic, and how  you can use it to convey emotions.

Villains (Part 3)

In previous posts, I talked about villains being useful in stories and about their need to have a reason for their villainy. It’s a cliché to say that villains consider themselves the heroes of their own stories, but it’s pretty much true—even villains who know they’re terrible people still tell themselves they’re justified in what they do. Their excuses are the same ones we all use: “I didn’t have a choice” or “Everyone else does it too.”

Essentially, villains try to fulfill their desires and allay their fears, just like we all do. This brings us to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, as shown in the picture above. It’s a useful model for thinking about human drives.

At the bottom of the hierarchy are basic physiological needs: food, water, air, etc. Villains driven by such needs are just trying to survive. In science fiction and fantasy, we mostly see such villains in very desperate situations, e.g. post-apocalyptic wastelands where people have to fight over everything. In such contexts, villains are easy to understand; perhaps too easy. Who can blame them for wanting to live? And if everyone is fighting for scraps of food, distinguishing heroes from villains is a characterization challenge. The usual writing technique is to show that there’s enough for all if everyone works together. Heroes are the people who play nice; villains are the ones who try to take it all.

The next level of the hierarchy is safety. Perhaps you’ve eaten enough today, but what about tomorrow? And what if there are active threats to your life? A classic example of villains in need of safety are people who want to kill anyone they perceive as a danger. “You know too much, so I can’t let you live.” “I’ll never be safe as long as there’s still a legitimate heir to the throne.” The wonderful thing about such villains (at least from a writer’s standpoint) is that their fears never end. There’s always one more person they have to kill before they feel safe. The villains can keep on driving the plot until the heroes stop them.

Next up is love and belonging. Doing bad things to win someone’s love is a time-honored tradition in stories. The villain is in love (or lust) with someone, and kills all potential rivals, or carries out some scheme to force the beloved to give in. Once upon a time, this may have even had overtones of romance. These days, however, readers are much more sensitive about anything that smells of sexual coercion. Today, a villain who kills for food may still be sympathetic, but a villain who kills for “love” almost certainly won’t be.

Then we come to esteem. Ego. Prestige. Status. These are standard motivations for villains in positions of privilege. Rich people never have to worry about starving, but they may have a desperate need to outdo their neighbors. I have a feeling that more villains fall into this category than any of the others—in a story context, such people have the power and resources to be dangerous to almost any type of hero. Often, they’re also “villains you love to hate”: people who have almost everything, but do despicable things to get even more. It’s satisfying when such villains get stomped…which is why writers use them so often.

At the top of the hierarchy is self-actualization: becoming the most you can be. Occasionally, you see villains with this motivation, but it’s rare. Self-actualization is a little too spiritual and abstract to produce much villainy. A few characters in fiction do bad things for purely aesthetic reasons—Thanos comes to mind—but it takes a lot of work for a writer to pull this off. More commonly, a villain may claim to be acting from such motives but is actually driven by something lower down the pyramid.

So those are some useful possibilities for why villains do what they do. Next time, I’ll write about how this all shakes down in writing an actual story.

Villains (Part 2)

In Villains (Part 1), I talked about how useful villains can be.

  • In terms of plot, they get in the way of what the protagonists want to do, thereby creating action.
  • In terms of character, they often demonstrate qualities that the protagonists lack, thereby indicating ways in which the protagonists must grow in order to become better rounded people.
  • At the same time, villains can also demonstrate unwholesome aspects of those qualities. The reader then wants to keep reading in order to see whether the protagonists can develop the qualities in a healthy way, without becoming as bad as the villains.

Villains generally need a good reason for what they do. Admittedly, horror stories occasionally get away with villains being incomprehensible. The first example that comes to mind is Hill House, the villain in The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson. Hill House is a haunted house that drives people mad. There’s no clear reason why it’s haunted, or why it does what it does—we get hints about its unsavory past, but Jackson never tries to spell out explicit causes. It’s simply a bad place, and it has bad effects on people who go there.

But apart from such rare exceptions, villains need a reason for their actions. Readers want to understand motivations. In fact, the lack of motivation is one reason why Hill House and other motiveless villains are so disconcerting: they’re evil just because. You’re never going to make sense of it.

But a villain’s motivations shouldn’t be trivial or simplistic. The great screenwriter, Paddy Chayefsky, mocked “The Rubber-Ducky School of Drama” which invented lame excuses for why villains did terrible things: “Someone once took his rubber-ducky away from him, and that’s why he’s a deranged killer.”

Villains need better reasons for being villainous. And in the next installment of this series, I’ll talk about some possibilities.

Villains (Part 1)

I’ve been thinking about villains and what writers say about them.

Some writers say they never use villains. Often, this just means they avoid writing about people who are “only” evil. They do write about characters who actively impede the protagonist(s). However, those characters aren’t purely wicked; they just have goals that can’t co-exist with what the heroes want. Thus, the “non-heroes” try to stop the heroes from achieving their ends.

Some stories have characters who get in the hero’s way, but not out of any ill will. One example would be opponents competing for the same prize, such as people running a race. A villainous villain might cheat, or at least try to exploit an unfair advantage; a less villainous antagonist would play fair, but still try to beat the hero to the finish line.

And of course, the problems in some stories don’t come from characters at all. Sometimes the “villain” is a force of nature (like surviving a storm or the hardships of Mars). Sometimes the problems come from the protagonists themselves. People can be their own worst enemy, in which case the story arises when they try to overcome some inner weakness.

But one way or another, most stories need something that prevents a character from immediately getting what he/she/they want. If a character doesn’t want anything, the story has nowhere to go. And if nothing gets in the character’s way, the story ends quickly, without tension.

So villains are hellishly useful in stories. They make protagonists sweat. They make protagonists get up off their butts and take action. Often, a villain will embody what a protagonist lacks—villains are confident when heroes are conflicted, or passionate when heroes are just shuffling through life. Villains are often a wake-up call and they shake heroes out of a rut.

Which is why I love villains. They’re like weights that the hero has to lift in order to get stronger. And the ways in which they’re villainous can add immeasurably to a story.

But this post has gone long enough. I’ll write more about this tomorrow.