Replenishing the well

Lately I've shortened the time I spend writing in the morning.

In part it's an effort to re-charge my energy after a busy month and give myself a rest. The chance to rest will, I hope, help replenish the well out of which all words come. 

Every so often I think the well, which feels close to empty now, needs time to refill itself.  

I don't remember the last time I took a break. All I know is that month after month words have flowed from my pen, and that I've held the pen waiting to see what emerged. 

I never know what word will appear until its shape forms on the page beneath my pen. It's part of the mystery of how writing works.

This process of stepping into the mystery day after day, and not knowing what I'll find, is part of what keeps drawing me back to the page. 

I try not to have any expectations (just hope that I'll be able to write something). 

It's like receiving a gift, the feel of the pen in my hand, the sensation of moving the pen across the page, the sound of the nib scraping the paper, the sign of words appearing, as if by magic, on the page. 

And maybe what draws me back, too, is the simple act of leaving words behind on a page like footprints in the sand.

Evidence to show that I existed, at least for a day.

Before the waves of time wash the words away. 

Shallow Water

The other day I finished a YA novel by one of my favorite authors and felt as if I’d scraped my knees on the bottom of the pool. Until I turned the last page, I hadn't realized–or maybe hadn't wanted to admit–that I’d been swimming in shallow water.

From the beginning, the story had all the requisite ingredients. Intriguing plot-line. Quirky characters. Lots of snappy dialogue. And it gave the pleasure of swimming until I reached the ending which lacked the kind of emotional impact that I always hope to find on the final page.

So now I’m wondering: did I miss something along the way? Or did the author simply create a shallow pool for his reader to swim in? Or was he unaware, like me, of the story’s lack of depth?

What made the water feel so shallow when, from the surface, everything looked fine? What was missing?

The depth of the story, or its lack of depth, was related, I think, to the way the author presented the main character’s dilemma and its significance to the reader. There were multiple problems–a parent’s abandonment of a family; a dislocation to a new home; the challenge of making new friends–and each problem served as an external obstacle for the main character to overcome, without any one problem becoming a priority.

But as the story moved forward through these various dilemmas, I kept wanting to know the main character’s internal struggle, the desire above all that the main character needed to satisfy, and either I overlooked it or the author didn't share it with the reader.

In her book, Pay Attention, for Goodness’ Sake, Sylvia Boorstein talks about unappeasable desire as the source of human suffering:

“Tanha, the word the Buddha used in the Second Noble Truth to define the cause of suffering, is usually translated as “craving.” I feel it in myself as unappeasable wanting–wanting so much to have something I don’t have, or wanting so much to have something I do have but I don’t want to go away–that my mind cannot rest.”

This is the perfect way to describe what our characters need for a story to gain depth: a craving for something or someone that can only be fulfilled through some significant act on the part of the character. Without this deep need, this unappeasable desire, driving the character’s actions, the story and the character will remain in shallow water.

In this case, the character may have had to start a new life. He may have had to make new friends. One of his parents may have left the family. But I kept wondering what was it, in the midst of such circumstances, that the character desperately wanted? What did the character need so badly that he couldn’t stop until he got it? What was this character’s unappeasable desire?

Sometimes, swimming in shallow water is what we need to do so we can fully understand the depth of the water in which our own characters are swimming.

For more information about creating emotional depth in your characters, visit:
http://blog.liviablackburne.com/2011/09/revision-adventures-building-strong.html
http://writerwords.blogspot.com/2006/01/emotional-depth.html
http://rose-green.blogspot.com/2008/10/creating-emotional-depth.html
http://www.etbscreenwriting.com/nine-character-types/introduction/
http://www.autocrit.com/websitepublisher/articles/10/1/Emotional-Depth-2-Bring-Your-Characters-To-Life/Page1.html
http://www.writersstore.com/the-emotional-and-psychological-world-of-you-and-your-characters
http://barbarahannay.com/emotion.asp

Submerging Your Reader

If you want your reader to stay submerged in your story, to keep going deeper and turning pages to find out what happens next, you need to give your reader something to care about, something that touches his or her emotions in a way that compels the reader to join you on your dive.

In the same way weights will keep a swimmer from resurfacing too soon, the emotional weight of your story is what will keep the reader submerged, intensifying her desire to go deeper, to follow the character’s own emotional journey into the unknown... only to emerge again on the surface (at the end of the story) whole and changed, a different person than before jumping in.

What is emotional weight?

Each story raises a reader’s expectations consciously or unconsciously (as we discussed in last week’s post), and those expectations are formed as a result of the questions that are provoked in a reader’s mind.

Each question contains a mystery, an answer that needs to be discovered, and a reader evaluates the significance of each question and answer based on its emotional relevance to the character’s well-being. The more danger the character is exposed to, the more risk, the greater the stakes... the greater the emotional weight.

How do you introduce emotional weight into your story?

Let’s take a look at the opening passage from Becoming Naomi Leon by Pam Munoz Ryan to begin our exploration:

I always thought the biggest problem in my life was my name, Naomi Soledad Leon Outlaw, but little did I know that it was the least of my troubles, or that someday I would live up to it.

It had been a double month of Sundays since Gram, Owen, and I were knitted together snug as a new mitten. I can point a stick, though, at the exact evening we started to unravel, at the precise moment when I felt like that dog in an old Saturday morning cartoon. The one where the mutt wears a big wooly sweater and a fox runs up and pulls a hanging-down piece of yarn. Then the fox races off with it, undoing the tidy stitches one by one. Pretty soon the poor dog is bare to its skin, shivering, and all that had kept it warm is nothing more than a bedraggled string.

To get a sense of the emotional weight of this passage, you need to begin recognizing the expectations that Ryan raises in her reader’s mind as a result of the questions that are directly or indirectly asked. So, first, make a list of the questions that come to mind after reading this passage.

Here are a few of the questions that I want answered–my expectations, in other words–as a result of the words that Ryan has placed on the page:

• What kind of problem will Naomi face?
• Will the problem involve doing something that will make her an outlaw?
• What caused her relationships with Gram and Owen to unravel?
• Will she suffer like the dog, have nothing left, nothing (and no one) to keep her warm?
  

Each of these questions raises certain expectations in the reader’s mind. Now look at each question closely–look at the questions that you’ve written down–and ask yourself which contains the most emotional weight.

The questions themselves, interestingly, reflect the underlying structure of this passage, and show clearly how Ryan builds up to the emotional intensity of the final sentence raising the question in the reader’s mind about Naomi’s survival. That, it seems to me, is the question with the most emotional weight, and it’s the reason why a reader keeps reading: to find out how Naomi will cope with the challenges facing her and whether or not she will survive.

Now take a look at this opening passage from The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier:

They murdered him.

As he turned to take the ball, a dam burst against the side of his head and a hand grenade shattered his stomach. Engulfed by nausea, he pitched toward the grass. His mouth encountered gravel, and he spat frantically, afraid that some of his teeth had been knocked out. Rising to his feet, he saw the field through drifting gauze but held on until everything settled into place, like a lens focusing, making the world sharp again, with edges.

What are the expectations that Cormier raises in your mind? What questions are you asking yourself after reading this passage?

Here are a few of mine:

• Why the violent images?
• Who is being murdered, attacked?
• Why does the narrator feel as if he’s at war?
• Who are his enemies?
• Why are they attacking him?
• Will he have the strength to survive another attack?

Each of these questions has an emotional weight to it, some more weight than another. But it’s the last, I think, that is what draws me deeper into the story and compels me to keep reading. I’m curious to know the answers to all of the questions, but especially to the last–will the narrator survive? Again, it’s a question of survival that, as in the Ryan passage, pulls me into the story, and creates an emotional bond between the character and the reader.

Now let’s look at the opening passage from Push by Sapphire:

I was left back when I was twelve because I had a baby for my fahver. That was in 1983. I was out of school for a year. This gonna be my second baby. My daughter got Down Sinder. She’s retarded. I had got left back in the second grade too, when I was seven, ‘cause I couldn’t read (and I still peed on myself). I should be in the eleventh grade, getting ready to go into the twelf’ grade so I can gone ‘n graduate. But I’m not. I’m in the ninfe grade.

What questions does the author raise in the reader’s mind? And what kind of emotional weight do the questions contain? Take a few moments to create a list of your expectations, and then try to determine which of those expectations has the greatest emotional weight... and why you feel that weight most strongly.

Last, here’s the opening passage from Brock Cole’s The Goats:

When he came back to the beach with wood for the fire Bryce grabbed him from behind. The firewood scattered, bouncing off his knees and shins.

“Okay, Bryce,” he said. “Cut it out.” He tried to sound unafraid, even a little bored.

Make a list of five questions that the passage raises in your mind. And then review each question in an attempt to ascertain its emotional weight. Can you feel the different emotional weight of each question? Can you feel which question is pulling you deeper into the story? Can you explain why it’s pulling you into the story? (And why the other questions don’t pull you in as deeply?)

Once you can identify the questions that an author raises in a story, you’ll be able to review your own story and identify the questions and expectations (as well as the emotional weight of each question) that you are raising in your reader’s mind.

These are the questions and expectations that will draw your readers deeper into your story.

Raising Expectations

Each time you put words down on paper, you're raising certain expectations in your reader, not only about what will happen next but why it will happen and how it will affect the characters involved and, ultimately, the reader.

These expectations may be raised on a conscious or subconscious level, so the reader may or may not be aware of what it is that he or she is expecting. But the expectations are there, embedded in the words on the page, and the trick is learning to see them--both as reader and as writer--so that you can understand the implications of what you write.

Think of the opening words of your story as an invitation to your reader to join you on a journey. When you receive an invitation, you evaluate it on a number of levels–the paper it’s printed on, the style and size of the typeface, the words themselves, and who is sending the invitation, among other things. If you receive an invitation written on the back of a brown paper bag, it tells you something. If it’s sent on expensive stock via FedEx, that tells you another, and you’ll expect something different if it’s printed in block letters in crayon or scribbled in pencil rather than set carefully in calligraphy. Each invitation will raise different expectations and different questions.

Let’s take a look at a few opening paragraphs–an author’s invitation, really, to readers–to see how the authors raise a reader’s expectations. How do these opening paragraphs invite you into the story? What expectations do they raise? (Hint: pay close attention to the questions that you find yourself asking as you read the paragraphs.)

The first paragraph is from Walter Dean Myers’ Somewhere in the Darkness:

Jimmy Little sat on the edge of the bed, eyes closed, listening to the rain that beat against the window. In the street below cars hissed by. From somewhere a radio blared. It had been on for most of the night. He leaned back his head and opened his eyes halfway. He looked into the mirror. The mahogany framing the oval glass was nearly the same color as his face. Jimmy smiled; he liked the way he looked in the morning.

So, are you drawn in? If yes, why? If not, why not? And how does Myers succeed (or fail) in raising your expectations?

Can you identify the questions that Meyers plants in your mind (even though there are no questions asked)?

Here are a few of the questions that I found myself asking after reading the paragraph:

• Who is Jimmy Little and how old is he?
• Where does he live?
• Why is a radio blaring most of the night?
• Why is he sitting on the edge of the bed?
• Why are his eyes closed?
  
• What is it about himself that he likes when he looks in the mirror?
• Are there days when he doesn’t like what he sees?
  

Next, let’s take a look at the opening passage from Norma Fox Mazer’s Silver:

Mom says I’m not to worry about money. “It’s my business, Sarabeth,” she tells me at least once a day. I don’t worry about money, but I admit I do think about it quite a bit.

Mom has a bunch of little envelopes that say things like RENT, FOOD, GAS, CAR REPAIRS, DENTIST that she keeps in a shoe box. Every day when she comes home from work, she takes the money she earned from cleaning houses and divides it up. She tries to put something in every envelope. If there’s any money left over, she puts it in the envelope that says WE NEED.

What are the questions in this passage that Mazer has invited you to think about?

Here are the questions that she’s raised in my mind:

• How does Sarabeth deal with her worries about money?
• What’s the relationship like between Sarabeth and her mom?
• How old is Sarabeth?
• Does she help earn money?
• How does Sarabeth feel about not having enough money?
• What will happen to make the need for money even more pressing?

Next, look at the opening passage from Alex Flinn’s Breathing Underwater:

I’ve never been in a courthouse before. But then, I’ve never been in such deep shit before, either. The metal detector screams when I walk through, and a security woman tries to check my pockets. I pull away.

How does Flinn invite you into the story? Again, what are the questions that you are asking yourself as you read this passage?

Here are the ones that come into my mind:

• What has the main character done?
• Why does the metal detector go off when the character goes through?
• Is the main character male or female?
• How old is the main character?
• Is he or she alone or with someone else?
• Why would he or she pull away when a security woman tries to check pockets?

From these examples, you can begin to see how the questions–and the expectation that each raises–are like seeds that the writer plants in the reader’s mind. If the seeds fail to grow, or if the questions are forgotten or never answered, then the reader will come to the end of the story (if, indeed, he or she is willing to keep reading) feeling unsatisfied.

So you need to be aware of the questions you’re raising, and the expectations that your reader wants answered. And you need to be sensitive to the emotional weight of each question. That is, the greater the emotional weight of the question, the greater the emotional expectation raised in your reader that the answer will play a significant role in the outcome of the story.

We’ll explore emotional weight in next week’s post. For now, just focus on identifying the questions an author raises in your mind as you begin a story. Study the opening passages in your favorite stories, write down some of the questions that the author raises, and let us know what you find when you get a chance.

For more information on setting up expectations, visit:
http://kriswrites.com/2008/11/20/reader-expectations-part-1/
http://jmc-bookrelated.livejournal.com/295383.html
http://www.lizfielding.com/aboutwriting.html#thefirstpage
http://www.learnnc.org/lp/editions/few/683
http://www.ehow.com/how_4550132_use-dramatic-irony-fiction.html
http://blog.liviablackburne.com/2010/06/do-flashbacks-change-reader.html
http://www.lemodesittjr.com/2010/03/05/reader-expectations/
http://academic.brooklyn.cuny.edu/english/melani/novel_19c/dickens/opening.html

Expectations

Whenever I open a book lately, I find myself thinking about my expectations as a reader.

We all have expectations of what we want to happen in a story.... or what we think should happen... don’t we?

Who among us are mystery addicts wanting nothing more than a good mystery?

And who relishes the fast-paced plot of an action or adventure story?

Or the sparks of a romance?

Or, or, or...

See what I mean? Each of us comes to a book with some sort of expectations, and we expect the author to fulfill those expectations or else we consider the book a disappointment.

And, conversely, each book is written with the author’s awareness (on some level) of her reader’s (and her own) expectations for the story.

Viewed this way, writing is a delicate dance between author and reader, each feeling his or her way past the other’s expectations.

I began mulling over the notion of expectations recently after finishing a collection of stories written by a close friend.

Each story was filled with descriptions so keenly observed that the words themselves seemed to contain the essence of the objects described as the writer hiked along various mountain and wooded trails, sharing his discoveries of the natural world.

What I found compelling about each story was how the author succeeded in holding my attention without relying much on conventional plot-lines.

Plots were present, but they were barely shadows, not much more than the bare bones of beginnings, middles, and endings, narrow trails that sometimes were lost to view and then would reappear a few steps (or pages) further on.

Rather, what wove a spell was the power of the writer’s language, the stunning beauty of the descriptions, and the unexpected insights and personal revelations (about the author and his relationship to nature) that shined through on page after page.

By some standards--the expectations of the what-happens-next, plot-driven school of writing–his stories lacked the necessary ingredients to hold a reader’s interest.

Yet by other standards–the expectations of the nature-writing-school of exposition–his “stories” or essays were stunning, a virtuoso performance by a master craftsman in the tradition of Thoreau, Emerson, Muir, Carson, and Abbey.

Long ago my friend, who has spent years writing and has published widely, reconciled himself to his fate as a writer who might never achieve the popularity that comes with fulfilling the expectations of mass fiction readers.

Nevertheless, he persists in writing against the grain, delighting in the “quiet” stories that bring him joy, even if such stories tend to get overlooked by readers (and publishers) seeking more of a “bang” than a “ripple.”

His poetic prose, nearly plotless, manages to satisfy his own expectations–and the expectations of his small circle of devoted readers. And with these expectations as markings to guide him on the trail, he continues to produce his own brand of stories, taking great pleasure in the act–and art–of writing.

Knowing what he loves to write about ... and how he wants to write about it... has helped my friend better understand what he expects of himself and his audience.

And I'm grateful to him, not only for sharing his newest collection but for unknowingly reminding me that writing is a dance between expectations and fulfillment--the writer's and the reader's.

For more on writing and expectations, visit:

http://books.google.com/books?id=oxbysZhdBa0C&pg=PA26&lpg=PA26&dq=fulfilling+expectations+with+writing&source=bl&ots=CLPye1L8Pi&sig=_nbIUZAVnxxVLyG0c6VYuI86QVM&hl=en&ei=fVqMSfPxC4-EtgeOtpWKCw&sa=X&oi=book_result&resnum=2&ct=result#PPA26,M1

http://books.google.com/books?id=TjmXrA7P-PAC&pg=RA1-PA137&lpg=RA1-PA137&dq=fulfilling+expectations+with+writing&source=web&ots=JQRBng5AMF&sig=-IbTxk7qm5cj-XcvdC_1BYoYC2c&hl=en&ei=fVqMSfPxC4-EtgeOtpWKCw&sa=X&oi=book_result&resnum=5&ct=result

http://www.bestyears.com/expectations.html

http://www.writerswrite.com/wblog.php?wblog=203071

http://trc.ucdavis.edu/bajaffee/nem150/course%20content/gopen.htm

http://noggs.typepad.com/the_reading_experience/2007/10/in-his-review-o.html

http://hehammond.com/REVknownnew.php