EVERY DETAIL MATTERS: Alchemy and Meggy Swann (Post #4 of 6)

Dear Meg and Allyson,

How many times have you heard an editor or writing teacher say that every detail in a novel counts? That every scene, action, description, sentence, word must contribute in some way, whether advancing the plot, deepening character, or establishing setting?

I’ve attended enough SCBWI meetings and writing conferences to have absorbed this writing edict, and yet sometimes, when I hear it proclaimed, I think, “Really? Every word? Every description? What if something extraneous slips through?”

Well, I had the opportunity this last month to compare a book where every detail matters to a book where some scenes seem, well, unnecessary.

Let’s start with the latter. I won’t name names. Suffice it to say that I picked up the latest mystery novel of a well-known author who has made a career writing fiction and non-fiction all set in a particular place, which I was planning to visit on vacation.

Now, part of the pleasure of this author’s books is the vicarious thrill of reading about beautiful settings, fabulous meals, and witty conversations, but I found myself wondering the purpose some of these scenes served. Why was the author spending so much time describing the gourmet five-course meal the protagonist ate alone during a layover? Would some detail show up later in the book? Would the character return to the restaurant later? Would he discover a clue there to help solve the crime? Alas, the answer was no. The restaurant scene had no function other than showing the character indulging in a good meal. The story would have functioned just as well without it.

I compare this to our July book, Karen Cushman’s Alchemy and Meggy Swann, where every detail seems to matter. Take, for example, the ballad sellers that appear on the streets of Elizabethan London. The first one appears on page 27:

“Come and buy,” a ballad seller called, “a new ballad of Robin Hood.”

This line is embedded within a long series of paragraphs describing Meggy’s first walk in London.

A ballad seller appears again on page 44.

“Come and buy a ballad newly made,” a passing balled seller called. “Mayhap ‘The Ballad of Good Wives’ or ‘The Lover and the Bird.’”

This time, the ballad seller is more than just one of many people on the busy street. The way he carries his papers in a backpack gives Meggy an idea about how to carry her goose, Louise, while also grasping her walking sticks.

Another ballad seller appears on page 74, and at this point, I’m beginning to think, “There were a lot of ballad sellers in London!” Soon, Meggy meets a ballad printer while on an errand for her father. And then Meggy runs into yet another ballad seller while standing outside the baron’s gate on page 130.

What a pleasant surprise (and yet not wholly unexpected) to learn, then, that the solution to Meggy’s problem relates to selling ballads! The way Cushman integrates details about ballad selling and printing, as well as Meggy’s skills with singing and language, make the climax of this story satisfying. The novel feels unified, a tightly woven tapestry where every strand counts.

Let me just conclude by saying that the ballad seller is not the only seemingly small detail that grows in importance in Alchemy and Meggy Swann. Look back at the book to references to the heads on the Tower Bridge and the issue about players needing noble patronage.

StorySleuths Tip #88: Make sure every detail matters. Look for ways to introduce important details early in the story and then re-introduce them throughout the book to create a unified effect.

INTERVIEW WITH GRACE LIN: Where the Mountain Meets the Moon Post #7

After reading and examining Where the Mountain Meets the Moon last month, we StorySleuths had some questions about writing process and writing techniques that we couldn’t answer from the text itself. So we asked author Grace Lin if she would answer our questions for us, and she graciously agreed. We’re grateful for her responses, which we are posting below, as they gave us insight into the special considerations and challenges she faced in writing Where the Mountain Meets the Moon.

1. Were all of the stories based on traditional folktales or did you write some from scratch?

The stories were a hybrid. A lot of them were based on traditional tales that I tweaked here and there, embellishing myths that were little more than a line. For example, at Chinese New Year, it is common to find pictures of two plump children dressed in red decorating doorways. These children are called Da-A-Fu. Why? I researched and only found a very short summary of them: they were two spirits transformed as children sent to destroy a green monster that was terrorizing a village. There were no details of how or why or what village, but it was enough to spark my imagination. So with that, I created the twin characters of A-Fu and Da-Fu in Where the Mountain Meets the Moon who destroy the Green Tiger.

2. At first it seems like the stories are independent stand-alones but clearly they are tightly interwoven--seemingly unimportant details become significant, minor characters reappear in larger roles--what process did you use to weave it all together?

Not a very organized one! Every time I wrote a story I would think, does this have a purpose with the rest of the plot? If there were at least 2 threads that could tie it to the larger story then I kept it. If there weren’t, I cut it. It was really just a lot of obsessive thinking.

3. We were so taken by the ending. We always hear that refrain that the ending should be a surprise, and yet inevitable. When Minli got to the old man and he would only answer one question -- wow! Of course! It was just perfect. We wonder at what point you knew what the ending would be.

I knew the ending about the questions before I wrote the book. Where the Mountain Meets the Moon is very loosely based on a folktale called "Olive Lake," though I changed it quite a bit. In the folktale, the main character is only allowed to ask the God of the West a limited amount of questions, so the structure was already there! All the additional ending elements--Fruitless Mountain turning fruitful, etc, I had planned before I started writing as well--I like to have kind of an end goal so I know where I am going when I write.

However, one also has to be flexible as they write too! For me, all the storylines with the Book of Fortune and the Secret of Happiness came pretty late and those, I think, are the real heart of the ending.

4. What was your revision process like?

I actually enjoy revision. It's writing the first draft, that initial output, that kills me! And my editor, Alvina Ling, is not only my editor but a great friend so I really trust her opinions on my writing...and she understands when my writing is quite rough.

But I don't really have a clear organized process. I write the first draft the best I can, send it to Alvina and wait for her response. Usually she has a really good idea of what to do with it and then I get to work. I like the retooling of the story; I feel like revision is when the story really starts to sing. After my first draft of Where the Mountain Meets the Moon she told me I needed at least 10 more chapters and I should show the parents' side of the story. I cringed at the 10 more chapters but showing the parents' side was an idea of genius!

5. What was the most challenging aspect of writing this book?

This was a very emotionally challenging book for me. I think the best way to explain why would be just to direct you to the speech I read at the Josette Frank Award.

6. Could you share one writing tip that you learned in the process of writing Where the Mountain Meets the Moon?

With Where the Mountain Meets the Moon there were so many story lines that I was afraid that things might get lost on the reader. So after each major change my editor had other people in house read it and I had other friends read it to make sure things were clear. I really learned the value of a fresh reader! Sometimes it's important to have someone who knows nothing about the story, someone who is not even a writer, read the story, just to make sure it hangs together--though I would suggest using them only towards the end—when you are fine-tuning, not at early draft stage!

Many thanks, Grace, for your writing and for your articulate explanations of how you researched, structured and created Where the Mountain Meets the Moon. We are looking forward to reading your books that are currently in the works—especially the two companion books to Where the Mountain Meets the Moon—Return to Sky and Needle at Sea Bottom!

StorySleuths’ Tip # 75: With thanks to Grace Lin: “Sometimes it's important to have someone who knows nothing about the story, someone who is not even a writer, read the story, just to make sure it hangs together--though I would suggest using them only towards the end—when you are fine-tuning, not at early draft stage!”

STORIES AS SCAFFOLDING: Where the Mountain Meets the Moon Post #4

Dear Allyson and Heather,

Every once in a while an author scaffolds a narrative on a structural element that perfectly complements the content. Think Holes, scaffolded by Louis Sachar on the curse put on Stanley’s great-great-grandfather. Think When You Reach Me, scaffolded by Rebecca Stead on the mysterious notes left for Miranda. Think Secret Water, scaffolded by Arthur Ransome on the sketchy outline map given by their father to John, Susan, Titty, Roger and Bridget. Think Love, Ruby Lavender, scaffolded by Deborah Wiles on letters sent between Ruby and her grandmother. And now, think Where the Mountain Meets the Moon, scaffolded by Grace Lin on stories inspired by Chinese folk tales told primarily to Minli, but also, tellingly, to other characters as well. It’s these stories that I’ll focus on in this post, stories that enrich, enliven, deepen, and illuminate the narrative of Minli’s quest.

Each of the 16 stories is set off from the main narrative by a title, in color, bracketed by two colored medallions with mini-images from that story, introduced by a drop cap in color, and typeset in a typeface different from the typeface of the main narrative (I’m not savvy enough to know which typesets they are, and I couldn’t find the different typefaces identified in the book). Each story ends with a centered medallion, similar to those in the border of the full page illustration on page 186. These visual elements serve to separate the stories from the narrative and from one another, as well as to link them together with one another.

As the stories complement the text, together they serve to drop clues for Minli, for her parents, for other characters, and of course for us readers as well. As an indication of how important the stories are, they all have titles, whereas the chapters themselves are simply numbered and do not have titles.

I’ll focus on 3 of the stories-- the first (The Story of Fruitless Mountain), the third (The Story of the Dragon), and the last (The Story that Ma Told)--and on how Lin uses them to drive the plot, develop important symbols, and clarify character change.

Stories drive the plot

The first story, “The Story of Fruitless Mountain,” appears in Chapter 1. It kicks off the story action and provides the motivation for Minli’s quest.

Even before the first story appears in the text Lin prepares a story space for it. Lin preps readers for something special and important--something not only with the power to transform Minli’s life, but with the power to reenergize her father and even to make her impatient mother smile.

What kept Minli from becoming dull and brown like the rest of the village were the stories her father told her every night at dinner. She glowed with such wonder and excitement that even Ma would smile, though she would shake her head at the same time. Ba seemed to drop his gray and work weariness--his black eyes sparkled like raindrops in the sun when he began a story. (p. 3)

In addition, it’s clear that Minli has heard not only this story, but many stories, before:

"Ba, tell me the story about Fruitless Mountain again,” Minli would say as her mother spooned their plain rice into bowls. “Tell me again why nothing grows on it.” (p. 3)

“The Story of Fruitless Mountain” describes how Fruitless Mountain can become fruitful again--when “Jade Dragon is no longer lonely and is reunited with at least one of her children” (p. 8). Following the story, Minli asks, “Why doesn’t someone bring the water of the four great rivers to the mountain?” If it were that simple, there wouldn’t be much of a quest! Minli’s subsequent question, “How will Fruitless Mountain ever grow green again?” can only be answered, her father said, by the Old Man of the Moon.

“Someday, I will ask him,” Minli declared. (p. 9)

By the end of Chapter 1, Minli has set her course--based on information presented in the story.

Stories develop symbols

Chapters 4 through 10 are devoid of stories, focusing instead on Minli’s unannounced departure on her quest to find the Old Man of the Moon and on her parents’ desperate search for her. When, in Chapter 11, Minli frees a dragon who cannot fly and asks him his name, he responds with the third story, “The Story of the Dragon.” This story includes an important reference to a small prop--an inking stone--that has major significance to Minli as she searches for the way that Fruitless Mountain will grow green again. In The Passionate, Accurate Story: Making Your Heart's Truth into Literature, Carol Bly suggests using a small prop three times--once to introduce it to the reader, a second time so the reader remembers it, and the third time so it becomes a symbol for something important in the story. (p. 159).

Ma first mentions the inking stone in Chapter 1. When Minli’s father says that a man tired to reunite Jade Dragon with her children by taking stones from the mountain to the rivers, Minli’s mother cut in:

“My grandmother told me he was an artist. He took the mountain rock to carve into inking stones” (p. 9).

The inkstone is mentioned for the second time in the dragon’s story:

When I was born, I remember two voices speaking.

“Master,” one voice said. “This is magnificent--the dragon is almost alive!”

“Add more water to the inkstone,” another voice said. (p. 51)

Later in the dragon’s story, the inkstone is described in more detail:

“Clean the brushes and take great care with my special inkstone. It is one of a kind, the only inkstone that was able to be made from a rock my master cut from a mountain far from here. He never told anyone which mountain, so we can never make another.” (p. 53)

In addition, the illustration on page 50 above the Chapter 11 heading is of an inkstone, emphasizing its importance.

The inkstone is mentioned a third time when, at the end of her quest, Minli is the one who puts the puzzle pieces together, realizing that the inking stone is the connection between the Jade Dragon and her dragon child, who has returned to her.

Perhaps Dragon was born from an inkstone made of Fruitless Mountain, the heart of Jade Dragon. Then perhaps he was one of Jade Dragon’s children. And by bringing him to Fruitless Mountain, Minli had discovered how to make Fruitless Mountain grow green again. (pp. 269-270)

Stories clarify character change

The last story, “The Story that Ma Told,” illustrates the transformation in Ma, from her skepticism and rejection of Ba’s stories, to finally telling him one of her own. Ma described a woman whose daughter had left home to find fortune for her family:

For without her daughter, the house became too large and empty, and she was not hungry for the extra rice. As the days passed in loneliness, fear, and worry, the woman cursed herself for her selfishness and foolishness. How lucky she had been! ....The woman wept tears for which there was no comfort. For all the time that she had been longing for treasures, she had already had the one most precious. (p. 254)

Her story, told to Ba, describes her recognition of the effects of her own actions, and precipitates her apology to Ba.

StorySleuths Tip # 71: Consider scaffolding your narrative on a structural element, such as stories, to drive the plot, deepen the symbols, and clarify character development.

CHARACTER MOTIVATION: Where the Mountain Meets the Moon #2

Dear Meg and Allyson,

Thanks, Meg, for kicking off our discussion of Where the Mountain Meets the Moon. What a treat to hear a storyteller’s perspective of the oral storytelling nature of language this book!

In fact, the narrative voice flows so smoothly, that I felt immediately swept up in the unfolding of events. As I went back to the beginning of the book and looked for examples of writing craft to discuss, I realized that author Grace Lin establishes motivation and desire in very subtle ways.

What does the character want?

Ah, the question every writing teacher and editor asks. What does the character want? What motivates the character? Why does she do what she does? Why does it matter? What’s at stake? And why do we readers care?

Donald Maass writes about personal stakes in his book Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook: 

Personal stakes are more than just what a hero wants to do. They illustrate why. Why this goal and the action that must be performed matters in a profound and personal sense. The more it matters to your hero, the more it will matter to your readers, too. (p. 40)

Lin uses the first chapters of Where the Mountain Meets the Moon to establish Minli’s personal stakes.

Problem

On the very first page of the book, we learn that the land where Minli lives is “hard and poor.” Because the land is so barren, Minli, her family, and the rest of the village, too, are also poor. This poverty is Minli’s way of life, however. She accepts it.

Minli’s mother, however, bemoans their poverty. She sighs 

a great deal, an impatient noise usually accompanied with a frown at their rough clothes, rundown house, or meager food. Minli could not remember a time when Ma did not sigh (pp. 2-3).  

At the end of the chapter, Ma exclaims, “What poor fortune we have!”

What makes Minli different, we learn, are the stories her father tells. These stories keep her spirit alive. She doesn’t see them the way Ma does, as useless. In fact, the stories stimulate Minli’s curiosity about the world. “So how will Fruitless Mountain ever grow green again?” she asks her father after the first story. 

Minli’s belief in the stories also creates a sense of hope. Unlike her mother, she believes the stories are true. She believes, in a naïve, child-like way, that change can happen.

The problem then is not impossible. Lin makes sure to plant a seed of hope.

Worry

Although Minli is an optimistic character, the hard work she performs impacts her. 

When the hot sun burned overhead, Minli’s knees shook from weariness. She hated the feeling of thick, soggy mud on her hands and face; and many times she wanted to stop in irritation and exhaustion (p. 11).

She returns home from working in the field one evening and notices her reflection in the basin of water she uses to wash up. “As she looked at herself reflected in the dark water, she saw Ma’s frown on her face” (p. 12). She doesn’t just see Ma’s frown, though. She also takes on Ma’s thinking:

Ma is right, Minli thought. What poor fortune we have. Every day, Ba and Ma work and work and we still have nothing. I wish I could change our fortune (p. 12).

Lin doesn’t reveal Minli’s age, but I assume she’s a pre-teen. She’s old enough to undertake a journey but certainly not yet a young woman. Minli’s reaction to noticing the similarity between her expression and her mother’s feels very appropriate for this pre-teen age. She notices the similarity, and she doesn’t like it. She wants to change their fortune because she worries she’ll end up like Ma, sighing and complaining all the time.

Desire

The combination of the problem (poverty) and Minli’s worry (that she’ll become her mother) ignite to fuel a desire (to change their fortune). Minli makes a rash decision to purchase a goldfish using one of her two coins. The purchase causes her parents to fight. Minli watches as her father sacrifices some of his precious rice to feed the fish. She realizes her mistake. She releases the fish into the river.

Minli watched it and sighed. As the sound faded into the night, Minli realized it was an echo of her mother’s impatient, frustrated noise. “Ma will never stop sighing unless our fortune changes. But how will it ever change?” Minli asked ruefully. “I guess it’s just another question for the Old Man of the Moon. Too bad no one knows how to get to Never-Ending Mountain to ask him anything." (pp. 27-28)

At this point, Minli’s desire is stronger. She understands her mother’s despair even as she dislikes it. She notices once again that her actions reflect her mother’s. But now she doubts that she or anyone else can do anything to change their fortune.

The promise of the novel

At this point, we readers are hooked. We don’t want Minli to become disillusioned and pessimistic. We don’t want her to turn out like her mother any more than she does. We want her to find the Old Man of the Moon. We want her to change her fortune.

You could say that Minli’s personal stakes transform at this point to our expectations for the novel. We want what Minli wants. Lin has accomplished what Maass described in the quotation above: “The more it matters to your hero, the more it will matter to your readers, too.”

StorySleuths Tip # 69: Use problems and worries to establish the protagonist’s motivation and desire.

MIDPOINT: Blackbringer, Post #4

Dear Allyson and Meg,

As you said in your last posting, Allyson, Laini Taylor has crafted a page turner, with lots of action and story questions that keep propelling us forward. Here we are now in the middle of Blackbringer.

The middle can be a daunting stretch to write, which Taylor acknowledged during a talk on plotting at the Western Washington SCBWI Conference. (The full text from the speech is available on Grow Wings, Laini Taylor’s blog.) The middle, Taylor said, is the “drafthorse” of the story. It does all the heavy pulling: it must build tension, send the protagonist deeper into conflict, develop themes, deepen relationships, and set up the climax.

So how does Taylor accomplish these goals in the middle of Blackbringer?

The Midpoint

All of the action and suspense you described, Allyson, lead up to a big scene that takes place in Chapters 20 and 21, the scene where Magpie and her friends see the Blackbringer for the first time. This scene culminates in a battle that is sudden, fierce, and devastating. Magpie barely escapes—and she loses two friends to the darkness.

These chapters constitute the literal midpoint of the novel. They are the pivot point, the moment when everything changes. Robert Ray and Bret Noris say that the “Midpoint is the point of no return. From here, there is no going back” (The Weekend Novelist, p. 175).

Up until now, Magpie has only heard about the Blackbringer. Now she meets him face-to-face. Now she sees his power. Now she experiences his destruction. From a reader perspective, we’re hooked. We must know how Magpie will overcome such a tremendous foe.

All Roads Lead to the Midpoint

The midpoint can be a useful scene to identify when plotting where a novel might go. In The Weekend Novelist, Ray and Noris explain that the midpoint will “stabilize the structure of your novel” (p. 175). It gives you something to write toward.

The scene with the Blackbringer is the scene with the highest level of action and tension so far in the novel. The key players are present for the battle. And Magpie experiences what happens inside the darkness, for just a moment.

If you know the midpoint, then you can plot backwards to identify the steps that lead to that moment, as well as information or details that could be foreshadowed earlier. (By the way, go back through the earlier chapters to see how Taylor plants clues about important details like the Blackbringer’s tongue. She does a great job of foreshadowing.)

Likewise, the midpoint provides a pathway to the scenes that must follow. “Midpoint anchors two chains of events: one leading up to the midpoint action; the other leading away from it” (The Weekend Novelist, p. 180). Before the battle, Mapgie was a brash character who charged after her quarry without regard for danger. She had no sense of limitations. After the battle, Magpie changes. She is injured, emotionally and physically. She must deal with the loss of her two friends as well as the reality that the Blackbringer is fiercer than she imagined.

The Action Ebbs

Taylor uses the sequence of scenes in Chapters 22 through 28 to show Magpie’s emotional reaction to the battle. Magpie is in shock, and she has lost her confidence. The pacing slows way down. Just as Magpie needs to recuperate, so do we, the readers. As Taylor explained during her plotting session at the conference, pacing is a critical craft element to consider. Pacing that is too slow results in a plot that lags. Too fast, and the reader grows desensitized to action. 

At this point in the novel, Taylor has hooked us as readers. There’s no turning back for us. She’s accomplished her first goals (building tension and sending the protagonist deeper into conflict). Now she has the opportunity to deepen character and develop theme while setting up for the climax.

The slower pace of Chapters 22 through 28 let Taylor reveal critical information to Magpie, which helps us to understand who she is and why she is the only person who can save her world. Ray and Noris say, “By midpoint, your reader is hooked into the story, and you can use the midpoint to reveal important details from the past” (p. 178). Taylor whisks Magpie off to the Moonlit Gardens where she meets her hero, Bellatrix, and learns critical information she will need for the next time she encounters the Blackbringer. 

Wave Action

Although the action slows down in these chapters, Magpie becomes a deeper, wiser character. She learns what she needs to know about her foe and her mission. She is gathering the strength and intelligence she will need for the next battle. Like ebbing water that rises as it goes out, she will be caught up in the next wave, the big wave… the climax.

This section of Blackbringer provides a great example of how to build up to a critical scene and then slow the pace to show the protagonist rebuilding strength in preparation for the climax.

StorySleuths Tip #65: Identify a midpoint scene that you can use as an “anchor” to help in plotting through the middle section of the novel, providing opportunities for developing tension as well as deepening character.

PASSAGE OF TIME: The Curious Garden

How many times have you fallen in love with a book just from hearing its title? From the get-go I was curious: What could a "Curious Garden" be? The cover image intrigued me as well--what was this redheaded kid sitting on top of a tree doing, with an open book, looking straight out at me, surrounded by topiary birds and butterflies in addition to the real ones? Then when I opened the book, the endpapers posed more questions. Huh? Rocks? No garden here. But the title page foreshadows the whimsical garden, as the boy, having abandoned his book, now actively trims the luxuriant hedge. The title, the cover, the front endpapers, and the title page all led me straight into the story.

Mem Fox says,

At the start of a story we need to be as direct as possible. It’s a common sin to beat about the bush, and waffle on for too long. We should attempt to say who, when, and where in the first two sentences, and then begin to state the problem. We have to solve a problem during a story otherwise we have no trouble. Without trouble we have no plot. Only trouble is interesting.

Many picture books introduce the problem on the first page, then solve the problem in a short time frame. Such diverse books as Where the Wild Things Are, Ella Sarah Gets Dressed, and The Snow Day, for example, take place during the course of a day. A day, or two, is a reasonable and understandable time frame for a young child. But the problem introduced in the first spread (pages 2-3) of The Curious Garden is a big problem--it's the problem of a whole dreary city. And the boy is only a tiny little person--the only person visible--in the drab, smoggy city.

It's clearly going to take a long time for this little boy to solve the problem--and I wondered how Peter Brown would solve his problem of the passage of time--lots and lots of time--in the text of a picture book for young children. So as I read the story I focused on how Brown dealt with the passage of time. Of course the lush illustrations portray the passage of time, sometimes even in wordless two-page spreads, but I was also curious about how Brown clarifies the passage of time in the text.

Sometimes the time reference is in the beginning of a sentence. At the outset, Brown moves us way back in time, setting the story in a time of long ago with the very beginning of the first sentence: "There was once a city...." (p. 3) And when the story action begins, Brown identifies one particular day at the beginning of the sentence: "It was on one such morning...." (p. 4)

Sometimes the time reference is in the middle of a sentence: "So he returned to the railway the very next day and got to work." (p. 8)

And sometimes the time reference is at the end of a sentence: "Liam's time on the railway was finally interrupted by winter. " (p. 16)

Gail Carson Levine, in Writing Magic: Creating Stories that Fly, says,

In most cases, your story or book should end when its problem is solved, for good or for ill. (p. 75)

It takes a long time for the problem of The Curious Garden to be solved. On the last page, Brown clarifies how long: "Many years later, the entire city had blossomed. But of all the new gardens, Liam's favorite was where it all began." (p. 30) Many years--only 556 words--and Liam's children enjoy the garden as he prunes the gigundo tree that has grown from the dried up little seedling he discovered so many years before.

The days, the seasons, the years flow through this gem of a story--and the passage of time flows through the text, never clunky, never showy, but clear and steady so we never lose track of where, or rather when, the story action takes place.

StorySleuths Tip #60 : Hide references to the passage of time in different locations--not only at the beginnings of sentences or paragraphs. Try integrating them into the middle of sentences and paragraphs, or even at the end.

TRANSITIONS: Charles and Emma

Dear Heather,

You're right that Heiligman packed a lot into the first eleven pages of Chapter 1 of Charles and Emma.

Take a look at what she covers in just five pages in Chapter 2! At the same time she builds tension by postponing the conversation about the "big fear," she also:

1. clarifies the journey to the setting where the conversation will take place;
2. describes Charles's father;
3. orients readers to the historical time frame in terms young readers will understand;
4. explains the family's religious beliefs that will impact the discussion between Charles and his father;
5. introduces Charles's siblings and their relationships to Charles;
6. summarizes Charles's informal and formal education from childhood to young adulthood;
7. illustrates Charles' relationship with his older brother through a specific anecdote;
8. foreshadows Charles's future activities by referring to a relationship with a freed slave;
9. explains why Charles decided not to pursue a medical career; and
10. refocuses on The Question: What is the problem that Charles thought "Was so big that he hadn't put it on his Not Marry list"?

But in spite of covering so much ground, I followed Heiligman. How, I wondered, does she orient her readers and keep us on track so we don't get whiplash moving from one scene and time period to another every few sentences? Why do her transitions seem smooth and seamless?

1. Repeated words. Heiligman repeats words to help readers make connections. The first sentence ends with "home" and the second sentence begins with "home," propelling us headlong into the chapter which will describe Charles's home.

"To talk to his father, Charles set out for home. Home was the Mount..." (p. 17).

The next paragraph picks up the house's name, "The Mount was typical of Georgian architecture from the previous century." References to people are also repeated as the focus moves from one topic to another. Heiligman describes the house in terms of what "Charles's father" liked, then in the next sentence she describes the physical appearance of "Charles's father":

The house had regular, strict proportions, which was how Charles's father liked things. Charles's father, Dr. Robert Darwin, was a huge man--over three hundred pounds, with a huge personality and reputation to match. (p. 17)

2. Punctuation. A sentence with two parenthetical inserts is followed by a sentence in the following paragraph with a longer parenthetical phrase, cluing readers in to comparisons they'd be familiar with. Repeated parenthetical inserts smooth the connection between disparate time periods in Charles's life--moving backward in time from his growing up to his birth:

[maids and other servants were expected to] keep the fires going to make the house warm(ish), prepare the meals, do the laundry (by hand), and in general run the house, just as they had when Charles was growing up.

Charles was born at the Mount on February 12, 1809 (the very same day a baby named Abraham Lincoln was born across the Atlantic Ocean in a log cabin in Kentucky) (p. 18)

3. Re-echoed concepts. "Hunting and shooting" is mentioned on page 19, "As he got older, his great love was hunting and shooting;" "shooting" is again reechoed in the quotation from the letter written to Charles by his father: "You care for nothing but shooting...." (p. 21)

4. Foreshadowing. Heiligman foreshadows Charles's future activities by describing his earlier interests, adding coherence and connection to different time periods of his life. As young boy, "Charles could entertain himself for hours just by thinking, or observing birds "(p. 19). As a medical student in Edinburgh, he learned "how to stuff birds. This would become quite handy later on" (p. 20).

The amount of research Heiligman integrated smoothly into her story is mindboggling. Her website describes her research on location and using primary and secondary sources. Her successful creation of a storyline anchored in research is an inspiring model for non-fiction writers. And her transitions make following her story a delightful ride.

If you're just now reading Charles and Emma, in Chapter 3 you'll find out what was Charles's "problem that was so big he hadn't put it on his Not Marry list." (p. 21) Read on!

Storysleuths Tip #57: Clear transitions can orient your reader to rapid fire changes in time frames, settings, and action.

FIRST CHAPTER: Charles and Emma

Dear Meg and Allyson,

I’m not sure how to begin this posting other than by confessing my complete admiration for the first chapter of Deborah Heiligman’s award-winning book Charles and Emma: The Darwins’ Leap of Faith. In the first chapter, Charles Darwin ponders a question of critical importance: to marry or not to marry. A true scientist, he draws a line down the middle of a piece of paper and begins listing support on both sides.

Under Marry, he writes “constant companion (& friend in old age).” Under Not Marry, he writes, “freedom to go where one liked.”

As the chapter proceeds, and Darwin adds support for both sides of his list, Heiligman draws the reader step-by-step into Darwin’s world.

In just eleven pages, the first chapter of Charles and Emma:

• Provides background information
• Introduces the primary character
• Establishes setting
• Introduces the central problem
• Builds tension, and
• Hooks the reader.

Of course, all of these items, with the exception of the first, are critical elements for any first chapter. First chapters have to work hard—every word counts!

So let’s pause for a second on that issue of background information. Charles and Emma is a work of non-fiction (winner, in fact, of the first ever YALSA Award for Excellence in Non-Fiction).

While most readers probably know the basics of Darwin’s life and his theories, they may not know the particulars, such as how long exactly the voyage on the Beagle lasted or how England was changing due to industrialization. Heiligman needs readers to understand Darwin’s world and character before moving on to examine how his marriage impacted his scientific work.

The first chapter includes a wealth of background details, which fall into four primary topics:

1. Biographical details, including Darwin’s age, physical description, his father and brother, his extended family, and the death of his mother.
2. Life in London in 1838, including friends, the changes brought by industrialization, current religious debates, possible romantic interests, and Darwin’s apartment.
3. Work as a naturalist, including the voyage on the Beagle, specimens, discoveries, colleagues, theories about transmutation (evolution), and his encounters with native people in South America.
4. General concerns about marriage, including the joy and burden of children, fear about illness, financial issues, potential dislike of in-laws, desire for companionship, and loss of time.

Despite the numerous and specific details that appear throughout the first chapter, the narrative never slows down.

How does Heiligman manage to maintain pace and interest?

First, Heiligman uses Darwin’s Marry, Not Marry list as an organizing principle.

She shows Darwin writing the list in real time. Each item on the list provides a jumping point to introduce relevant backstory or character details. For example, under Not Marry, he wrote, “Loss of time.” Heiligman explains how much time Darwin’s work requires. 

He felt sure that if he could work it [a new theory of transmutation] through, he would change the way the world thought about creation… He had started the great project already, and he was consumed by it, giving it hours and hours every day (p. 11). 

The Marry, Not Marry list provides shape to the chapter, forcing Heiligman to return to Darwin’s specific concerns about marriage, while allowing her to explore his motivations and experience.

Next, Heiligman focuses on interesting details in her descriptions.

Here is a list of items in Darwin’s apartment:

neatly stacked wooden crates, casks and barrels filled with many of their treasures from Patagonia, Brazil, Chile, and Tierra del Fuego: fossil bones, skins, shells, fish preserved in spirits of wine, mammalia in spirits of wine, insects, reptiles and birds in spirits of wine, plants, rocks, carcasses of dead animals, and beetles (p. 6).

The concrete details show where Darwin traveled, how he worked, and what interested him.

Heiligman takes time to show Darwin’s social life.

Sure, he’s an intellectual scientist, busy with his notebooks and observations, but he also likes spending time with his friends and family. Heiligman even describes three sisters competing for Charles’s attentions. The focus on social relationships is important. Not only does it show Charles’s humanity, but it also provides a connection point between Charles and a teenage reader, who, like Charles, also faces pressure from family and a desire to develop friendships.

The Marry, Not Marry list provides an inherent point of debate.

Should Charles follow the will of society and marry? Or should he devote himself to his work? Will a wife prevent him from achieving his goals? Could he live a life without companionship? These questions are no different than those faced by people today. Young readers may not be considering marriage, per se, but they certainly worry about balancing time with friends, family, school work, athletics, and boyfriends or girlfriends.

Heiligman ends the chapter with a new question to propel readers into chapter two.

As Charles realizes that he wants to marry, Heiligman reveals a new problem, a fear so great that Darwin can’t even write it down. Before committing to marriage, he must talk to his father. What is this big problem? Read on. The answer is in chapter two.

Heiligman’s use of the Marry, Not Marry list is a brilliant start to Charles and Emma. The list provides structure to the chapter, allowing Heiligman opportunities to introduce important people and experiences in Darwin’s life, while staying true to the central focus of the book, the way that Darwin’s marriage impacted his work.

StorySleuths Tip #56: Find an organizing principle such as a list to gave to shape to information and build tension.

MARCELO IN THE REAL WORLD: Suspense

Dear Heather and Meg,

As I read Heather’s post I was reminded of a writing session she and I had at Tully’s last fall. As we took a break from our writing and sipped lattes, Heather expressed concern that not enough was happening in her story about a young girl’s journey to India, yet she could not put her finger on what was missing. Heather, it was so gratifying to read your post about the lesson on plot you took away from Marcelo in the Real World. Isn’t that the point of this, after all? In reading successful novels our goal is to understand at a craft level what this author is doing that we are not, and to take it a step further by applying what we’ve learned to our own writing. I can’t wait to see the results of this discovery in your novel!

I’m going to follow your lead, Heather, sticking to plot, and to an analysis of my own writing. In this case the problem I’ve run into is my saggy middle. Not the one that comes from too few sit-ups and too much time at a computer – I am referring to the spot in my novel-in-progress when I find myself stopping to clip my toenails, pluck my eyebrows, and check to see if there are any new dishes in need of washing. It is the point in the novel when I am bored to tears, and know that my readers will be, too. In Marcelo in the Real World there was never a time when I had a yearning to pull out the toenail clippers, tweezers or dish soap. So how does Stork accomplish that? The conclusion I’ve drawn is that he keeps me, as the reader, in a state of almost constant suspense as it is defined by Elizabeth George in her book Write Away:

that state of wanting to know what’s going to happen to the characters and how it’s going to happen to them (p 43).

Looking back at my experience reading Stork’s novel I recalled that there was never a time in Marcelo in the Real World when I didn’t find myself wondering what was going to happen. I went back and revisited the book with this in mind to see what he does to create this perpetual state of suspense, and to try and understand how I could apply his technique to my own work.

The first thing I noticed is that Stork never gives poor Marcelo a break, constantly throwing obstacles in his way. In the first chapter we are introduced to what Heather referred to as the first plot layer: Marcelo’s father wishes for his son to change schools, leaving the safety of Paterson to attend Oak Ridge, a school that is, “not for Marcelo.” Just as we are digesting what this would mean for Marcelo, Stork ups the ante: Marcelo can earn the right to go to the school of his choice provided that he succeeds at a summertime position working at his father’s law firm rather than working at a stable—the job Marcelo aches to do. Right from the start, Marcelo is faced with a painful choice.

As the story progresses Stork tosses out more stones over which Marcelo might stumble, each time deepening suspense for readers. Will Marcelo be able to manage the competitive nature of the firm and the rigors of his job? The scrutiny of assorted secretaries and partners? The dysfunctional “friendship” with Wendell? The evolving friendship with Jasmine? The disturbing fear that his father, whom he has been taught to trust implicitly, has been involved in unscrupulous practices? The story progresses and we sit at the edge of our seats watching Marcelo make choices that chip away at his chances of success, and the whole time we are wondering, what is going to happen?

It is worth taking a moment here to refer back to Heather’s post. I believe that the multiple plot lines provide more opportunity for suspense building. In Marcelo’s quest to succeed at his job and therefore go to the school of his choice, in his relationships with Jasmine and Wendell, in his quest to right the wrong that his father’s firm committed in denying compensation to an injured girl—every one of these storylines develops side-by-side, providing Stork a wide palette of hurdles for Marcelo to stumble over, and for the reader to wonder whether he will succeed.

Another way that Stork kept me interested at all times was with his gradual revelation of character and fact. We think we know Wendell, but then we REALLY get to know Wendell. The same is true of Jasmine, and Arturo. In my writing I can sometimes be like a kid with a secret—I can’t wait to introduce my readers to every single character and reveal everything about them. Stork’s slow unveiling of details served to keep me as the reader always hungry for more.

Another suspense building technique which Stork used very well was to set clocks ticking.

• Marcelo has the duration of the summer to succeed. Tick, tick, tick.


• Wendell imposes a time limit by when Marcelo must deliver Jasmine. Tick, tick, tick.

The result is that, as a reader, I am now left wondering not only will the character accomplish the goal, but will he accomplish it in time?

Looking back at my own saggy middle I see that the problematic scenes are ones in which nothing is happening. Past problems have been resolved. Future problems have yet to be introduced. There is no suspense.

Heather and Meg, when you see me at Tully’s you know what I’ll be working on!

StorySleuths Tip #45: Create suspense by building scenes which beg the question, “What is going to happen?”, by revealing characters and facts gradually, and by constraining the time in which your character must solve his problem.

MARCELO IN THE REAL WORLD: Plot lines

Happy February! This month we’ll be talking about Francisco X. Stork’s YA novel, Marcelo in the Real World, which recently received the Schneider Family Book Award at the ALA Conference in Boston.

As we move out of our exploration of the short stories in Geektastic, we wanted to announce that the winner of our first StorySleuths StoryChallenge is Easter, who worked on a story featuring a Jane Austen fan. Thank you, Easter, for participating!

Dear Meg and Allyson,

Every book or story I read provides tips, examples and inspiration for me as a writer. I gather these lessons like apples from a tree, some to use right away and some to save for later. Every now and then, however, a book comes along with a major writing lesson that hits me directly on the head, Newton-like, and clarifies a pressing problem I face in my current project. Marcelo in the Real World is one of those books.

It occurred to me as I was trying to write a synopsis of my work-in-progress that the basic premises of my novel and Marcelo in the Real World are similar. In my novel, the protagonist moves to a new country, where she must adapt, against her will, to an unfamiliar culture. Marcelo, too, must go against his will to work in an unfamiliar country, “the real world,” which is located in the mailroom of his father’s law firm.

Lesson #1: Make the stakes clear. If Marcelo lives by the rules of the real world during his summer job, he will be able to choose what high school to attend in the fall. He wants to return to Paterson, a private school for children with disabilities, while his father, Arturo, wants him to transfer to the public high school for senior year. The stakes for my character… uh, still working on that.

But the lesson on stakes is just a minor point. The real lesson—a real bruiser—came when I contemplated the different plot lines that emerge from Marcelo’s experience at the law firm. The story is not just about Marcelo learning how to deliver mail and manage unreasonable deadlines or irrational secretaries. At work, Marcelo encounters new people and situations that challenge him to move outside his comfort zone. These people and situations develop into different plot lines that compliment, deepen, and even transform Marcelo’s original quest.

In contrast, my novel, so far, is primarily about my protagonist and her struggles adapting to her new living environment. The struggles are interesting, but they are not enough to sustain an entire novel. They do not push my character into changing as a person.

Marcelo in the Real World has four major plot lines:

• Marcelo’s quest to succeed at work so that he can choose which school to attend (Layer 1).
• Marcelo’s relationship with Jasmine, his boss (Layer 2).
• Marcelo’s relationship with Wendell, the son of another lawyer in the firm (Layer 3).
• Marcelo’s desire to help the girl in a photo he discovers in a file at work (Layer 4).

Donald Maass, author of Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook, would call these four plot lines plot layers, in other words “plot lines given to the same character” (p. 99). [Note: according to Maass, subplots are “plot lines given to different characters.”] Plot layers create textured stories that reflect the complexity of real life. In Marcelo in the Real World, the four plot layers noted above make Marcelo’s quest to succeed more challenging as well as more rewarding.

Plot layers alone, Maass contends, are not enough. He says that writers must then look for ways to link the layers together in “nodes of conjunction” (p. 99). These nodes might occur when a character from one plot layer encounters a character from another plot layer or when action in one plot line results in consequences that affect other plot lines. Several nodes of conjunction occur in Marcelo in the Real World.

Marcelo’s lunch with Wendell is an example of a node of conjunction. Marcelo assumes that Wendell has invited him to lunch because their fathers have encouraged their friendship. However, as soon as they order their meals, Wendell explains the real reason for his invitation: he would like Marcelo to help him “get Jasmine” (p. 122). Specifically, he would like Marcelo to bring Jasmine along on an evening cruise on Wendell’s yacht.

“Then all you have to do on the yacht is entertain yourself for a while up on deck while I take Jasmine below” (p. 125).

While Marcelo doesn’t immediately grasp Wendell’s intentions, he does know that Jasmine doesn’t like Wendell and he wants to protect her from him. Wendell’s request brings together Layers 2 and 3.

When Marcelo refuses to help Wendell “get Jasmine,” Wendell fires back with a new proposition. He will help Marcelo succeed at work (Layer 1) in return for Marcelo’s help with Jasmine. Now three plot layers intersect, leaving Marcelo in a quandary. Can he accept Wendell’s help at work without compromising his relationship with Jasmine?

This node of conjunction complicates life for Marcelo. As a result of lunch with Wendell, Marcelo gets a new assignment at work, which pleases his father but displeases Jasmine. Marcelo’s new task, organizing files relating to the firm’s biggest client, also leads him to the discovery of the photograph that launches Plot Layer 4.

As the story progresses, Stork continues to develop these four plot layers both independently and in relation to each other, resulting in a very “real world” portrayal of the complexities of real life.

(By the way, if you want to see how I analyzed the plot lines in Marcelo in the Real World, click over to Composition Book where I’ve posted pictures of a plot map.)

StorySleuths Tip #44: After establishing clear stakes for the protagonist, use plot layers to compliment, deepen and even transform the story arc.

Want to know what’s coming next at StorySleuths? Don’t forget to sign up for the StorySleuths monthly newsletter. We’ll send out details of upcoming picks as well as occasional writing challenges.

PRESSURE: Geektastic

Dear Allyson and Heather,

Here’s a question I have for you--do we qualify as card-carrying geeks because we’re passionate about writing for children--obsessed with the language, the vision, the structure of story? If so, then we’re in mucho good company. I for one have thoroughly enjoyed the company of the writers who contributed their stories to Geektastic--so varied, so entertaining, so gripping. And what makes a story gripping?, I find myself wondering.

Take, for example, “Secret Identity,” by Kelly Link. Now that’s one I couldn’t stop reading, on the one hand, and didn’t want to end, on the other. I just fell in love with Billie. After all, she’s a writer, too, working out her conflict about Paul Zell, "dear Paul Zell," through--you guessed it--writing.

This story gripped me by the throat and didn’t let go. Scene after relentless scene, character after surprising character. Because Link’s story felt to me like I was watching a screenplay unfold, I wondered what McKee would have to say about developing character in the context of his book Story: Substance, Structure, Style and the Principles of Screenwriting. In the chapter on structure and character he says,

“TRUE CHARACTER is revealed in the choices a human being makes under pressure--the greater the pressure, the deeper the revelation, the truer the choice to the character’s essential nature” (p. 101).

Link puts Billie under pressure, then turns the screws. Although as readers we know that in the end Billie survives, since she is after all writing the letter, it’s clear that she is under pressure from the first sentence:

“Dear Paul Zell is exactly how far I’ve gotten at least a dozen times, and then I get a little farther, and then I give up” (p. 223).

The letter writer is already under pressure. Her first choice is between writing the letter and not writing the letter. She chooses not to give up, even though she’s wanted to--at least a dozen times. That’s her first choice--to keep writing. How does this choice under pressure reveal her character? She’s determined.

But the irony is that writing the letter adds more pressure. Billie’s second choice is to lie or not to lie as she writes the letter. She informs the reader that she’s going to pretend. She’ll pretend she’s not writing him a letter. She’ll pretend she doesn’t know him. She chooses pretense. But then she informs Paul that she’s “more or less” a liar: “Everything I ever told you about myself is more or less a lie,” which makes her a reliable narrator, in one way. Under pressure she’s decided to opt for honesty.

McKee continues:

“The function of STRUCTURE is to provide progressively building pressures that force characters into more and more difficult dilemmas where they must make more and more difficult risk-taking choices and actions, gradually revealing their true natures, even down to the unconscious self” (pp. 106-107).

The pressures on Billie mount up, each one providing a decision point for Billie: Will she take the ring from the jeweler’s box in Paul Zell’s suitcase? What will she do when he is an hour and a half late to meet her for dinner? How will she react when she opens the minibar in the hotel room and finds miniature bottles of alcohol? When faced with brutal violence, how will she respond? And can she reach out to the girl who was mean to her when that girl is mistreated? How will she make amends for the mistakes she has made, and at the same time try to compensate for the cruelty of a bully? And how has she grown and changed over the course of the story? Each new situation ramps up the pressure, revealing Billie’s inner core, her “true nature,” by the choices she makes.

StorySleuths Tip #39 --Put your character under pressure--as Robert MeKee says, “the greater the pressure, the deeper the revelation, the truer the choice to the character’s essential nature.” Then keep raising the stakes, “gradually revealing [your characters'] true natures, even down to the unconscious self.”

SCENE: Geektastic

Hi Allyson,

Thanks for starting off the conversation about Geektastic. Today, I’m going to focus on the second story in the collection, “One of Us” by Tracy Lynn.

Unlike most of the stories in Geektastic, One of Us features a non-geek main character, Montgomery K. Bushnell, a blond cheerleader whose boyfriend, Ryan, is quarterback on the high school football team. Ryan, we learn, loves Star Trek and other elements of geeky culture. Montgomery would like to understand him better, so she hires “the four most prominent members of SPRInGfield High’s Genre and Nonsense club (SPRIGGAN)” to tutor her about video games, science fiction TV and movies. In true nerdy fashion, Ezra, David, Mica and Ellen set up a tutoring schedule for Montgomery, kept on Google Calendar, as well as a final exam at the upcoming Locacon sci-fi convention.

Not only is the use of a non-geek protagonist a nice, unexpected twist, but the placement of this story so early in the collection is genius. Any readers concerned about their geek-cred will learn the basics of Star Trek, Lord of the Rings, manga, and Buffy the Vampire alongside Montgomery.

What really struck me about “One of Us,” though, was the way Lynn structured the story into scenes. When I first began writing, I understood scenes conceptually but I didn’t understand how to craft them or even how to identify them in my own writing. I printed out the draft of my first novel and tried to mark scene transitions. My goal was to create a list that would give me a high-level view of the work. But I struggled. Where did this scene end? And what was the point of this next scene? And was that one actually a scene?

The first time I really understood how scenes work and, more importantly, how to structure them, was after a workshop led by Kirby Larson, Ann Whitford Paul and Mary Nethery at the Whidbey Island Writers Conference. When planning or analyzing a scene, Nethery said, look for three components: a Goal, Obstacles to that goal, and a Disaster. (The follow up to a scene, FYI, is a sequel, which consists of a Reaction, Dilemma and Decision. The Decision then propels the character forward into a new scene with a new Goal).

Lots of times, when I’m reading early drafts of my own work or of other writers, I find scenes that are fragmentary, meaning missing out on one or more of the three scene components, or writing that tends to blather on and on without an ending in sight. (This last, in particular, is my tendency. Some of my scenes ramble endlessly like phone calls where neither person hangs up despite several “I should get goings” and “Oh, I forgot to mentions…”).

“One of Us” features fourteen scenes, plus a fragment, in just 29 pages. That means, on average, each scene is two pages long. Several are longer, of course, and several are quite short. Each one gives examples of how to build a scene as well as how to end it.

Let’s start with a definition. In her book Make a Scene, Jordan Rosenfeld says,

“Scenes are capsules in which compelling characters undertake significant actions in a vivid and memorable way that allows the events to feel as though they are happening in real time. When strung together, individual scenes add up to build plots and storylines” (pp. 5-6).

In other words, scenes are moments of action, shown to the reader, not told. Each scene has a purpose (the Goal), conflict (Obstacles) and an ending (the Disaster).

At five pages, the first scene in “One of Us” is the longest. In it, Lynn introduces the primary characters, sets a clear story goal (Montgomery’s desire to learn about this “stuff”), and introduces some obstacles. It ends with a withering comment from the SPRIGGAN club’s only female member, Ellen, who clearly doesn’t like Montgomery. “’Sports metaphors,’ Ellen said, rolling her eyes. ‘How typical’” (p. 25).

Lynn does not include a sequel to this scene. We do not read about Montgomery’s thoughts following this conversation. If she considers backing out of the tutoring, we don’t know.

The next scene jumps ahead in time to Montgomery’s first tutoring session, led by Ellen. This scene is one-and-a-half pages long and begins,

“All right, let’s start with the basics,” Ellen said, marching back and forth in front of the blackboard. She clasped a yardstick behind her back like a nun or a commandant, just waiting for a chance to strike (p. 25).

From here, dialogue and narrative take us through the lesson. Two-thirds of the way through the scene, Ellen attempts to give Montgomery positive feedback. The cheerleader, in return, praises the color of Ellen’s shirt.

“You should really wear light colors more often. With, um, better shoes” (p. 27)

The scene ends in the next eight words:

“The yardstick almost broke in Ellen’s hands. Almost” (p. 27).

What strikes me about this, again, is what’s left unsaid. Lynn doesn’t detail the rest of the lesson. She accomplished her goal of showing the two girls trying to find common ground and ultimately failing. On to the next scene.

(Note: Tracy Lynn includes a longer version of this scene on her website. Compare it to the printed version. While the Star Trek details are clever, I would argue that they are unnecessary to the scene’s purpose: the interaction between the two girls.)

Somewhere, at some SCBWI conference along the way, I heard the advice to start scenes late and end them early. I flipped through my notebooks to see if I could remember who said this. I searched online and found several people attributing the quote to writer William Goldman. Supposedly, it goes like this (sorry I don’t have a direct source):

“Start every scene as late as possible and end it as early as possible.”

The Star Trek 101 scene described above achieves this goal.

Look through the rest of “One of Us” to see how Lynn propels readers forward from scene to scene. She weaves together a variety of settings, new characters, cultural information, and conflict in short, concise scenes. The pace is quick. Appropriately for a short story, Lynn does not waste a single word on unnecessary detail, and yet she creates memorable characters who show true growth at the end.

Author Susan Breen noted in “What short-story writers and novelists can teach each other” (The Writer, December 2007),

“… so much of short stories is about nuance. Because you don’t have the time and space to explain everything, you have to suggest more to the reader and let her think for herself…. [That] teaches short story writers that the reader is smart” (p. 37).

Lynn respects her readers through her short, focused scenes.

StorySleuths Tip #38: Keep scenes on target by including goals, obstacles, and disasters, and follow William Goldman’s advice to “Start every scene as late as possible and end it as early as possible.”

PICTURE BOOK STORY ARC: A Penguin Story

 Dear Meg,

What a book! The design, the plot, the main character—I could write on and on about any of those, but in keeping with our Storysleuths’ practice of focusing on one thing we took away as writers, I am going to focus on the arc of this wonderful story.

I’m presently working with a classroom of fifth and sixth-grade students writing picture books to enter into a contest. It’s great fun, and of course also a great challenge. I find that one of the hardest things for them to do is create a story with a complete arc in as few as five hundred words. And why shouldn’t that be hard for a bunch of ten, eleven and twelve-year-olds? It’s a darn near impossible task for grown-up writers, too!

But let’s look at how Antoinette Portis creates complete arcs, both an action arc and an emotional arc, in just 294 words. . .

Edna the penguin’s is a Hero’s Journey story, and we get clues about her, and about her journey, right from the start. The cover shows a penguin trudging through a snow storm--she is alone.

The title page features a little wide-eyed, thumb-shaped penguin apart from the rest of her flock--she is different. So, even before the story unfolds, I as a reader, or as a listener am informed by the illustrations about the main character, and I get a preliminary sense that something is amiss—why is this little penguin set apart from the others?

Then the story begins and we are given a name for our hero, she is Edna, and for the first few pages of the book, whether she is with a crowd or by herself, she continues to be set apart, always gazing off as if looking for something. On page seven her yearning is put into words: “But there must be something else.”

As readers, or young listeners, we now understand that our character has a problem to solve: Edna is a child explorer in search of what else life has to offer. As the story unfolds we see Edna turn down offers to play, even offers for food because she is looking for “something else.” She is a tenacious character who will not stop searching until she is satisfied: “I’ll never stop looking, thinks Edna.”

Both the text and illustrations ramp up tension in the story—a key ingredient to a successful Hero’s Journey. The child reader will notice the orange airplane that flies by without Edna seeing it. The child knows that there is indeed something else—but will Edna find it?

Tension!

Tension rises again when Edna sets off on her adventure. The illustrations show the passing of time as Edna searches by day and by night for something she cannot put a name to.

Tension!

And then? The action of the story hits a peak as Edna stumbles upon something bright and round and orange. I thought it was the sun. I thought, Ahh! She is a little penguin in search of summer. But then she hugs it? What could this object, which is clearly not the sun, and not the orange airplane which flew by earlier, be?

Tension!

So notice what is happening here when Edna returns to her home and announces, “I found the something I else I was looking for! Come and see!” Tension rises again. The reader is as excited as Edna is—she has found Something Else. But the reader is also sitting at the edge of his seat wondering, what is it?

Once again, Portis brilliantly portrays the passing of time through the illustrations as the action moves from the left side of the page to the right, and the flock of penguins travels through a day and a night arriving at what looks, once again, like the sun. But then, on a page turn, the reader comes upon the real climax of the action. Edna has discovered the base camp of human explorers and the little penguins are jubilant. But look at little Edna off on the right hand side of the illustration at the edge of the tent – she is STILL looking for the next magical thing.

The story wraps up with a satisfying denouement as the penguins frolic about the camp, finally going home with a trophy from the journey, a bright orange glove.

And how has the character grown? What has her emotional journey been? From the beginning one is left with the sense that Edna has long yearned to find something else, but this is the day that she does something about it. This is an important question an author must ask when writing a book – what makes this day different? Over the course of the story one see’s Edna’s euphoria in the bright orange illustration of her gazing at her discovery, her satisfaction at being able to share her discovery with her family and friends. At the story's conclusion we know that really, this is just the beginning of a whole lifetime of exploration for our lovable little penguin, Edna. When, on the final page she wonders, “What else could there be?” the child reader will see the prow of a large green boat entering the picture from the far right side of the page and will know with certainty that Edna’s days as an adventurer have only begun because she had developed the confidence and self-assurance to continue her quest. Today was a unique and wonderful day, but the success of the day guarantees that Edna has developed the self-assurance to keep on going.

Storysleuths’ Tip #30: A picture book telling a Hero’s Journey type story must, just as with a novel, have an arc which begins with a problem, has rising tension and ends at a solution which is both surprising and yet inevitable. Along the way the character must grow and change over the course of an emotional arc which mirrors the arc of the story’s action.

PS - Meg, thanks for forwarding me a link to Betsy Bird's review of this marvelous book!