The Harrow Was Not Writing Blog

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anchor-bookClicking the image to the left will take you to NPR’s website for the story “The Old Dictionary” by Lydia Davis, which I read in an anthology called The Anchor Book of New American Short Stories edited by Ben Marcus. I highly recommend this collection if you’re interested in literary fiction at all–one reviewer criticized it for trying “too hard” to entertain, generally a sign that it’s from the “light side” of lit fiction. We’re going to be talking today about character change, tightly compressed into flash. Warning, spoilers ahead!

The Challenge: 

In short fiction, finding believable space for character change can be a challenge, yet often a story feels empty without it. So how can you pull this off–how have other people pulled this off? That’s what I aim to find out.

To get as nitty-gritty as possible, let’s look at a really impressive flash fiction story. 


The Story:

Who better than Lydia Davis for this exploration? Her work can get unbelievably short (and sure, some of it might just be poetry) and is also entertaining, believable, and moving. The last bit, the “moving” part, always impresses me, and is one of the things that made “The Old Dictionary” stand out to me. 

It’s the story of a researcher and her realization about how she treats her son. By the end of the story she decides to change. How does Davis pull this off? In ways both complex and simple. 

Give it a read. It’s quick, and beautiful. 

The Solution:

Ultimately, for a character to experience believable change, they must struggle through and survive an Odyssey. Their current status needs to be challenged and questioned, and they must allow their experiences to shift their beliefs or actions toward change. 

In short stories, there often just isn’t time for such a long journey. My copy of The Odyssey stands a solid 560 pages thick. But I’d argue that Lydia Davis pulls off a character change in her 1000 word flash fiction tale. In fact, I’d argue she went into it specifically to test the assumption that character arcs are impossible in flash fiction. All of her decisions, narratively and stylistically, limit her space and push her toward focusing on character change. 

Stylistically, she keeps her sentences short, even clipped at times. This forces her to always push forward, digging deeper into her character. She also chose first person, which allows you to trim significant framing and description, and allows an almost-exclusively internal story to feel much more natural. The “telling” nature of the story allows for an insane amount of compression, and allows the narrator to struggle with her own actions. 

Narratively, almost all of the actual story has happened in the past. The character thinks about her typical treatment of her son, and struggles through the why. And it’s important to note that Davis makes this struggle feel very concrete, very real, by including specific real-world details about the plants, the dog, her son, etc. She tires to explain her (brutish?) actions one way, then corrects herself, then tries another way. She examines other specimens, too, in trying to puzzle through her motivations. The narrator’s struggle with this moral issue is visceral to the point that you can feel the tension building. It’s the details that do that. 

The last 2 elements I’ll mention are perhaps the most important moments in the story: the beginning and the end. 

1. The beginning includes an inciting incident, in lifting the old dictionary carefully from its case. With its detailed description and present-day time, this is easily the largest moment of external conflict in the story, and that’s important. It gives this journey a real-world catalyst and a touchstone to return to so that it never rambles too far. It also really sets the reader in-scene in a compelling way. But also, this beginning ends with a specific intention in mind: the character asks herself WHY (about 225 words in). This gives the story it’s shape and sets up our expectations that, in the end, the narrator will answer this question somehow. 

2. In the end, the question is answered and the narrator has acknowledged, to some level, her failure. She goes on, as a follow through, a third act of sorts, to reaffirm the ways in which she treats the old dictionary with care and, through implication, the ways in which she will treat her son better: “I know its limitations. I do not encourage it to go farther than it can go (for instance to lie open flat on the table). I leave it alone a good deal of the time.” 

This ending drives home the character change and is perhaps the most moving part of the entire tale. 


Finally: 

While I realize these methods might not be useable in every story, there are lessons to be taken from it none the less. For one, maybe in a 5000 word story, a writer could deliberately set aside 1000 words for character change, and that these words would be distinctly internal and focused, but spread out throughout the tale. 

Also, there is a lesson in the directness with which the narrator handles her character change. To save space, it may be necessary to “tell” as much of the change as possible, to forgo “showing” some things you might have in favor of a different goal. It’s important to note, also, that so much of this story works through implication, and that is, to me at least, an interesting form of compression, requiring a deft hand. 

What do you think? Does a short story occur to you that shows a compelling (and complete) change of character? Are there other ways of compressing a character arc to fit into 5000 words or less?

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Tremblay Bourbon carbideToday we’ll be discussing disaster plots in short stories, comparing two stories for answers. Each image to the left links to one of the stories. As much as possible, I’ll avoid spoilers. 

The Challenge:

Ultimately, I want to understand this: how do I write a successful story in which the end implies that we all die? And a couple of restrictions are useful. First, I want it to be short. Second, I want it to be deeply personal and in a close POV. Finally, I want the ending to pack a wallop, rather than feel anticlimactic or unresolved in some way. 

Why this kind of story? Why these restrictions? Because I’ve read not 1 but 2 stories recently that blew me away and did both of these things. 

The Stories:

First, I read Paul Tremblay’s “Swim Wants to Know If It’s As Bad As Swim Thinks” in Bourbon Penn. Then I read “The Blue Afternoon that Lasted Forever” by Daniel H. Wilson, which appeared in Carbide Tipped Pens, although I read it in Best American SFF 2015. These stories both got to me. In some ways, these stories are quite different: “Swim…” works better on a metaphorical level with the natural disasters of the MC’s life and the disaster is introduced almost immediately, although we never fully understand it; “The Blue…” comes to tell us exactly what is going on (in fact our MC is one of only a handful who fully understand it) and so the end is far less open. 

But what strikes me more, looking back, is just how much they have in common.

Both have distant narrators that dominate the voice of the story, one is distant because of drug addiction, the other because of his highly-analytical scientific language and through processes. Both involve a single parent and their one child. Both have 4 scenes. Both end in lyrically-described disaster.

For the first step in the solution, I’ll break down these stories a little further. 

The Solution:

A little outline for “Swim…”: (1–124 words) A micro scene implying past trouble of mom with law (through her daughter); (2–2025 words) A scene of MC at work, where we learn about her troubles and normal life; (3–686 words) A sort of “bridge” scene that becomes progressively more distant, the character at her most high/destructive; (4–2410 words) MC interacts with daughter in a house and soon destruction rains down around them. 

A little outline for “The Blue…”: (1–529 words) A scene of MC with his daughter in which we learn about his problems and normal life; (2–602 words) A flashback scene in which we learn about how things went between MC and his ex-wife; (3–920 words) A scene in which we learn, scientifically, analytically, about the danger occurring, and at the end the mystery of it is finally revealed, all in context with our MC’s research and life; (4–1749 words) MC returns in time to maximize time with his daughter, interact a little, and then the end comes. 

Both of these stories are SO SIMPLE. And they keep it pretty short, for the whole world ending. They each have a single central character, with a young child as a secondary character. “Swim” has a few other, very minor characters. Both have a relate-able conflict: the parents feel in some way distant from their children, one because of drugs and actual no-custody style distance, and the other because his daughter is changing, growing up.

So this must be how the authors are keeping it short. 

1 scene to introduce the character’s problem– Scene 2 in “Swim…” and Scene 1 in “The Blue…”
1 scene to deepen that personal issue– Scene 3 in “Swim” and Scene 2 in “The Blue” 
1 scene to bring personal and universal destruction together– Scene 4 in both stories.

The scenes that are outside of the pattern are also interesting, though. In “Swim…” it’s a micro-scene at the start that seems mostly about setting tone–it has this distant, lyrical tone of the end of the story, which is very different from the mundanity of the first scene. Meanwhile in “The Blue…” the extra scene is scene 3, and this seems mostly a function of genre. It’s hard scifi, thus we need a scene that tells us, scientifically, what is happening–Wilson puts it all here, so that it won’t bog down his ending. 

It also seems, based upon this outline, that the stories remain personal and impactful (while gaining distance) by devoting about half of the space of the story, and most of the scenes, to the character’s workaday world. To their conflicts at home. Only in the final scene do we really get to a novum. 

So on to the final question. What about the ending? This seems, to me, the hardest part to pull off, but to some extent, they are easy to pick apart. Some reasons the endings have such an enormous impact: 

(1) They are endings: endings get automatic emphasis, and that is boosted if the endings come along with conflict resolutions and a uniting of disparate story elements (creating a sudden release of potential energy). 
(2) The principal players of the stories (parent and child) are super secluded in the endings, and so the ends are sooo focused on them. It’s what really allows the disaster to take on a more personal meaning–it HAS to be about them, because they are all we’re seeing. In “The Blue…” the MC and his daughter are chained to a pipe. In “Swim…” the MC and her daughter are in an unfinished mansion. 
(3) The stories grow progressively more distant as they go along (“Swim…” gets more drug-infused, “The Blue…” more science-infused, with every scene that passes) until the tippy-end, the final paragraph, when the destruction and the MC’s struggle come together. 
(4) It’s easy, I think, to underestimate the level of impact made by variations in sentence length and style in these stories. The final few paragraphs of these stories have sentences notably longer than the rest of the story (especially evident in “The Blue…” which has pretty typical hard-scifi short sentences for most of the story) and the styles lean distinctly more lyrical/less practical at the end, which certainly fits with destruction that really is poetic and absurd at its heart. 

Two other things I’d like to note about the ends, specific to each story. 

In “Swim…” the final scene is split into 3 distinct sections, each doing something different–each shows the relationship between the MC and her daughter differently, each has a different level of distance, each ends with a sort of cliff-hangar propelling you into the next scene. This gives the final scene an very deliberate sense of pace, structure, and drive.

In “The Blue…” you can almost argue for a happy ending. This is spoilery, but in the end, the MC basically gets what he wants: he’s frustrated by his daughter growing up, and in they will be frozen in this moment for eternity. She’ll never grow up. Also, unlike in “Swim…” (where the end really seems disastrously pointless for the MC), the MC of “The Blue…” has an epiphany at the end. His conflict gets a positive resolution and he gets a moment of change. It’s particularly striking. 

Finally:

I’ve gotten out of hand with length! But I feel like I’ve barreled through these stories, tearing them up and canning them–they’re tuna now. Go read them, because this post doesn’t do them justice! 

Nevertheless, I find myself amazed by how similar these stories are. In my readings, I don’t think I’ve read any other short, personal disaster narratives, but I wonder if these have some kind of classic-scifi antecedent. It is, relatively, plausible that Wilson’s story was inspired by Tremblay’s but that seems to me too coincidental, and they came out so close that it would have meant an incredibly quick turnaround for Wilson to outline, write, and sell the story. 

Have you read any other disaster narratives like these? What do you think of the uniquely late introduction of the novum?

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escape-pod-logoMy story “The Hungers of Refugees” just emerged at Escape Pod! Click the picture to check it out. 

It’s far-future scifi about refugees and it is available in both text and audio. The latter is wonderfully narrated by Joe Williams!

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Monstrous Affections Tin House 61The Catapult











Another story I absolutely love is Alice Sola Kim’s “Mothers, Lock Up Your Daughters, Because They Are Terrifying” which first appeared in Tin House 61 (which is where I read it) and then appeared in Monstrous Affections and IS available online in Audio form on The Catapult (linked above in the image) and starts at about 5:40. It’s even read by Alice Sola Kim, which is super cool. It’s an incredible and super creepy story, and everyone should read it. I’m going to talk about one of the elements that really got my attention: the style. I’ll try to avoid spoilers as much as I can. 

The Challenge: 

Confession time: I have a bad habit. What! Another one? 

Yes. Since I took a class on syntax in college, I have been obsessed with long sentences. This only grew worse after I read 100 Years of Solitude, of which I have a beautiful, forest green, hardcover, gold-leaf-paged copy. But what I found in writing long sentences was that, despite how incredible they seemed in other people’s stories, when I wrote them, they mucked up my prose. Sometimes they made my prose a challenge to read, or they unnecessarily obfuscated my purpose. They buried important details. 

Another problem they gave me was that a long sentence often just whisked away the authority of my prose. Long sentences felt wordy and flaccid. No punch. 

That’s two problems.

But then, I whined, how do other authors do it?


The Story: 

People. Folks. Go listen to this story. It is terrifying. But not gory–so no worries there. But just viscerally unnerving in the best way. Also, while you’re at it, subscribe to Tin House, because they publish some amazing stuff in such a huge range, plus it only comes out 4 times a year, so totally low commitment. 

Alice Sola Kim has outdone herself with this story. She was already incredible but this story is denser, more vivid, and more heartfelt than anything I’ve ever read by her. It’s about a group of four adopted Korean girls who miss their birth mothers, and decide to do something about it. That simple. Each character is so vivid on the page. It’s a really great study of how people who have a lot in common can still react differently to their lives. Nature? Nurture? 

This is not the place for that debate. 

But beyond a doubt this story boasts one of the finest styles of prose I’ve encountered. It has voice, authority, density, depth–all of this despite it’s long sentences. 

The Solution: 

Reading the story through a couple of times, a pattern becomes clear that I’m sure I’ve seen in other stories, and pertains to the issue of long sentences that obfuscate purpose and make prose confusing.

Each time Kim switches to a new scene and sets the mood, she does it using short sentences. This starts with the very first sentence, and is used throughout at every line break. Simple sentences like “There are so many ways to miss your mother” and “Mom skipped around” and “At first we found mom highly scary” give level of clarity. From there, each section seems to allow the length of sentences to grow, to build almost naturally until they become more complex, but then also each paragraph winds back down into short sentences for a punchy final moment to each ‘graph. Another key point is that the long sentences are usually in regards to things we basically understand on a human level: the lives of the girls, how they communicate with each other, etc. Paragraphs whose topics are hard to understand are written exclusively in short sentences: the explanation of the novum, the girls fears. 

Long sentences allow us to glean information subconsciously–subtle foreshadowing can be worked into a complex sentence, as well as characterization tidbits that are important to pick up on some level, but not hyper important to the story. But important bits, story mechanics, fear are all brought to the forefront with short sentences. 

So on to problem #2: how do authors use long sentences that have authority

Here’s an 88-word sentence: “You could even say that Ronnie was experiencing quadruple consciousness if you counted the fact that she was both judging and admiring Mini and Caroline–Mini for being the kind of girl who tries to look ugly on purpose and thinks it looks great (ooh, except it did look kinda great), her torn sneakers and one thousand silver earrings and chewed-up hair, and Caroline of the sweetly titled eyes and cashmere sweater dress and ballet flats like she was some pampered cat turned human” (Tin House 61, p. 17). 

Personally, I think this is a great sentence. A couple things are helping it along: First, the sentence is actually set up by the sentence before it, which introduces, in a more controlled way, the idea of “split consciousness.” Also, it’s good to note that the sentence largely serves to build and evoke the characters which is suitable for this long sentence because while the evocation is important to the story, the individual details are not so necessary to have ready. If it were written in shorter sentences, these details would take on strange emphasis. (“Ronnie was experiencing quadruple consciousness. She was both judging and admiring Mini and Caroline.) This is, of course, because each period serves as a point where the reader stops to recollect, to bring the sentence’s information into their understanding of the story, putting special emphasis on the final few words. 

But what makes this sentence authoritative? What makes it gripping? 

The main technique I take away from this is that the first part of the sentence before the em-dash actually structures the second half of the sentence. “…both judging and admiring Mini and Caroline” creates this sense of a long sentence because the second half has 4 things to expand upon, 4 activities. Because of this setup, we can follow the sentence even though it’s pretty dense with colloquialisms and compound adjectives. 

And that leads in to what I think really gives the sentence its authority: word density. 

So many details are crammed into this 88 word sentence. It gives us a full sense of two of the major characters in the story using a bunch of adjectives all clumped together in a way that wouldn’t make sense unless we were clued into the structure before hand.

Another thing that helps the sentence retain density is that while the sentence is long, the clauses/phrases are often short. Of the 88 words, 11 of them are conjunctions. This splits the sentence up into mini moments that allow us to pick up the material in little doses, in a kind of rushed way. 

Finally: 

Density of verbs and adjectives along with the short length of the clauses and phrases really sells this sentence. It’s important to take care to keep your clauses manageably short, and to build to your long sentences, rather than jumping into them right away.

Have anything to add? Anything you disagree with? Let me know in the comments. Or let me know if there’s anything you want me to read or if there’s a difficulty you’re having that you want me to keep an eye out for while I read. 

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BASFF SAMATAR forestClicking the illustration to the left will take you to “How to Get Back to the Forest” by Sofia Samatar, in the Mar. 2014 issue of Lightspeed. Clicking the cover will take you to the amazon page for JJA’s first Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy volume, which is where I read the story. 

I highly recommend the Best American. Quite a few of the stories were excellent. 

The Challenge:

Writing compelling characters can be majorly tough. Especially in short fiction, how do you find the room to really bring the character to life while also advancing a plot in some reasonable fashion? 

In a lot of stories, the answer seems to be to shovel exposition at the reader: tell us their whole life story, and pray it feels relevant. Or describe the character in minute detail, or give one key piece of backstory and hope it serves to flesh out the character so that we buy in. 

But those methods never really appealed to me. The former bores. The latter strikes me as reductive. Both hammer the pace until it completely gives in. 

So what’s a writer to do?

The Story:

There’s a lot to this story. A LOT. So much worth looking at. For one, it handles a lot of exposition in a complex way and makes it interesting. Also, it reads so smoothly, despite having really complex syntax and a musical prose quality. 

Also, twisty. At first its seems like this is set in a camp for wayward teens (it isn’t) in a world exactly like ours (it’s not) and that the girls are beginning a journey to heal emotionally and will ultimately lead fulfilling lives (nope). 

But the thing I wanted to talk about most, I found, was characterization.

We are introduced to a bunch of characters and they all felt so physically and emotionally separate and that fascinated me. 


The Solution:

In this story, Samatar seems to use 3 techniques to characterize. Firstly, the “expositional” type I mentioned earlier, although it is used just for one character and has a very gentle touch. Secondly, she offers precise and vivid descriptions of characters, usually invigorated with mood and voice–these are also used sparingly and are provided in sharp, short bursts. Not every character gets these treatments. 

Most of the characters, especially the campers, are characterized in a third way that I would call “reactionary.” 

Perhaps obviously, what I mean by this is that we get a huge glimpse into the characters simply in how they react to a core element of the story: puke. Okay, to spoil the first scene for you a tad: Cee jams a toothbrush down her throat to force herself to puke. Her friends watch on, and Cee encourages them to join her–she offers them her reasoning, although it’s suspect. 

Here are the reactions we get from the characters:

  1. Elle: At first says “Oh my God, that is disgusting.” But then she forces herself to puke “all of the sudden” (and with uncommon skill) in the sink beside Cee.
  2. Kate: “We have to stop her!” She grabs Cee and pulls her into a stall, frantically switching between “help me you guys!” and “Ew, ew, ew.”
  3. Max: “She’d believe anything”–Max responds at first with curiosity, and then with disbelief and disgust, screaming. Eventually, while trying to help Kate end this insanity, she gets so disgusted that she also pukes.
  4. Tisha (the narrator): The story is in first person, so we get a lot of her reaction. The key thing is “God, Cee. You were such an idiot.” But also, she starts laughing, apparently because she’s dizzy and afraid she’ll puke too. Then, of course, she gets so disgusted that she involuntarily pukes.
  5. Cee: When Elle begins puking, she nods her approval and says, “Good job, Elle!”
  6. 5 or 6 “other girls”: Many of these girls laugh at Katie’s antics trying to pull Cee into a stall, and say various things such as “Are you nuts?” and “Oh my God” and clutched each other. 
This isn’t the only episode of reactionary characterization we get in the story, but this one I think is the most useful and deals with more of the characters than the handful of others. 

Do you, reading this out of context, get as powerful a sense of these characters as I did? 

Two things that I think make this really genius-level material: 
  1. It’s puke. Even though the world she’s building is a little strange, just about any reader knows how they feel about puke and will probably have a visceral reaction. So this scene, these reactions, create a range that we can place our own reactions in. It’s a perfect barometer that allows us to compare ourselves to the other characters, almost getting to know them through analogy. 
  2. The “5 or 6 other girls” shows us what “normal” is in this world, which may be up for debate. It gives us a sort of control group to which we can gauge our own reactions and the reactions of the other characters. How does Max’s reaction reveal her idiosyncratic personality compared with the vaguer reactions of the other characters?
Finally:

One way to characterize (even in a strange world) is to create an event that readers can understand and allow the central characters to have specific reactions to them across a wide range. Spend time brainstorming a list of possible reactions.

But also, especially if the situation is strange, or the world is different than ours, make sure there is a control group that can show us “normal.”

Not only does this allow us to understand the characters better, it can allow us to engage further with the story, because we have to place ourselves on the scale. 

Thanks for reading! Do you agree? Disagree? If  you have any other strong examples of reactionary characterization, I’d love to hear about them. 

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F&SF  Earlier I suggested I might try to do a market analysis, and here is the first. Keep in mind, from a practical standpoint, this may very well be futile and useless. Still, I think as an activity it can be useful as long as you find a good, consistent method. This’ll get long, but I think it’ll be worth it.

Methodology

Only on the internet can something you say off-hand be lorded over you for the rest of your life. 

Anyway, 7 years ago on the F&SF forum someone posted this question: “How do you get that first story published?”

With this message, additionally: “The problem is that the rejection letter didn’t say what was wrong with the story. How can you ever get published when you don’t know what the editor is looking for in a story? Any suggestions as to how to get that first story published.”


And here was the best response from a seven-years-younger C.C. Finlay: 

“If you want to know what an editor is looking for in a story, you have to read their magazines or anthologies with an open mind. I led a workshop once, where we read and critiqued stories published by major magazines, including F&SF, Asimov’s, Analog, and SciFiction. The only rule for critiques was that you couldn’t point out what was wrong with the story–you had to find what was right with it. What spark was there in the story that caught the editors’ attention and made them want to buy the story. Many of the people who embraced that idea, and looked for the things that worked in every story, are selling their short stories now. They also developed a good idea of what markets their stories were best suited for. For what it’s worth.”

So from that, my methodology will be to look in on what is right with stories in F&SF, see if we can pin down C.C.’s style using his own approach. “For what it’s worth.”


Data — The Stories of F&SF Jan/Feb and Mar/Apr 2016

Here are the issues, the stories, and the things about them that caught my attention. 

F&SF JAN/FEB 2016 (special issue, kind of–3 Mars stories)

“Number Nine Moon” by Alex Irvine, Novelet:
Far Future SciFi. 3rd person. Fascinating situation–the protagonists are stuck in an abandoned city on Mars because they decided to loot the place after the Mars settlement op shut down. They only survive because the main character is practical and gets stuff done. 

“The White Piano” by David Gerrold, Novelet:
Ghost story. 1st person. Has one ghost story inside another, a nested sort of story. It’s also sweet, being thematically about how a family deals with the loss of a parent. Strong tension throughout. The nested story is driven by the mystery of the piano that plays at night. 


“Telltale” by Matthew Hughes, Novelet:
Adventure fantasy. 3rd person. This story is part of a series of tales that F&SF has published. Stakes are given right away and they are big: life or death. Immediate mystery of “where is he?” and there is a slow build to the mystery throughout. A big turn at the start of Act 3. An ending that is very practical, to match a practical get-stuff done protagonist. 


“Vortex” by Gregory Benford, Novelet:
Far Future SciFi. 3rd person. Very fascinating microbial alien that is all one creature inside the planet. Global politics affecting interstellar research on mars. A set of practical characters trying to save this alien from someone else’s mistakes, and a simple but powerful moral in the end from the mouth of the protagonist. Scientifically accurate.


“Rockets Red” by Mary Robinette Kowal:
Historical SciFi set on Mars (I KNOW!)–that’s a good point on its own. 3rd person. A close and personal story, and short, with a small interaction between a man and his mother (on mars, in the 50s). 


“Smooth Stones and Empty Bones” by Bennett North:
Fantasy. 1st person. Interesting take on what is essentially a zombie story. Begins with a solid, enticing mystery. A surprise ending pulled of believably. 


“Caspar D Luckinbill, What Are You Going to Do?” by Nick Wolven:
Near Future SciFi. 1st person. Quite dark, but also, oddly, a little funny (in a nihilistic, end of the world kind of way–which is…a real kind of humor?). It’s a personal point of view on a big social issue (terrorism, media terrorism in this case to go along with the unending onslaught of media in this world). The ending is quite open-ended. 


“Robot from the Future” by Terry Bisson:
Near Future SciFi. 1st person. Strange and very visceral opening. Story driven by mystery. A classic genre plot structure: character has a problem, tries to solve it three different times. But the human interactions and the narration provide a lot of little surprises that keep the story moving. Strong characterization. Another one of those pragmatic protagonists.


“Squidtown” by Leo Vladimirsky:
Alternate History. 1st person. And impressive world and really great casual world building. Strong characterization, too, and the protagonist’s lack of a tongue creates some wonderful tension. 


“Touch Me All Over” by Betsy James:
Secondary World Fantasy. 1st person. A strong voice and experimental style. Character starts off with basically the worst thing happening to her: she loses her ability to pursue what she’s decided is the point of her life. 


“The Visionaries” by Albert E. Cowdrey:
Ghost Story (kindof). 3rd person, multiple. Plot driven by mystery. Interesting haunting–because it’s in a grove and because it’s haunted by what’s going to happen there. Multiple points of view in this story. Also, the end is an answer to the mystery but it makes the reader do a little work to figure it out, and it’s super satisfying because it brings together a lot of threads of the story while still remaining open-ended. 


“Braid of Days and Wake of Nights” by E. Lily Yu:
Fantasy. 3rd person. Really sweet tale about a woman who wants to cure her friend of cancer. Interesting take on the unicorn trope. The end is sort of open. 


F&SF MAR/APR 2016

“The Liar” by John P. Murphy, Novella: Magical realism? Or strange ghost story. 1st person. A nice soft opening that allows us to learn about the lying power in a controlled environment. Then an introduction of a mystery that slowly builds to drive the story. Protagonist is honest and practical and gets stuff done. 


“The Ghost Penny Post” by Marc Laidlaw, Novelet: Fairy story/Historical fantasy. 3rd person, multiple A great twist of totally real world with fairy world, highlighted by the use of the postal system as the real-world element. Not sure I’ve ever seen a story taking this angle. It takes a very pragmatic man into a flight of fancy in a delightful way. POV switches to fairy characters with really lush descriptions of that world. 


“Red in Tooth and Cog” by Cat Rambo, Novelet:
Near Future SciFi. 3rd person. A truly clever novum (automated appliances that are abandoned and end up making an ecosystem in Central Park, and they can modify themselves) and a slow build in stakes. This story is really driven by world building, getting to know how this ecosystem functions and some characterization of the robots. Comes down to a simple choice being made by the protagonist. 


“The Language of the Silent” by Juliette Wade and Sheila Finch, Novelet:
Far Future SciFi. 3rd person. Protagonist is a newly-deaf linguist, which makes for an interesting POV for an interstellar first-contact story in which she has to translate. The protagonist, also, is of mesoamerican heritage and that plays a big role in the thematic content of the story. 


“A Mother’s Arms” by Sarina Dorie, Novelet:
Far Future Scifi. 1st person. Very close, very alien point of view that leads to a number of humorous moments. Clever use of language to world building like when the protagonist’s “stomachs” are hurting. A quite fast-paced and sad opening, paired with the rest of the story which is pretty happy, including a happy ending. Very emotionally engaging tale. 


“Belief” by Nancy Kress:
Near Future Scifi? 3rd person, multiple. Multiple points of view allow a thorough exploration of beliefs and their effects. Sort of attempts to weave science and spirituality. 


“Nanabojou and the Race Question” by Justin Barbeau:
Historical Fantasy/Fairy Tale. 3rd person. Very accurate historical reality with the fairy tale myth entwined. A dryly humorous voice. Main character mostly acts as an observer, but takes one critical action. A pragmatic main character. 


“Diamond” by Chris DeVito:
Far Future SciFi? 2nd person. It’s a story about an alien playing baseball and harkens back to racial integration of the sport. A very short tale with strong imagery. 


“The Silver Strands of Alpha Crucis-D” by N.J. Schrock:
Far Future SciFi. 1st person, plural. Very alien aliens, silver strings that dance in the sky. Incredible imagery throughout. A simple but powerful allegory about the ill effects humans have on their environments.  


“Golden Gate Blues” by James L. Cambias:
Noir mostly (with some meta fictional tendencies in a super hero world–a fascinating combination right away). 1st person. A strong voice and a bit of humor (again pretty dry). A great world, with solid world building and a cool novum. Driven mostly by mystery. A pragmatic protagonist. 



Analysis

That’s a lot of information to digest, I know. Give them a read and see if you find any of the patterns. 

A few trends I’ve noticed: nearly half of the stories (9/22) are mainly mystery driven (a few more have mysteries as minor elements) and nearly a third (8/22) have that classic-scifi “pragmatist” protagonist. Just a few more are in third person than in first (12 to 9 respectively) and just a few more scifi than fantasy (11 to 9). Near future scifi and far future scifi are nearly equal. Many of the stories are interesting just in the choice of POV character–either an alien, or someone with a disability that gets in their way, or a pragmatist. Nearly all of the stories are written in a plain and straightforward style but they also give more space to imagery than stories at other markets might. 

Some more general trends: the fairy stories, for the most part, are tied to very mundane, solid, real-world elements. Non traditional short story POVs stand a chance of working (3rd person multiple and 2nd person) as do the hard to place, slipstreamy stories, although they are few in number in these issues. Aliens in these issues, except for one story, are truly alien. 

Structurally speaking, the stories usually involve characters who want something and chase it, lose something and try to replace it, or have a problem and know how to solve it. Their plots are fully formed and idealized, usually with a good number of scenes (and scenes are longer, fully realized with definite beginnings, middles and ends). Stories in F&SF, rather than having an open ending, tend to “close with a click” to quote Terry Bisson. 


Although I think this magazine has more in common with classic Sci-fi than some newer mags do, I’d also be surprised if those magazine display the same breadth of genre. 


Anything to add? What is your experience reading F&SF or submitting to them? Do you notice any patterns above that I missed? Also, let me know if there’s a magazine you’d like to see get this treatment.

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cw_58_700Click the picture to the left if you’d like to read one of my all-time favorite Clarkesworld stories, from all the way back in 2011’s issue 58. I’ll be talking about how Sellar uses the Robot trope in this story, and I think you’ll find it fascinating. I’ll try to avoid spoilers to the best of my ability. 

The Challenge: 

How does one take an old old trope like this–a trope almost as old as the genre–and flip it on its head for a refreshing story? 

In short: I want to write a cool story about metal men!

The Story:

Word of warning: like a good many Clarkesworld tales, the opening of this story heavily resists being read. I think it’s necessary for the story, but you feel like you’ve jumped into the middle of a very murky pile of story and you have to do a bit of untangling as you go. But the thing is: this story lives and breathes for its final two paragraphs.

Everything beforehand builds just brilliantly to this rather horrifying end that strikes you right in the gut. 

“Trois morceaux en forme de mechanika” is a robot story like none I’ve ever read before. 

The Solution: 

If we’re going to talk about how to subvert the robot trope, we have to go well outside of the story for this one. An important place to start: history of robots. That said, I don’t think it’s necessary to go digging through old manuscripts at Alexandria to get the gist of what’s been done-to-death for robots. See, I have this neat detail I’ve noticed: If you’re encountering a twist on a trope in a piece of fiction, it’s probably new and different, as long as the story is recent. If you’re encountering rules/twists for a trope from Hollywood, that “twist” has probably been done to death already. 

Case in point, especially relevant to us: Asimov’s “Three Laws of Robotics.” 

When Asimov developed these they were true to his work and a new take on robots that seemed to lead the trope away from its fiendish ways. The laws of robotics allowed Asmov’s a lot of potential conflicts and mysteries that his work might have otherwise lacked. But nowadays, so much of his work has been adapted for the screen, and stolen in various ways for other screen-based robot projects, that the very idea that “laws” govern robotic behavior has become cliche-riddled ground. 

Asimov adaptations are probably the go-to for understanding what to avoid in robot stories. So for another easy example: Bicentennial Man. If all your robot wants is to become a human, you best find some major way to twist up that premise. (Great movie though, right?) 

Beyond that, on to the idea of a “post-human” world. Give robots to the cyberpunks and we have Terminator

Movies are a gold mine for studying old tropes to see where the danger zones are. Interesting thing about Sellar’s story though is that it riffs off of all three of the ideas I listed below: robotic laws, robots wanting to be human, and a post-human world. Still, it’s obvious that Sellar is aware of these danger zones and really twists the ways that they are used. Here are the ways he does it: 
  1. Voice: The omniscient narrator of this story has such a strong and musical voice. It’s a rare thing, I think, to have a story about robots and humans that seems not to be from the human or robot POV and doesn’t take sides. Ultimately this results in a kind of distance, which is normal for robot stories from the mechanical point of view. But the beauty of it is more like what we’d expect from the falling human civilization. Plus, the middle of the story actually has some sheet music supposedly composed by robots, which you can actually listen to on the site 
  2. Sheer scope: In most robot stories, we’re used to seeing the point in time when the robots rebel, or we see the time when nearly all humans are wiped out. This story covers that whole range from the building of the first robot to the point where robots begin to mourn their lost creators. It skips huge sections of time with no intention of summarizing what’s happened between. Related to the time scope, it also covers a swath of international ground: France, Japan, the pacific ocean. It shows how much of the world ends up. 
  3. Clever references: In a strong thematic moment for the story, Sellar makes a nod to the Three Laws in this sentence: “It is unnecessary to remind them that the mechanika did not end up throwing off their shackles, and inheriting the earth, by breaking the rules of human power, but by observing them, by learning and following them carefully.” 
Finally:

Seems to me that Sellar is deeply aware of the source material he pulls from. An odd contradiction to working with tropes is that you have to both work within the rules people are aware of (so that they can recognize these creatures as robots) but also subvert those rules in new ways (so that you can keep a reader’s attention, so that you can surprise, so you can give new life to this trope that you adore). In this story I think Sellar takes the robot story about as far as it can get before it becomes unrecognizable as such, but he keeps it together and, in the end, really brings it home. 

In that way, it’s an extreme subversion. 

Thanks for reading! Do you agree? Disagree? I’d love to hear your thoughts on subverting tropes or anything you have to say about robots, on the screen or off. What other methods can be used to take old stories and breathe new life into them?

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CW116 khawClick either image to see either story in this post, which will be a sort of comparison to talk about openings. To keep things super tight, I’ll just be reading the first two paragraphs of each and comparing them, so check out the first two paragraphs of each if you feel so inspired. As always, I’ll avoid spoilers as much as possible (which should be easy this time around, because I haven’t yet read the rest of the stories). 

The Challenge: 

While maybe not as hard as ending, beginning a story presents a lot of challenges. For my part, when I start a new story, it’s vital that I find the just right opening and I’ll often has as many as 12 false starts before my eyes decide that I’ve nailed the right place to start. It makes me curious, then, what other openings do and why my own opening seem to fail me so often. What about that final opening launches me into the story?

So I thought I’d take a look at two openings that got me engaged and made me want to read more. 

The Stories:

Two stories that could not be more different–the authors don’t have much in common, and neither do the venues. The opening of Robert Reeds “The Universal Museeum of Sagacity” and Cassandra Khaw’s “The Bones of the Matter” take very different strategies, but both of them made me wonder and pulled me in. 

Go read them now, if you intend to.

The Solution:

Cassandra Khaw’s story spends its first paragraph philosophizing about the power of mothers. It’s 3 sentences and 2 of them are syntactically similar, giving that sense of something building that repetition offers when done well. From the end of the first sentence, I’m not sure where this idea of “witchcraft” is going and I’m delighted to find out, in the second sentence and further in the third, that the story is building natural motherhood as something akin to witchcraft. Even though it’s a small surprise, it was enough to convince me to keep on going with the story.

And it turns again into the second paragraph, reverting back to the first line by essentially saying “no actually, this story is going to be about magic mothers”–it’s a push and pull on the micro level that’s really charming, the narrator contradicting herself. This paragraph continues on with little oratory on why magical mothers are so dangerous in their sixties but this paragraph is grounded with two real characters (Mei Fong and her mother) so that we know the story is beginning. Finally, it pushes us right into dialogue. 

Two things I think this opening is doing really well to pull me in: 1) some really pretty words and 2) a great sense of tension and conflict through the push and pull of these first couple paragraphs.

Meanwhile, the Robert Reed story begins with summary. A lot happens in these first two paragraphs, all very rapidly–an insurance man in Boston gets married, gets divorced, moves to the mid-west, gets married again, has two children, and has repeated visits from his first wife. It’s a characteristically bold opening. Why does it work better than other summary openings? Like in all things, the most important thing you can do is engage your readers. 

Andrew Stanton (writer of Wall-E and Finding Nemo) says not to give your audience 4, give them 2+2. That rule is key to many Pixar stories. You can only get audiences to invest by forcing them to invest work. 

Here are the lines in which Reed gets us invested: “Maddy was my mother’s aunt, but only briefly” and “Those were my mother’s cousins.” As easy as the solution is–Walter is the narrator’s mother’s uncle–it’s just twisted up enough that I had to stop and think “wait, what does it mean, only briefly her mother’s aunt? Who’s telling this story? Why does this matter?” It’s this little puzzle at the beginning that charmed me into swallow the pill of exposition. As in many stories though, it’s the kick-off of the puzzle that really got me into it, and that stars at the end of the first paragraph with the revelations about Maddy’s visits. The second paragraph sends us off into the story with a final bang: “Which is a story unto itself.”

Finally:

These two stories take truly different approaches on one level, but on another, they are both involving us in a puzzle of sorts right away. In Khaw’s story, it is the puzzle of what magic is and who has it. In Reed’s, it’s the puzzle of “mom’s aunt + mom’s cousin = Walter is mom’s uncle”. If I dug deeper, I wonder if I’d suddenly find puzzles everywhere, like Jim Carey and The Number 23. I’ll be sure to keep an eye out. 

Time to go read the rest!

What do you think? Anything you agree with? Disagree? Let me know what stories have openings you really enjoy. 

Have anything to add? Anything you disagree with? Let me know in the comments. Or tell me about one of your favorite opening paragraphs and why it works for you. 

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WindeyeSomehow I think this whole collection is miraculously available on Google Books! Just click this link and then click the third option down that shows the title page. There the story begins. 

http://bit.ly/1U8ufhb 

Also before I get ahead of myself, definite spoilers this week as we’ll be talking about THE END. 

The Challenge:

My tastes run decidedly strange. I love lyrical stories with hapless protagonists and open endings.

An open ending is one of those things, like second-person POV, that never pleases everyone. For some people, open endings are a major turn-off (consider one of Terry Bisson’s Rules for Writers: “stories must make a pleasing shape, and close with a click”). Yet stories that end with a wheeze instead (that’s opposite a click, right?) can be pulled off with the right audience, when done well. 

It’s important to note that there are many kinds of open endings. Consider, for instance, the “Open Choice End”, a common form of open ending in which a character is presented with a choice but the story does not tell us which one is chosen. It was used in “The Three Dancers of Gizzari” in BCS, for instance. For my purposes, I’m not interested in studying those kind of open endings because they seem (to me) fairly simple to pull off: either make the character’s ultimate choice obvious beforehand, or make it so the choice doesn’t matter (in the BCS story, what mattered was what Bathenica had learned about herself and the people around her). 

What I want to talk about are truly open endings. As in, you have no clue what is happening to the main character or where he’s going next. 

The Story:

Brian Evenson, hands down, has had more influence on me than probably any other writer. His novella “The Brotherhood of Mutilation” haunts me to this day, and is so worth reading if you enjoy weird dark stories (assuming you don’t mind a little gore)–the novella was reprinted in The Weird Compendium and there’s a sequel that’s packaged with it as the novel Last Days

Of his short story collections, Windeye has to be the most accomplished (note: I have yet to read the new one). Beginning right with the title story, the first story in the collection, Evenson reveals a knack for and love of open endings. One of my particular favorites is called “The Sladen Suit.” It’s just one of those stories that sticks with me constantly because of the incredible imagery that gives you this raw, physical sense of presence in the story. 

The Solution:

First and foremost, I think you need a basic outline of the plot either so you can keep the whole plot in mind, or in case you don’t have much interest in reading the story. 

  1. We find our narrator entering the sladen suit, claiming he’s the third. 
  2. Our timeline shoots back to when the captain is first discovered murdered with a diving knife. No one feels bad, because he got them all stuck in this terrible storm on a boat and now they are all going to die. 
  3. “The Twins” Stig and Tore dispose of the captain’s body but only one Stig comes back (although everybody seems to agree that Stig is actually Tore). 
  4. It becomes clear that they are all going to starve before the storm clears. 
  5. They sleep and play games until Stig hears something and they all discover a “voice pipe” they don’t remember seeing, which leads up to the deck where supposedly the Captain and Tore lay dead. Stig says that he is speaking with Tore and that leads them to the sladen suit hidden in the captains cabin. Tore called the suit their salvation. 
  6. Stig enters the suit. We witness him struggling to crawl through the rubber tube into the suit. Stig appears to make it into the suit, and runs down the hall. By the time everyone catches up to the suit, it has flattened out and Stig (maybe Tore) is gone. Everyone thinks that maybe they hear screaming inside the suit, but they aren’t sure.
  7. A summary discussion of whether the suit is actually a hungry creature or some kind of portal to safety. 
  8. Another man goes into the suit (Asa) with a rope tied around his ankles. This scene progresses much quicker. He disappears and the rope comes back, still tied but covered in blood. 
  9. Our guy enters. We experience his crawl into the suit, his being in the suit, and then his crawl out, which takes much longer (and god that imagery! He thinks something of himself is being smeared onto the walls. He’s losing himself) and only ends when he uses the diving knife to cut his way out. He emerges back in a ship much like his own, but empty. And he appears to be trapped, although it seems the storm has ended. It seems he also cannot die of starvation any longer. 
  10. Before he finishes writing his account of events, he lets us know his plans: he will go back into the suit and, hoping to find a way out or at least his other companions or, if he must, he will turn the knife on himself to end this. It is also revealed that he is the one who killed the captain. 


You may notice that the ending brings up a lot more questions than it answers.

If this account is written out by this guy (a tactic used in many of Evenson’s open-ended stories), how did we come across it so we could read it? If he’s heading back into the suit, won’t the same things happen all over again? Of his companions, he was the only one with a knife, so does that mean they never made it to this second ship? What happened to them? Will he do this forever?

So how does this story not leave the reader on the stormy seas of confusion? That, at least, is answerable. At the start of the story, two major mysteries were introduced: who killed the captain? and what does it feel like inside the sladen suit? 

Even though the other major mystery, introduced in the middle (what happened to the first two travelers in the Sladen Suit?) does not, the two opening mysteries get answered. Those answers are very full–they lead us on another quest and into a second act for the story. 

Perhaps this open ending also works because, although it does not end with a click, it has a very pleasing shape. It begins with the narrator entering the suit. It ends with the narrator entering the suit. It has a sort of small intro paragraph and a small outro paragraph. Something about the actual structure of the prose on the page is satisfying. 

Still, though, there’s more to the satisfaction of this ending:

In a story sense someone had to find this account and make it available to us. It’s a written note. And, theoretically, since there are no more notes, the story is suggesting that the story really does end here. No more messages were found. That ending says something really did happen to the narrator. Further, because of the quick “outro”, Evenson has limited the number of possibilities to 3. 

  1. The sladen suit leads somewhere. Our guy gets free. He lives. 
  2. The sladen suit devours our guy. This was all one long process of digestion. He dies. 
  3. The sladen suit goes on forever. Our guy chooses to take himself out, ending his torment. 

Ultimately, you don’t like the character enough to be angry if he dies. You don’t hate him enough to be angry if he lives. I think the real genius of this ending is that it really somehow opens up to the reader. It lets you decide, based on your worldview, what happened to the narrator. My personal thought has always been that he made it out, that he’s free in some remote location. Or, as a secondary idea, I think that freedom was definitely at the end of the journey, but that maybe he got impatient and killed himself too soon. 

Not sure what that says about my world view. But for some readers it might be just as easy to decide that the guy was swallowed up by the sladen suit because he killed the captain and that means he deserved to die. Not my interpretation, but there’s plenty of proof for it. 

Finally: 

A lot of stories build their own world, and build this thematic sense of how the world works–Lord of the Rings tells us that Middle Earth is a world where the good triumph but not without injury, and Serenity tells that in the world of the Alliance vs the Frontier, people who believe in something have power, but that such power can be used for good or evil. In “The Sladen Suit,” Evenson builds a visceral world that is so secluded that we have no clue what the world at large is like.

Somehow he gets us to impress our own beliefs on this world and thus the ending is not really open at all. Not once we’ve come to a decision. 

Let me know if you agree or disagree. What are your experiences with reading and writing open endings? Have you read work by Evenson? I’d love to hear what you think of him.

Side note: I, at first, planned on discussing Gene Wolfe’s “The Ziggurat” but I really didn’t want to ruin it for anyone. If you haven’t read it, it’s an incredible story. You can check it out here: http://epubbookonline.com/b/3531/james-patrick-kelly/the-secret-history-of-science-fiction/14

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F&SF marapr16This week’s story isn’t available online (sorry!) but if you click the picture to the left you’ll find the page for F&SF March/April 2016 where it appeared and, from there, links to places where you can purchase a copy. I love reading F&SF because it is one of the most eclectic mags around, and if you give it a try you’re bound to love at least a handful of the stories in these huge issues. And just a warning: spoilers ahead. I’ll be talking plot, so there’s really no avoiding them.

The Challenge:

Sometimes one problem is not enough to get your character to the end of a story (although sometimes it is). Sometimes, you have to continually get your characters in trouble again and again, and it can be hard to think up compelling ways for them to get in trouble. It is, in fact, easy to brainstorm real awful, obvious things (off the top of my head: a set of apocalyptic heroes are starving, looking for food, so they go hunting but they can’t catch any meat, then they find out they’re poaching land claimed by a dictator, then a zombie hoard comes upon them and those zombies eat them alive).

What strikes me as more challenging is coming up with believable challenges and obstacles that push the story forward with out the sigh-worthy melodrama my above example.

The Story: 

Now, I can’t confess to being a die-hard Cat Rambo fan, but one story I read recently that really impressed me was “Red in Tooth and Cog” in F&SF‘s March/Apr issue. This story has a super clever premise: if all your appliances are vaguely self-aware and have the ability to modify themselves, what happens when they get loose? Rambo answers: they form an ecosystem and a society that we can witness only if we’re paying enough attention. 

It’s a really neat story, and it does awesome work as far as getting the character into trouble in ways that are believable and that we can relate to. 

The Solution: 

What I’ll offer first is a sort of outline of the trouble that the main character, Renee, gets into, with some commentary in between each one. If mundane, the start of this story is decidedly distinct and bold. Here is the first data point, the first piece of trouble, that I offer. 

1. “It was an expensive, new-model phone in a pretty case, and that was probably why it was stolen.” (40)

Doesn’t sound super interesting does it? But, you know, losing a phone is something many modern people can relate to and it’s an absolute pain. To help us toward this feeling, Rambo actually begins the story with a short meditation on the value of phones and, through negation, what you lose when you lose your phone. And to keep up the interest, we are shown our first glimpse into the mechanical ecosystem of this future Central Park. Her phone was stolen by a semi-conscious can opener. 

To take the stakes further though, as Cat knows she must to keep the story going, she piles on to what has already been lost. The phone didn’t really matter, but the case “was customized, irreplaceable.” And that mystery carries us until we learn Renee’s grandmother’s gemstones had been set into that case, and that not only does Renee really want them back, she is also soon to see her grandmother, who will be very angry to find the gems missing. Renee spends a few pages searching the park and learning about this ecosystem, which is fun and the little bit of stakes in the background tells us it’s heading somewhere. She briefly mentions that she has “creative time” at work that allows her freedom to be in the park. 

So you know where this is heading, don’t you?

2. “Work was suffering” (51). 

What relateable trouble to be in: she got a little too invested in something outside of work and now her job is in jeopardy. It’s perhaps even more relateable than losing a phone and is definitely an increase in stakes. Losing a job has all of these implied horrors: eviction, hunger, crushing poverty. And we’re at this point in the story where we know that Renee can’t just give up her trips to the park. She’s too invested! 

At the same time, the ecosystem in the park might not be around much longer. A park inspector is coming with some drones to scan the park for anomalies and when she finds them, she’ll send all the appliances for recycling where they’ll be shredded down to bits. 

So we know where this is going too, but we’re waiting for it in suspense the whole time. 

3. “Her supervisor called her in, a special meeting that left her hot-eyed, fighting back tears” (54). 

Not surprising right? But then, it is, because she doesn’t get fired. Or written up. It’s a warning, an opportunity, a choice: give up your obsession, come back to this job you don’t really like (her training is in art) and you can keep your job, your lifestyle, your home. You can go back to the happy bejeweled-phone life you had before. She reacts to this choice presented to her, and it could be really easy to have her just walk away at this point, choose her job–all the conflicts are resolved, there’s no obstacle to push the story forward. 

But then the next paragraph happens. 

4. “There’s a way to save the creatures.” 
     “What is it?” Renee asks. 
     “It’s illegal.”
     “But what is it?”

Right here, this exchange, made me give in to this story completely. On one hand, as a writer, I was thinking, isn’t that such an obvious move? Create a new struggle in the next paragraph? But then, it’s elegantly done (because a lot of foreshadowing has led to this point) and it’s exactly where it needs to be. Just as the tension drops away, it spikes right back up. And it’s the perfect time for this mission to appear because it is part of the choice she was presented with by her boss. 

This could be a way out of her obsession. Let them all die. 

And it’s brilliantly done because, even though she could easily get caught, it’s as simple as pressing a button. In the end, if she presses the button, she saves the little creatures and probably loses her job. If she doesn’t press it, she keeps her job, but loses this new world she’s discovered. 

The tension of this leads us right to the end of the story. What do you think Renee chooses? 

Finally:

It’s an incredible structure. Very well controlled and thought out, and quite relateable. Ultimately I think the lesson I take from this story is that stakes don’t actually have to start with life and death, as long as they grow to something serious during the course of the story. And sometimes the trouble can be really mundane, everyday stuff, and that can have greater impact than all the zombie hoards on TV. 

A lost phone? Trouble at work? Breaking the law for the greater good? We get these kinds of trouble.

They harbor immediacy. 

The first two, at least, are pretty common. And are completely free of melodrama. 

So when thinking of getting your character in trouble, maybe the best place to start is by mining your own life? Maybe something you take for granted would become real serious if it was threatened. Also, an even bigger takeaway: if you’ve run out of trouble, make more in the very next sentence. Don’t skip a line. Don’t transition. Just do it, and probably go back to foreshadow. Sometimes we are wrong when we’re writing and we feel like a move is clunky or obvious. 

Do you have anything to add? Anything you disagree with? What are your experiences with getting characters into trouble?