Take risks. Let your instincts guide your decisions. That word choice that you think might be a little too strange? Try it. You might love it. It might become your signature one of these days.
Practice your hooks. Great essays and short stories begin with terrific first lines. What words could you choose to make that happen?
Practice exits. Leave your readers with one last resonant line. Or even one great word. Plan to make every short story and essay memorable.
Create lists. Make a list of things you care about, and then write about those things. They will become the themes in your writing life.
Read, read, read. Reading is a great way to examine other writers’ choices. Study what makes their voice unique, and then experiment on your own pages.
To put it simply, strengthening your writing skills will strengthen your voice. The longer you write, the more developed your voice will become.
VOICE EXERCISE: AMPLIFY THE DETAILS
Practicing originality in your details and descriptions is a great way to discover your organic voice. When you push yourself to think beyond your first or second idea, you allow yourself to dig deep, to find the root of your voice. The following exercise is intended to get you thinking about interesting ways to describe people, places, and objects. Your task is to let go of any expectations. Think beyond the obvious. Allow any words to come to you during the exercise—the more unusual, the better.
Write this list of nouns across the top of a piece of paper: AUTO, PERSON, SKY, TREE. Under each item, add three visual descriptors (can be phrases or words). For example: AUTO: Ferrari, yellow, black scrape shaped like a penguin
Add three audio descriptors to each noun. Example: AUTO: engine reminds me of a metronome, revving like a hungry linebacker, exhausted ping of the cooling engine
Now add three scents to your list. Example: AUTO: the perfume of leather seats, musty cigarette ash, smoked tire treads
Think of ways to describe what each noun might feel like. Add them to your columns. Example: AUTO: rough rusty dents, crusty dry carpet, worn leather seats
Circle three of your most unique answers for each noun. Write a short paragraph that uses all three descriptors.
I’ve performed part of this exercise to give you an example:
View a text version of this table
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SCENE WRITING
Now that you’re thinking about your personal writing style, let’s talk about how to showcase that style: the scene. Scenes are the building blocks of short stories and essays. They are the self-contained passages within your prose where you show instead of tell.
A scene is action.
The reader is sitting nearby, taking it all in. You are, as a writer, “showing” the action through stage direction and dialogue. To put it simply, a scene is where something actually happens: A pen drops; a siren wails in the distance; a mother shushes her baby; people flirt, fight, and buy ice cream.
The alternative to writing a scene is to write a passage of narration. Narration refers to those places where you “tell” your reader some things: the time of day, the setting, what someone is thinking. Transitions between scenes are often narrative passages; some openings are, too. Narration compresses information that you need to convey, but it isn’t nearly as engaging as a scene. Save narration for places in your prose that don’t require action—such as transitions.
Scenes make the reading experience feel real. They focus reader attention on the physical world and actions of the story. It’s your job— through scene writing—to make readers feel like they are in the same room as your characters.
The scene has one more caveat: A scene is where something happens that changes the story. Your story has to keep moving forward. Tension must escalate. A strong scene will ensure that.
ELEMENTS OF A COMPELLING SCENE
Every scene needs to accomplish the task of moving your story or essay along in an interesting way. This is accomplished by the elements of event, function, structure, and pulse. Use each of these elements purposefully in your prose:
EVENT: Identify the occasion you’re going to write about. Why are these characters or people in this space together? Is it a chance meeting on the street? A party? A morning in the kitchen?
FUNCTION: How is this scene going to advance your story or essay? Will this scene reveal new information? Showcase a confrontation? Pose a question? Reveal a decision? Create a pause for reflection? Sometimes your entire story or essay will take place in one scene. What then is the function of the “fly on the wall” moments you show?
STRUCTURE: Every scene needs a beginning, middle, and end. You begin with your main character’s short-term goal (finding his car keys, persuading her teacher to change a grade, firing the gardener, etc.). From there, your scene is a volley of action and reaction, concluding with the accomplishment or failure to achieve the goal. Either way, by the end of the scene, there is a change, which will lead to the next event in your story.
PULSE: Pulse is the thumping heart beneath the prose—what makes this scene matter to the reader. It’s what gives the scene momentum: emotion, desire, need, motivation.
“To me, a scene is the basic measuring unit by which we construct our pieces. When these units are identified, they immediately become distinct. They are then mobile and flexible. They can be seen as weak or strong. They can be put in a different order, creating a very different result.”
—STUART HORWITZ
My short story, “What Happens Next,” takes place all in one scene. Very short stories often do. Here, I’ve noted the four elements discussed in this section: event, function, structure, and pulse.
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT
Published in The Sunlight Press, January 2017
by Windy Lynn Harris
His eyes search me for help while the nurse urges him to sit up. He doesn’t want to do this, but I can’t will myself to defy the medical authority in the room. I don’t know what to say.
I’m not in charge here.
He’s supposed to get moving now, though they’ve only stitched him up a day back. [The event is revealed: This man is recovering from surgery.] It was the kind of tumor you can recover from, though the surgery itself was long and dangerous. Monitors beep and pulse in the room. I haven’t brushed my teeth yet. A whooshing sound announces an automatic blood-pressure check. If this was a television show, they’d let him rest.
The nurse sets a walker near his bed, and I know already that it isn’t big enough for him. He’s far too tall for the little chrome contraption at his side, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I watch the nurse adjust the handles. [The function of the “fly on the wall” moments are to show the narrator’s struggle to understand her role in this situation.]She purses her mouth while my husband pulls his long tired legs from under the covers. It’s too short, of course. It’s far too short.
She tells him they might have a different walker, and then she tells me she’ll be back.
When she’s gone, I come to his side. I almost sit down on the bed next to him, but he shakes his head, lifts a tube. There are many things plugged into him, around him. He doesn’t want to do this, and I’m a betrayer.
The nurse returns with a man in scrubs. He has a wide smile and a walker made for athletes. He’s got jokes and quick hands. Soon, my husband is up. He’s bent too far forward, but he doesn’t straighten. His grip is white on the handles.
The male nurse adjusts the tubes and bags and the long white cord attached to my husband’s finger.
I hold the door open and watch my husband take shaky steps toward me. [The structure looks like this: The narrator’s goal is to help her husband. The action and reaction moments happen as the nurse tries to get him out of bed and to the door. The walker is too short. A second nurse comes to help. The husband does make it to the door by the end of the scene, with the narrator finally finding a small way to help: by holding the door.] A gurney passes the doorway, rolling another woman’s husband to his room. He’s fresh from
the intensive-care unit. I know this because his wife is trailing behind with his overnight bag and she’s having trouble keeping up.
Over the next six weeks, I’ll become an expert in breathing exercises and pancreatic-fluid calculations. I’ll meet a seventy-five-year-old poet named Joan, and I’ll crush a huge black spider in the women’s-bathroom sink. I’ll cry in the parking garage twice, and on one of those days, I’ll finally call my father and then I’ll regret calling my father and I will seriously think about buying a pack of cigarettes but I will be too tired to stop at a store.
My husband nears me at the door, and I don’t understand the look on his face. [The pulse is heard throughout this story in the narrator’s interiority. She is sad and disappointed that she can’t do anything more significant to help her husband.] I smile at him and wait for him to smile back. He looks down at the scuffed linoleum as he shuffle-walks past me. I close the door behind us. He’s supposed to go all the way to the nurse’s station on this first journey, and I’m supposed to cheer him on. I’m supposed to be the one who knows what happens next.
Scene Openings
You don’t have much space when writing short stories and essays, so each scene should have a reason for inclusion. Short works tend to have only a few scenes, and some may only contain one. Make the most of this terrific storytelling tool by starting off strong.
Begin your scene at an interesting moment for your readers. Don’t start with the weather—that’s narrative. The actual scene begins when you zoom in on the action. Make that action something worthy of the space you’ve given it. Show someone in conflict. Don’t bother showing a woman driving to a party unless that drive is something interesting to watch and meaningful to your overall story. Instead, begin your scene at the moment that the party’s hostess greets this woman at the door and pretends not to know her.
Always orient your reader to the current time and place. Give subtle clues if you’d like, but there isn’t anything wrong with saying, “I arrived at my mother’s funeral to find two angry brothers and a sobbing priest.”
Just as important, your readers need to know when this scene is happening. If this is a piece about your childhood, let readers know your age or how long ago this event took place. If it is a futuristic science-fiction story, make sure readers understand that this isn’t taking place today.
If this is the second scene of a story or essay, make sure readers know how much time has passed between scenes. Consider something simple like this: “The next morning, I found Richard wading through our mother’s courtyard fountain with his pants rolled up, plucking out coins.”
Action and Reaction
Every scene is a volley between action and reaction. An event happens, causing a character to respond. This pattern isn’t something you need to learn from scratch—you already know it. It’s the pattern of basic human participation.
For example, say you’re writing about the time you wanted a promotion (or you’re writing a short story about someone who wants a promotion). To start, you ask your boss for a promotion. Your boss doesn’t think you’re ready, so he says, “No.” You really want the job, so you articulate your qualifications. You’re told the position has already been assigned to your assistant. You slam your fist on the desk and demand to talk to management. You’re told to get out of the office. You reach for a stapler and aim it at your boss’s head. And so on. Every action had a reaction, and that reaction was an action worthy of its own reaction.
Each reaction moment is actually a complex internal process. First, we have an emotion. Next, we have a thought. These two items might sound too similar to bother separating, but both have their own function. Emotion is organic, and that emotion spurs a thought. That thought is the moment we assess the situation. Both of these reaction beats are important when telling your stories. They help illuminate character motivation.
We can highlight the reaction beats in our example by zooming in closer. Let’s look back at the moment you asked your boss for a raise. He said, “No.” Your first response isn’t the line of dialogue where you express your qualifications. Your first response was an emotion. Maybe you felt annoyed, shocked, or angry. Any emotion can then spur a thought. That thought might be: I can’t believe he’s going to make me beg. It could also be: He knows I was the one to save the Adams account. Whatever the thought is, that’s the moment when you (or your character) are assessing the situation and preparing an appropriate reaction.
Tip: The intricacies of your essay or story’s reaction moments might be tougher to spot than action moments, and that’s a good thing. Reactions should be subtle. We have an emotion and then a thought, but there might only be a second or two between these things and they don’t each require a spotlight in your prose, especially during emotionally charged moments.
In a scene, this volley of action and reaction happens constantly, but there is also an overall scene pattern: goal, conflict, disaster, emotion, thought, decision, action. Those first three items identify scene-specific action moments, and the last four are bigger-picture reaction moments. Let’s take a closer look at each of them here:
Action Beats
GOAL: What does the character or narrator want in this scene? In our example, the goal is to get a promotion.
CONFLICT: Why can’t that character have it right now? The boss said “no” and continues to say “no” in an action-and-reaction pattern that leads to the disaster.
DISASTER: This is an obvious obstacle, the unanticipated but logical moment that relates to the goal. It’s the moment your narrative turns. Disaster can come early or late in the scene. Without it, the scene is boring. In our example, this is the moment when your boss tells you that your assistant has already been given the job you want.
Reaction Beats
EMOTION: As humans, our first response is almost always an emotion. Your stories and essays need to reflect that. In our example, that emotion is anger (shown by your slamming your fist on the desk).
THOUGHT: We process our reaction by labeling our feelings. We process in this order: review, analyze, plan. In our example, you demand to speak to management—this is how you review your circumstances, analyze your worth. You plan to plead your case, but wait; your boss wants you out of the office.
DECISION: We decide what we should do next. This can be rational or irrational, and in this case, it’s irrational.
ACTION: We take the first step toward our plan. You pick up the stapler.
“Small motions give a static scene energy. This is especially true for scenes that are dialogue-heavy. When something is moving around in the background or off to the side of the central event/conversation, that motion makes the reader more aware of the stakes.”
—JEANNE LYET GASSMAN
A Look at Conflict in Scenes
Characters have personal agendas that drive their decisions and actions. Secondary characters have goals, too, and sometimes those goals are in direct opposition to the goals of the main character. This causes fantastic, story-worthy conflict.
Tension and conflict will keep your readers turning the page. Raise the emotional stakes in your conflict whenever you can. Emotional stakes include suffering, sacrifice, jeopardy, sexual tension, and frustration, among others. You can use venting, praying, whining, and cajoling to reveal the emotional stakes. Ask yourself, “Where can I include one or more of these in my current piece of work?”
Not all conflict is as direct as two people battling it out, though. Conflict worth reading about can also be caused by poor health, dangerous weather, low self-esteem, and other less-obvious problems. Anytime a person’s goal hits a hurdle, you’ve got conflict. Your job is to add tension through acceleration, which increases reader involvement. Make your readers wonder: Will he ever walk again? Will she be brave enough to tell her mother the truth? Will she reach the phone in time to hear his last words?
How to End a Scene
You’ll want to end a scene when the tension is released. That doesn’t
mean a moment when the conflict has been resolved, but it could. Maybe it’s a moment when someone has made a declaration or an offer. A time when there has been an interruption. An agreement. A kiss. It can be a moment, especially when writing essays, where you want to pause for personal reflection.
Think about the last thing you want to give readers in your scene. What do you want them to feel? Do you want them to worry? Empathize? Cry? You, the writer, have some say in that. Choose words purposefully to convey the emotion you want readers to experience.
This moment doesn’t require much wrap-up, if any. Show that interruption or agreement or kiss, and end the scene right there. No need to explain anything further or translate the events in some concessionary sentence. Just move ahead to the next scene. Your readers will interpret the events for themselves.
Make Every Scene Count
OPEN YOUR SCENE AT THE LAST POSSIBLE MOMENT. No need to give any backstory. Jump right into an important moment. Your scenes are jewels on a necklace with gold narrative holding them together. Each scene must be worthy of its place on that necklace, a gleaming well-cut gem.
ALWAYS END YOUR SCENES BY RELEASING TENSION. Don’t summarize for your readers. Get out, and move on.
CHOOSE THE RIGHT POINT-OF-VIEW CHARACTER FOR THE SCENE. In any essay, you—the writer—are going to be the main character, but sometimes you might tell a story through someone else’s eyes. It’s these times when you’ll have a choice. In any scene, your main character should be the person with the most to lose. They are the most interesting to watch because they have something at stake. Their goal feels the most compelling.
Writing & Selling Short Stories & Personal Essays Page 6
