Techniques of the Selling Writer

by Swain, Dwight V.

  It’s also the reason why unified opposition is more useful in building reader interest than is fragmented opposition. Small, annoying oppositions wear out your focal character rather than overwhelming him. Like guerrilla fighters, they hack away at him without giving him a chance to join battle.

  But heroism ordinarily lies in striking back. Your character needs some one central figure he can defeat and thus resolve his problem.

  This is where a villain comes in handy. Broad social forces may, in the last analysis, be at the root of your hero’s troubles. But it helps if you bring them to life in the person of one individual, if only so that John has someone to punch in the nose at the climax!

  (6) The opposition is weak.

  The strength of your villain is the strength of your story.

  Writers who lack confidence in their focal characters sometimes try to solve the problem by making villains weak. Result: weak scenes. Remedy: stronger villains. Under stress, your hero may prove doughtier than you think!

  (7) The scene is fragmentary or trivial.

  Another name for this headache is lack of adequate external development. The fact that someone spills a drink on your hero’s freshly-pressed pants doesn’t offer meat enough to build a scene, unless further complications ensue.

  (8) The scene is monotonous.

  Same problem; same solution.

  The key symptom here is a tendency on the part of your characters to go over and over the same ground, haggling and rehashing the same issues endlessly.

  What to do about it?

  (a) Throw in more external development.

  Especially, throw in more unanticipated twists. If the wife insists on calling the telephone number she found in her husband’s wallet, and which he insists he knows nothing about, let one of the wife’s old flames answer. Then the happy couple at least will have something fresh to argue over!

  (b) Give the characters themselves more diversity.

  Extra facets and modifying traits will keep them from growing so dull and predictable.

  (9) The disaster isn’t disastrous enough.

  Again, don’t be afraid to give your hero trouble. The future should always hinge on each scene’s outcome—that is, its disaster. It should have potentially disastrous consequences for your character.

  If it lacks such, who cares about it?

  (10) The disaster isn’t indigenous to the scene.

  A disaster should be unanticipated yet logical. That means, it should grow out of your materials. Every writer uses Acts of God now and then, in order to get his hero deeper into trouble. But as a general rule, it’s wise to maintain some sort of relationship between your key story people and a scene’s disaster.

  Thus, rival George Garvey provides John’s disaster in our sample scene. A belligerently drunken bum might have caused trouble just as well. But he’d have had little relationship to the story beyond mere complication; and readers draw more satisfaction from motivated action.

  Does all this sound ever so complicated to you? It isn’t; not really. Once you get the knack of manipulating your goal-conflict-disaster pattern deftly, you can lay out a scene on a three-by-five card and still have plenty of room left over to set down . . .

  The sequel in skeleton

  A sequel is a unit of transition that links two scenes, like the coupler between two railroad cars. It sets forth your focal character’s reaction to the scene just completed, and provides him with motivation for the scene next to come.

  What are the functions of sequel?

  a. To translate disaster into goal.

  b. To telescope reality.

  c. To control tempo.

  How does sequel translate disaster into goal?

  It provides a bridge that gives your character—and your reader—a plausible reason for striking out in a particular direction that will bring Character into further conflict.

  Exhibit A: The prize fight.

  Recovering from his k.o., Hero faces the future. He’s been licked. So, should he now retire from boxing . . . seek a rematch . . . attack his opponent again—this time, outside the ring? His possible courses of action are virtually infinite.

  Yet only when he reaches a decision as to which road to take can your story logically proceed.

  Why?

  Because each road sets up a different goal. A decision to retire establishes one objective for our boxer: to find a job. Let him seek a rematch, and he’s faced with a different problem: to persuade various powers that be that he’s not a has-been. And so on.

  Enter sequel: the decision-making area; the bridge from one scene to another.

  A scene, remember, is a unit of conflict. Your reader reads it because he likes to live through a struggle with your character . . . battle opposition . . . find an answer to the implied question of who wins and who loses.

  But sooner or later, every battle ends: on a hook, a question, a disaster.

  Eagerly, then, your reader reads on. He seeks that happy moment when your story-forces once again come into conflict.

  Here, you must be very, very wary. For conflict for conflict’s sake isn’t enough.

  Why not?

  Because it’s meaningless.

  That is, it bears no clear-cut cause-effect relationship to what’s gone before. It’s not the result of, or reaction to, preceding struggles. When a stranger “just happens” to slug your character in a barroom brawl, it’s conflict without cause within the limits of your story. As such, it’s also an evasion of the long-range issues.

  This your reader won’t accept. He demands that your character’s efforts have meaning. They must be the consequence of prior development and the product of intelligence and direction. So, unless you’ve planted proper motivation, he’ll resent it if your boxer, for no apparent reason, slugs a cop or stomps the arena doorman. Nor will he be satisfied, for that matter, if a gang of young hoodlums chooses this particular moment to pelt your vanquished warrior with rotten eggs, not even knowing who he is.

  In other words, your reader must have logic as well as interest . . . plausibility in addition to excitement.

  Without such, the very tension Reader seeks is likely to be lost. Fiction is built on a suspension of disbelief. If your story people behave irrationally or without cause, normal discernment rises to shatter the illusion you’re trying to create. Your reader insists that there be a reason for each new battle; that conflict be motivated; that it make sense for your character to strive toward a particular new goal.

  This is where sequel comes in. Implicitly and/or explicitly, it reveals how your focal character chooses his new course of action. It reassures your reader that this is a sensible person, worthy of acceptance.

  To that end, sequel traces Character’s chain of logic; his pattern of rationalization.

  Thus, sequel is aftermath—the state of affairs and state of mind that shapes your character’s behavior after disaster has knocked him down.

  How does sequel telescope reality?

  Making a decision may take time.

  It may demand movement.

  Often, it calls for introduction of new material . . . undramatic material, even . . . to help your character decide.

  Again, consider our boxer. Hours or days or weeks may pass before he can make up his mind as to precisely what he wants to do about his lost fight.

  Presented in detail, such a time lapse will bog down your story.

  Finally, Character decides to meet his opponent in Minneapolis: a transition in space. Yet the trip itself is unimportant. It’s a mere means to the end of a return match.

  Travel with Character mile by mile, and again your story will bog down.

  Before Character can fight, he must attend to a host of undramatic details. There’ll be meals to eat, nights to sleep, people to meet . . . plus endless hours of routine training.

  Written in scene-type detail, all this will bring your yarn to a grinding halt.

  You face a problem of proportion. Summary
is essential.

  Summary is what you get when you abstract or abridge. It’s that part of a story in which the writer says that things are happening, or that they have happened. It’s telling, not showing; or, at best, a combination of the two.

  Summary telescopes reality. And this telescoping is sequel’s second function.

  How does sequel control tempo?

  It lets you allocate space and emphasis to get the effect you want.

  A story is a series of peaks and valleys; big moments and small.

  It’s not just a continuing climax.

  To that end, you work for mood . . . select detail . . . capture the flavor of life. Through elaboration or excision, you thrust the peaks high, cut the valleys deep . . . hammer home the climactic moments without losing contact with the incidental.

  Thus, where our boxer is concerned, we must give the big fight its full due as climax and milk it of every ounce of impact.

  At the same time, however, in brief space, we must somehow convey the sense of time passing, and capture the grind and dreariness of the training routine.

  In fact, we must contrast the peak of emotional intensity of the fight itself with the dragging hours that go before. It’s essential to speed up here, slow down there . . . in brief, control the tempo.

  What unifies sequel and holds it together?

  Topic.

  What is topic?

  The subject of a discourse or any section of it.

  What’s the subject of sequel?

  It’s your character’s reaction to his plight. It’s preoccupation with the problem the preceding scene posed.

  It says, in effect, “I’ve been defeated, humiliated, overwhelmed by a disaster. What do I do now?”

  With that preoccupation riding him, Character works out an answer. Then he pinpoints it in a decision to attack a new goal.

  Thus, sequel has a 1-2-3 structure:

  (1) Reaction.

  (2) Dilemma.

  (3) Decision.

  How does this work?

  To demonstrate, let’s build a sequel to follow the scene that starred our fighter.

  The scene climaxed in a knockout—for Character, disaster.

  Where does that leave our man? What’s his state of affairs and state of mind?

  His manager will have a role in this: “Sorry, kid; you’ve had it. Don’t call me; I’ll call you.”

  His girl too, maybe: “Sure, I love you, honey. But marry a punch-drunk pug—what’s there in that for anybody?”

  State of affairs often is revealed in the reaction of others to your character’s disaster.

  How about state of mind?

  What would you expect? What’s happened is enough to rouse fears in anyone: Is he really no good? Has he, indeed, had it?

  Together, state of affairs and state of mind constitute the aftermath of disaster.

  Out of it all, a question rises: What’s Character to do now? Should he accept defeat? Find a new girl? Get a job hustling packing-cases in a warehouse?

  Character broods about it numbly while the trainer strips off the gloves and cuts away the bandages. He goes on brooding while he showers and dresses. What happens doesn’t matter, save insofar as it lends reality to the moment. The disaster is all that counts; the disaster, and your character’s preoccupation with it.

  Later, he walks the streets. There’s a steak that somehow turns to ashes in his mouth, and drinks that burn but don’t brighten. That night he tosses, sleepless, on a lumpy mattress in a cheap hotel room.

  This black despair—it may go on for days or weeks, or it may be over in a moment.

  Or, perhaps, the thing he feels isn’t despair, but fury, or relief, or grim determination. But whatever it is, it’s reaction: your character’s reaction to his very real, very personal disaster.

  Then that too fades, pushed back at least a trifle by the need to face the future.

  What should he do? That’s the question.

  It’s also Character’s dilemma: a situation involving choice between equally unsatisfactory alternatives.

  Deftly or clumsily, blithely or bitterly, our man works out an answer. Decision emerges: Hell try to set up a rematch in Minneapolis.

  It’s a new goal. Our character’s efforts to attain it will give rise to further conflict; another scene to catch and hold a reader.

  Logically, plausibly, sequel has brought it into being.

  Now let’s try the pattern again . . . this time on our other scene, the one that featured John and George and Suzy.

  Scene climax: disaster.

  What’s John’s reaction to it?

  Humiliation, of course. How would you like to be thrown out of the malt shop, right before the very eyes of the girl you’re trying to impress?

  So, John feels humiliation. Plus rage. Plus frustration. Plus half-a-dozen other mixed, unnamable emotions that add up almost to apoplexy.

  Sensible enough, right? Understandable? Acceptable?

  But what can he do about it? George is big and brawny and in star-halfback condition.

  Besides, in her panic, Suzy has already backed down on going to the prom.

  Enter dilemma.

  So, John goes off to lick his wounded ego and to brood: Should he appeal to Suzy’s father? To Suzy herself? To Aunt Hephzibah?

  Ridiculous thoughts, all of them. Even John can see it. Yet he’s got to do something—not only because he wants Suzy himself, but because he’s convinced that George is interested in her for purely mercenary reasons.

  Notice what this does for your reader:

  First-off, he gets a chance to suffer and worry with and about John.

  Second, he considers the possibilities that he himself might come up with. Seeing the weakness in each, he realizes that John can’t take those roads.

  Third, he sees there’s a reason John can’t quit.

  In other words, here in the sequel we’ve introduced additional elements to logic and plausibility to hook your reader tighter to the story.

  Perhaps we even add an incident or two, in which John asks friends for advice, to no avail.

  (An incident is a sort of abortive scene, in which your character attempts to reach a goal. But he meets with no resistance, no conflict. When a boy seeks to kiss a girl who’s equally eager to kiss him, you have an incident.)

  Or maybe there are happenings along the way, in which John meets acquaintances. But because he’s preoccupied with his problem, he fails to respond to their greetings.

  (A happening brings people together. But it’s non-dramatic, because no goal or conflict is involved.)

  Both these sub-units are legitimate enough. In fact, they’re desirable, insofar as they add touches of realism to your work. But since they lack conflict, they don’t hold enough real interest to sustain attention for long.

  So here stands John, balanced precariously on the horns of his dilemma. By now the whole situation seems so impossible to him that he begins to wonder if he was a fool to give up Cecile for Suzy in the first place.

  Cecile—!

  Suppose he were to take Cecile to the prom instead of Suzy! While she bears him no love, at this point, she still might be persuaded if he could put forth the right incentive. Mercenary little minx that she is, she might even agree to make a play for George; and if George responded, Suzy’s eyes would indeed be opened!

  It’s a long shot, obviously . . . the kind of deal that very well might backfire. But under the circumstances, it’s worth a try.

  First step: Sell Cecile!

  It is decision . . . a new goal for John to strive toward. And count on it, conflict will inevitably follow.

  At least, it will if we make proper use of our scene pattern!

  Reaction . . . dilemma . . . decision. All the parts are there. It’s a sequel.

  Sequel and scene: the search for a goal . . . then the struggle to attain it. These are fiction’s two basic units.

  To lay out a story, repeat the pattern to fill the desired
length: scene . . . sequel . . . scene . . . sequel . . . scene . . . sequel. . . .

  Can you begin with sequel?

  Yes, of course.—More about this, though, when we get to the problems of the beginning.

  These are basic tools. They work. Practice using them every chance you get. Goals, conflicts, disasters, reactions, dilemmas, decisions—you meet them a hundred times a day, in fragmentary form, whenever you come in contact with other people.

  So, take advantage of those fragments. Build forward and/or backward from them, elaborating from chance remarks or observed details into complete scenes, complete sequels; even combinations.

  My late colleague Professor Walter S. Campbell used to say that he began to sell as soon as he mastered scene format.

  One of my former students echoes the sentiment. He’s just seen his thirteenth book published.

  So, is that all there is to fiction? Just learning to plan scenes and sequels?

  Well, not quite. It also helps if you can write them!

  Writing the scene

  Whether you’re aware of it or not, you’ve already acquired most of the technical tricks you need to write a scene. You picked them up in Chapter 3.

  What are they?

  a. Orientation.

  b. Motivating stimulus.

  c. Character reaction.

  d. Pattern of emotion.

  e.—And all the other implications and side issues Chapter 3 set forth.

  A scene is a struggle, a unit of conflict, remember. So you put it together like the fight in which our boxer was knocked out: The bell rings. Focal character and opponent come out of their corners, each determined to attain his private goal. And from there on, it’s just a matter of motivation and reaction: for every move, a countermove; for every punch, a counterpunch . . . until one or the other goes down or the bell again rings.

  The big thing to bear in mind is that a scene is unified by time. There aren’t any breaks or lapses in it, any more than there are in living.

  Consequently, you write in a series of interlocked M-R units, as continuous as water gushing from a faucet. Each motivating stimulus evokes an appropriate reaction from the focal character. Each character reaction triggers—or at least is followed by—a pertinent motivating stimulus. Unit hooks to unit in a fast-linking chain. State of affairs intermeshes with state of mind. Goal is established. Your character’s efforts to attain it plunge him into conflict. He fights through a seesaw pattern of furtherance and hindrance, gain and loss, until—just when he thinks he’s won—disaster suddenly overwhelms him.