by Don George
To the newcomer, cowboys are the surprise of the American West, like finding Romans in pleated togas waiting for the trolley buses on the Via Appia. Towns like Laramie and Cheyenne and Medicine Bow and Kit Carson are full of people who seem to have wandered off the back lot at MGM. They wear boots and ten-gallon hats and leather waistcoats. In town they drink in saloons with swing doors and stand around on street corners in a bow-legged fashion. Back at the ranch their nearest neighbors are miles away. The men are lean laconic figures with lopsided grins. The women look like their idea of a good time would be to rope you and ride you round the corral awhile. The women are rather chatty. With cowboys there is a lot of silence to fill.
The West is America’s most vibrant subculture with its own music, its own fashions, its own political orientation and its own folklore. They care nothing for the suburban world that is the American mainstream. They talk of Washington and back east as if they were part of Red China. It is one of the pleasures of Wyoming to find Americans who are as cantankerous and as skeptical as the regulars of any Yorkshire pub. If the West is the spiritual home of America’s ardent individualism, it is the landscape that is to blame. Between the Missouri River and the Rocky Mountains lies a vast swathe of country that early cartographers called the Great American Desert. They were wrong but you can see where they got the idea. The West is a landscape of skies and infinities. In the loneliness of this place, self-reliance becomes a kind of religion. When the first settlers tried to farm this land, it broke their hearts. The West did not take kindly to the idea of fields. It was a vast sea of grass, a landscape for horses.
The rodeos that are held in small towns all over the West are like church fetes with Budweiser tents and bullriders, a chance to meet the neighbors and complain about the government. They are also the moment for the big showdown between the cowboys and the horses.
With this beguiling beginning, Stewart introduces a multifaceted theme: visiting rodeos is a singular method of developing an appreciation for the history, quintessential qualities and contemporary culture of the American West. Through five spare paragraphs he paints a vivid and compelling portrait of the ensuing tale’s main characters: cowboys, horses, and the infinite landscape they inhabit. By the end of that beginning, Stewart has already given us a good notion of where he’s going – in search of rodeos – and a seductive sense of the riches and mysteries we’ll find if we accompany him on the ride.
The article ‘Las Vegas’, by British travel writer and editor Simon Calder, published in the Independent, begins with this quirky angle on that city:
Neon: you need to know two things about this gas. The first is that it is, in elementary terms, a relative newcomer; even though it is present in small quantities in the air we breathe, it was identified only a century ago by a French scientist named Georges Claude. The second is that, being inert, neon is intrinsically dull. Oh, unless you pass an electric charge through it, as M Claude did. Do that, and it can light up the desert and dazzle the world.
Las Vegas was just a flicker in the eye of the San Pedro, Los Angeles and Salt Lake City Railroad when M Claude announced his discovery. The first neon sign in North America was sold in 1923 to a Packard dealership in Los Angeles.
At the time, the Mormons mistakenly thought they had discovered a promised, and morally safe, haven in the middle of the Mojave Desert. By the Thirties, they had lost faith with Las Vegas – and the rest of the world had lost interest in the fact that neon glows red in the dark and that, when mixed with a little mercury, its elementary cousin argon turns bright blue. But Las Vegas had barely begun to experiment with the extreme right-hand side of the Periodic Table of Elements.
Helium radiates a lurid magnolia when suitably fired up; krypton issues a steely silver; while xenon emits the palest blue. These elementary truths helped Las Vegas find its place in the world.
By presenting Las Vegas in this unexpected light, Calder prepares us for – and entices us into – a new appreciation of this much-described city.
Adventure writer and novelist Kira Salak begins her powerful article ‘Libya: The Land of Cruel Deaths’, published in National Geographic Adventure, with these simple, compelling sentences:
‘You come, Madame,’ the man says to me.
He wants to show me something – something ‘special.’ And maybe it’s the sincere look in his eyes, the supplication, the knowing, but I follow this complete stranger across Tripoli’s Green Square and through the stone gate of the ancient medina, or historic Arab quarter. It’s my first night in Libya; I arrived only three hours ago in a country that’s still a mystery of culture shock and conjecture.
Who could resist following her – and her mysterious guide – into the medina?
Finally, an example of a beginning that combines the narrative and thematic approach. This comes from a story of my own, published in Signature magazine:
There are no tavernas, no discotheques, no pleasure boats at anchor. Nor are there churches, windmills, or goatherds. Delos, three miles long and less than one mile wide, is a parched, rocky island of ruins, only 14 miles from Mykonos, Aegean playground of the international vagabonderie. Once the center of the Panhellenic world, Delos has been uninhabited since the first century AD, fulfilling a proclamation of the Delphic oracle that ‘no man or woman shall give birth, fall sick or meet death on the sacred island.’
I chanced on Delos during my first visit to Greece. After three harrowing days of seeing Athens by foot, bus and taxi, my traveling companion and I were ready for open seas and uncrowded beaches. We selected Mykonos on the recommendation of a friend, who also suggested that when we tired of the Beautiful People, we should take a side trip to Delos.
On arriving in Mykonos, we learned that for under $3 we could catch a fishing trawler to Delos (where the harbor is too shallow for cruise ships) any morning at eight and return to Mykonos at one the same afternoon. On the morning of our fourth day we braved choppy seas and ominous clouds to board a rusty, peeling boat that reeked of fish. With a dozen other tourists, we packed ourselves into the ship’s tiny cabin, already crowded with anchors, ropes and wooden crates bearing unknown cargo.
At some point during the 45-minute voyage, the toss and turn of the waves became too much for a few of the passengers, and I moved outside into the stinging, salty spray. As we made our way past Rhenea, the callus-like volcanic island that forms part of the natural breakwater with Delos, the clouds cleared, and the fishermen who had docked their caiques at the Delos jetty greeted us in bright sunlight.
At the end of the dock a white-whiskered man in a navy blue beret and a faded black suit hailed each one of us as we walked by: ‘Tour of Delos! Informative guide to the ruins.’ A few yards beyond him a young boy ran up to us, all elbows and knees, and confided in hard breaths, ‘I give you better tour. Cheaper too.’
This approach is more purely chronological than the in medias res method. It provides a thematic framework for the piece, promising that the rest of the story will detail how my experience in Delos offered encounters and lessons that deepened my appreciation of Greece.
Each of these beginnings successfully draws the reader into the story and induces them to keep reading because they are intrigued by the possibilities and want to know what happens next. Each hook promises that the reader will be entertained if they continue reading, and introduces questions that can only be answered by plunging deeper into the text.
What beginning will work best for you? Think about where you want the reader to be at the start of your story. How do you want your tale to unfold? What is the main point of your story? What’s the best way to get that point across?
However you structure your beginning, remember that it is the doorway to your story – and that in the eyes of an overworked editor, it’s also your calling card. The beginning is your one chance to inspire the editor to read more. Many editors read hundreds of submissions a week; in effect, when they take your story in hand, they are looking for a reason to reject it
as quickly as possible. If your beginning doesn’t work, the editor will not read any further.
Exercise 4
Considering the trip you wrote about in Exercise 3, try to write an in medias res (in the middle of things) lead for your story. Think of the pivotal or most emotionally intense moment in your piece. Describe the prelude to that moment – the instance before the tiger, literal or figurative, appeared. Write two to four paragraphs – 400 words maximum – that place your reader right there with you in that scene. Could you begin your story this way?
Exercise 5
Consider a recent trip. What was the first moment you really felt drawn into the place you were visiting? How did that happen – was it a person who drew you in, or a scene? What was the first connection? And what occurred when you, like Kira Salak, took those first steps into the metaphorical medina? Write a 200–300-word lead, drawing your reader into your story by depicting the way you were drawn into a particular place.
Organizing the middle section
Most travel stories are structured by following either a thematic or narrative strategy. If your story is thematic, you will develop the middle section as an ascending succession of examples leading to your overriding point. If it’s a narrative, you will most likely develop the central section of your story as a chronological sequence of anecdotal incidents that embody and reveal the main points of your piece.
In stories that are organized along chronological, narrative lines, the author will focus on selected moments in their travels to draw out the most important aspects of their tales. Along the way we will often be presented with portraits of people and places, history and culture, all interconnected in the unfolding of the author’s experience, and culminating in unexpected revelations and resolutions. The result, done well, is a moving and multi-layered travel tale.
Let’s say I want to write an article expressing my conviction that Croatia is the next big destination for travelers. First, I’d ask myself why I feel this way. Well, let’s see: it’s beautiful, it has a rich history, the people are warm and it’s great value. I’ve isolated four salient points to support my theme, so the next question is order of importance.
To organize my story in terms of accelerating emotional connection, I’ll lead with the point about value for money as it’s the least emotional and most practical or logical consideration. History begins to involve the heart but is still fundamentally intellectual, so that would be second. Beauty is a more emotional consideration, drawing readers into the story via their soul. The people connection represents what I think is the climax of my trip, and the climax of travel itself, so that would come last. My final point is the top of the pyramid, but every step along the way contributes to my story’s overall resonance and effectiveness.
Next, I’ll search through my notes and draw out the experiences that brought these points to life. The hostel in Dubrovnik that cost just £15 a night, or that extraordinary meal under the stars that was £5. That’s where I learned how inexpensive the place was, relatively speaking.
The historical richness of the country came to life in Dubrovnik, when I walked along the walls of the old city and saw roof tiles shattered during the war lying side by side with new roof tiles built to replace them – a poignant reminder of the constant presence of the past, but also an inspiring example of how tourism can help rebuild a place.
Croatia’s beauty was obvious: the rocky coast and the shadowing cypresses, the wildflowers in bloom and not a person in sight.
And then it all came together for me on my last night in Dubrovnik, when I went out to dinner with a local tour guide and she told me about how her family had suffered during the war, how the entire country had suffered, but there was now new hope blooming in the land.
On reviewing these experiences, I realize that the historic part of the piece has more emotional resonance for me than the beautiful landscape. And so, I rearrange the segments. I start with the prices, then move on to the beauty and the history, and end with my meal with the tour guide. I’ll have to make sure I pay attention to the transitions between the sections, but the piece is already taking shape in my mind. I’ve figured out how to structure the middle, and now it’s just a question of bringing the individual examples to vivid life.
Exercise 6
Considering the trip you wrote about in Exercise 4, list the eight most important events that occurred during that journey. Order them by their importance to your understanding of the place or the impact of the place on you. Do you see a thread connecting at least some of these events? Does this thread lead to some conclusion or revelation? Does it illuminate something important about the place, or about yourself? If so, you may hold the itinerary of your story right there in your hands. Choose the four most important events and write 300-word descriptions of each.
Writer’s tip: The emotional hierarchy
If you’re having difficulty starting, try making a list of the most important experiences you had on your trip, and then organize them in terms of their effect on you. I employed this method when struggling to begin an article about the South Pacific island of Aitutaki, and instantly a framing connection appeared: on my first night I’d attended an island-wide event to choose candidates for the annual Cook Islands dance competition, and the climactic experience of my stay was dancing a traditional Cook Islands dance on stage with local performers. So I began my story this way: ‘Four drums pounded a deep, incessant rhythm through the sultry South Pacific night. A ukulele plunked plangent notes into the air. A smiling-eyed young beauty with copper skin and flowing hair, wearing a palm-frond skirt and a coconut bra, took me by the hand. “Will you dance with me?”’
Building blocks
One fundamentally important element to consider when shaping your story is its structural development. Think of each story as a set of building blocks. The beginning lays the foundation, and the middle builds on that foundation. It is essential that each part of the story builds upon the part that came before. This building up needs to be logical – that is, the progression of ideas and events in the story has to make sense – but it should also be thematic and emotional.
When you are editing your own article, ask yourself if each section advances the story in the direction it needs to go, and whether each section builds upon the one before. In order to answer these questions, you need to be clear about your article’s overall aim – this is fundamental to a successful travel article. As long as you know your story’s goal, you’ll be able to tell if your story is proceeding clearly and powerfully, block by block. With each new addition, ask yourself: does the reader need to know this? Does this take the reader one step closer to the overall point? If you stray from your overall aim, you’ll lose your reader.
Making transitions
In crafting a story, transitions are one of the writer’s most important tools, linking one paragraph to another, and one section of a piece to the next. If you think of your article as a journey, the transitions are the stepping stones or tiny bridges that help the reader along – without them, the reader would fall into the chasm of incomprehensibility. Transitions give your piece coherence; they make sure your story follows logically from one step to the next, and they make sure you don’t lose your reader along the way.
Transitions from one paragraph to another usually pick up a detail, image or theme from the last sentence in the preceding paragraph. In a chronological description, the sequential rush of events generally provides its own transitions, but when you leap from one event to another, you need to make sure that the reader leaps with you. Occasionally, you will find that there is no appropriate transition at a particular place in a story, or that you don’t want to craft a transition – you want to make a clear break in the narrative.
This is the place to use a section break, indicated in the text by a line break or a graphic element, which signals to the reader that you have ended one sequence and are beginning another. The reader will leap with you over the break, but without t
hat visual cue, the reader will expect you to lead them along by the hand.
Writer’s tip: Highlight events
When making a list of highlight events, it’s helpful to jot down a few notes about the significance of each. For example, here’s the list of events I made for the Aitutaki article mentioned here, along with the qualities each one represented, or illuminated, for me:
1. Dinner at Café Tupuna (island cuisine using all local ingredients, friendliness of people).
2. The Cook Islands dance competition (culture).
3. Island driving tour (landscape, history – marae: pre-Christian ceremonial site).
4. Meeting local woodcarver and pareu-maker (culture, arts).
5. Visit to One Foot Island (beauty, tranquility).
6. Church service in Arutanga (history, island spirit and tradition).
7. Dinner at Samade restaurant (cuisine).
8. Dancing on stage with performers at Samade (dance, tradition – climax of stay).
I ordered these events in terms of their chronological order and emotional impact, and that order became the ‘roadmap’ for my article.
Achieving narrative closure
The end of your article needs to do three intricately related things: bring the focus of your piece to a satisfying conclusion; tie the story back to its beginning; and deliver the reader back to the world.
The article about Las Vegas by Simon Calder quoted earlier in this chapter concludes with a reference that nicely brings the piece full circle:
