by Jack Bickham
What is the pattern of a scene? Fundamentally, it is:
• Statement of goal.
• Introduction and development of conflict.
• Failure of the character to reach his goal, a tactical disaster.
Readers generally find nothing as enthralling as conflict. Most popular novels, for example, are basically the record of a prolonged struggle. But as we mentioned in chapter 2, a story of any length must have some sort of movement or progress; you can't expect a reader to be patient very long with a story that drags out a single, unchanging conflict over many, many pages. You know the kind of static, unchanging conflict I mean; you see it when small children argue:
Mary: "Mommy, make him stop! He hit me!"
Billy: "I did not!"
"Did so!"
"Did not!"
"Did so!"
"Did not!"
"Did so!"
"Did not!"
Maybe the story question at the start of this little plot was: "Will Mary get mommy to make Billy stop?" And this question very quickly became: "Will Mary convince mommy in light of Billy's denial?" But that's as far as it got; Mary and Billy kept fighting about exactly the same issue, over and over and over again, ad infinitum.
Fusses like this drive mommies nuts.
If you have ever had the misfortune of witnessing an argument between partners in a failing marriage or troubled relationship, you may have seen another example of circular argument: Complaint brings on counter-complaint, which gets us nowhere, or one partner's statement may stimulate the other to say something like, "That's not what you're really thinking at all!" —which also gets nowhere in terms of a solution to anything.
Such circular nondevelopment of conflict in fiction drives readers nuts, too. Or, more likely, drives them away from your story.
How do you avoid such circularity in your fiction? By writing scenes.
THE GOAL
The scene, you see, has conflict at its heart, but is not static. It is a dynamic structural component with a definite internal pattern which forces the story to move forward as the scene plays — and as a result of its ending.
The prototypical scene begins with the most important character— invariably the viewpoint character—walking into a situation with a definite, clear-cut, specific goal which appears to be immediately attainable. This goal represents an important step in the character's game plan — something to be obtained or achieved which will move him one big step closer to attainment of his major story goal.
You will remember that stories start with a character jarred out of his sense of ease by a disturbing development of some kind that represents threatening change in the status quo. The character, we said then, forms an intention or long-term goal, the attainment of which will make things "right" again. The reader looks at this story goal statement and turns it into a long-term story question, so that the following type of dynamic takes place:
(Story goal) "I must be first to climb that mountain!" Fred said. [Reader's story question) "Will Fred succeed in being first to climb the mountain?"
With the result that the reader reads avidly, seeking an answer to the story question you the author gave him to worry about when you showed Fred's goal.
Obviously you can't allow Fred to succeed —or fail totally —on page 2 of your planned book —because if you do, the story question has been answered on page 2 and your story has ended on page 2. Development of a story depends on your ability to interpose obstacles between your hero and the attainment of his goal. Most often, this interposition of obstacles is accomplished by putting someone in the story's cast who will provide live, ongoing opposition—a villain figure—who will be in constant conflict with the hero, either by trying to beat him up the mountain by hook or crook, or by thwarting the hero with the idea of keeping him from ever reaching his goal.
Well, you couldn't write a novel with Fred simply saying, over and over, that he wanted to be first, and Bart snarling repeatedly, "Oh, no, you're not!" The conflict has to be developed and it has to move somewhere.
How do you accomplish this? By developing a series of scenes.
The scene begins with a stated, clear-cut goal. Sometimes the character can carry over his clear-cut, immediate goal from the previous scene, and sometimes he can think it, going in. (Once every hundred scenes, maybe you can get away with allowing the goal to be implicit, as I did in the scene quoted in the last chapter where I thought it was rather obvious that Collie Davis set out to chase the other car.) But most of the time the character actually states his immediate scene goal in obvious, unmistakable fashion.
Let's assume for a moment that we are starting to write a novel using Fred's goal of wanting desperately to be first to climb the mountain. The reader now forms his story question. But the story has to start someplace, and it has to show dynamic forward movement.
Let's further assume, then, that Fred comes up with a game plan for his quest. He decides that his first step must be to borrow sufficient money to equip his expedition. So he walks into the Ninth District Bank of Cincinnati, sits down with Mr. Greenback, the loan officer, and boldly states his goal, thus:
"Mr. Greenback, I want to be first to climb the mountain. But I must have capital to fund my expedition. Therefore I am here to convince you that you should lend me $75,000."
At this point, the reader sees clearly that this short-term goal relates importantly to the long-term story goal and the story question. So just as he formed a story question, the reader now forms a scene question, which again is a rewording of the goal statement: "Will Fred get the loan?"
Here is a note so important that I want to set it off typographically:
The scene question cannot be some vague, philosophical one such as, "Are bankers nice?" or "What motivates people like Fred?" The question is specific, relates to a definite, immediate goal, and can be answered with a simple yes or no.
Now: We've opened a potential scene. We have a character, we have a goal that relates to the story goal, and this short-term scene goal has been stated in no uncertain terms.
What next? It must be conflict.
Why? Not just because readers like conflict, but —again —because a prompt, satisfactory answer ends the scene at once and relaxes all tension in the reader. Let's imagine Mr. Greenback says, "I love mountain climbers, Fred, and I like you! Sure, you can have $75,000! But are you sure that will be enough? Are you sure you wouldn't like to borrow more?"
If you let this happen, the "scene" collapsed before it could get under way. Furthermore, Fred leaves happy and relaxed. The reader relaxes, too—and so loses interest in the story.
No. We can't have that. That's why we must develop conflict. And conflict —the give-and-take between two characters—will make up 95 to 98 percent of the length of the scene. Mr. Greenback cannot under any circumstances jovially agree to let Fred have the money at once. He must instead announce his opposition to the expedition right at the outset, and may even be openly hostile to Fred as a person.
He and Fred, in other words, have to fight.
Such scene fights are the be-all and end-all for lovers of fiction. Readers enjoy watching the antagonists punch and counterpunch. They love sweating bullets with the hero as he struggles for the upper hand. They get their excitement in the scenes—they like to live them in their imagination.
This being the case, you want to build your scenes as big as possible, and you want to make them just as believable —as lifelike —as you possibly can. The most important way you attain this end is by presenting each scene moment by moment, leaving nothing out, because there is no summary in real life, and you can't have any summary in the scene, either, if you are shooting for maximum lifelikeness and reader involvement.
And how do you structure this large, vital conflict portion of the scene to make it moment by moment? You do so by carefully following the rules of stimulus and response as outlined in chapter 3.
So Fred enters the bank and tells Mr. Greenback hi
s immediate goal. The reader forms this into a scene question, and then is enthralled as he watches Fred and the banker argue, counterpunch, voice objections, and marshal answers to the objections, and so on.
This particular scene in the bank will probably be almost entirely dialogue, with just enough gesture, facial expression, etc., thrown in to keep the reader physically oriented in his imagination. (Most scenes have dialogue in them —argument —but other types of scenes exist. Imagine a scene with no dialogue in it at all, one in which our heroine fights to keep her car on the road as the driver of another car keeps ramming her from behind and pulling up alongside, trying to edge her over the embankment.)
So far, so good. But every scene (like all other good things) must come to an end. We don't want this argument in the bank to run 350 pages! So how should it end? As said before, with a tactical disaster.
ENDING THE SCENE
"Disaster" in this usage does not often denote an earthquake, a flood, a plane crash, or anything like the things we often term disasters in real life. But use of the term is justified because the character —and the reader — experience the final twist in a scene as thoroughly bad —disastrous to the attainment of the immediate scene goal, and so a terrible setback in the quest for the story goal.
It seems clear why this should be so. If a character enters a scene, has a big struggle, and comes out with exactly what he went in for, then he is happy as a lark. Again—just as if there had been no fight at all — Fred is happy, the reader is happy—and all story tension just went down the drain.
This is why the scene, if it is to work as a building block in your novel, must end not well, but badly. Fred cannot be allowed to attain his scene goal. He must encounter a new setback. He must leave in worse shape than he was when he went in. Any time you can build a scene which leaves your character in worse shape, you have probably "made progress" in terms of your story's development!
In terms of the scene question, in other words, you cannot allow the answer to be a simple "yes!" Whatever the character wanted —whatever the scene question —the answer must be negative.
A simple "no!" may suffice. Returning to our example, Fred may be told after all his arguments and conflict with the banker that he simply will not receive a loan. When Fred walks out of the bank, he has been set back and is in worse shape than he was when he entered, because he has tried to take one of his hoped-for steps toward climbing the mountain, and has been rebuffed. At the very least, he has lost one option.
The banker might also, however, thwart Fred —and provide us with a disaster—in another way. He might give Fred a "yes!" answer, but one with so many strings attached that Fred can't accept it.
For example, Mr. Greenback might say, "Well, Fred, all right. You can have your loan. But you must agree to pay 60 percent interest, you must deed your automobile to us, and you must sell your mother's house and put her in a nursing home so we can be assured that you won't be messing around trying to help her when you're supposed to be climbing that mountain."
Such 'Yes, but" disasters are often better than a simple "No!" because they put the hero on the horns of a moral dilemma, and in making an ethical choice to turn down the crummy deal, he in effect brings on his own disaster. (Of such stuff are heroes often made.)
In addition, the banker could provide Fred with a "No, and furthermore!" disaster at the end of the scene. In such a case, the banker might finally lose patience with Fred's insistence that the mountain-climbing expedition is vital, and tell him something like, "Fred, you have tried my patience beyond endurance. I am now convinced that you are not only pushy, but dangerously obsessed. My answer is no, and furthermore, we are calling in the small note you already owe us. Pay up or go to jail!"
Obviously I've used a farfetched example here for purposes of exaggerated illustration. But as you study popular fiction in the days and weeks ahead, notice how often the scenes indeed do end with something more complex than a simple "No!" disaster—how the writer skillfully turned events at the ending of the scene so that the character quite clearly left the scene in far worse shape than if he had never entered the scene and tried. This kind of development not only tightens reader tension and increases reader worry, it also tends to build reader sympathy for the viewpoint character, who planned so well and fought so hard—only to be swatted down once more.
Whatever type of disaster you concoct for your scene ending, however, please note that it must answer the scene question and none other. You cannot get by with a disaster that says to the reader, in effect, "Well, I don't know if Fred got the money, but he had a coughing fit." Or: "Did Fred get the money? I don't know; but he sure left the office depressed." Or: "Did he get the money? Who knows? But there was an earthquake!"
This simply won't do. You have to play fair with your reader. You stated a character goal, and the reader formed a scene question. Your disaster must answer the question that was posed.
Note further, if you please, that this answer must be a development which grows logically yet to some degree unexpectedly out of the conflict. If Fred and Mr. Greenback argue about whether Fred should get his loan, and in the course of the argument get off on environmental issues almost exclusively, then Mr. Greenback's disastrous decision at the end of the scene must be based at least in part on some environmental question. You can't have them fight about one thing, and then just stick on a disaster which doesn't fit. You can't end a scene about money with an earthquake, a heart attack, a tornado, a fire, or any other gratuitous "bad thing" just because it might be termed a disaster. Always remember the specialized kind of disaster we're talking about here: an unanticipated but logical development that answers the scene question, relates to the conflict that has been presented, and sets the character back.
SCENE LENGTH
Now a word about length: How long should a scene be?
There is no simple answer. You have already noted, I am sure, that the statement of the scene goal will ordinarily be very brief, seldom more than a few lines. Even if the viewpoint character reiterates the scene goal several times during the conflict portion of the segment, all the total wordage directly specifying the scene goal will be quite small. The disaster, too, often comes in a very few words —a cannonade fired at the very end of the scene, and seldom more than a hundred words in length.
This leaves the inescapable fact that the length of any scene will depend largely on the extent to which you the author develop the conflict section — how long you write it.
We've already seen that you can't write it in a repetitious, circular, "Did so! —Did not!" fashion and hold reader interest. Just as the ground on which the story stands is constantly shifting, the ground under the scene shifts in the same way. On page 3 of a scene, for example, the characters should not be arguing about precisely the same factors they began with; someone should have offered a new line of argument. And if the scene goes on through another several pages, the persons in conflict should continually be shifting their tactics, changing their approach, trying different lines of logic, etc.
None of this tells you how long a given scene should be, of course. A general rule might suggest that the length of the scene should be directly proportional to its importance in the overall plot. Thus Fred's scene with the banker —vital as it may be —probably should be shorter in the final story than a later scene in which Fred and a competitive climber struggle for momentary possession of a rocky shelf halfway up the mountain —the loser likely to lose not only the race, but his life. The higher the stakes, the longer the scene.
As recently as a decade ago, scenes extending ten or more book pages were not uncommon. Perhaps due to the kind of reader impatience noted earlier in this book (or perhaps because publishers these days lean on writers, to produce tighter, shorter books that can be published with lower financial investment up front), a trend has developed toward shorter scenes —ones that may not develop all possible angles of conflict.
Today's "fully developed scene," conseq
uently, tends to run shorter than it once did. You may encounter scene situations where you simply can't develop all the complex immediate issues in fewer than a dozen pages. If so, that's fine. But I suspect that the average, "developed" printfiction scene today runs between four and six pages, and some are shorter than that.
If you have serious doubts about how long a given scene should be, I think your best course would be to write it for all you think it might possibly be worth. Novels that a publisher considers too long —but are excellent in all other respects —will usually attract an editor's invitation to "boil." But the scene you underdeveloped — so that it lost its potential dramatic punch —will not get the publisher's attention at all, and your manuscript will simply be rejected. In my own teaching experience, fifty manuscripts fail because of scenic underdevelopment for every one that fails because the scenes were written too long.
Finally, although the point has been stated repeatedly and implied even more often, it's well to emphasize a point that invariably is asked during lectures on the subject of scene structure and its essential component, the conflict.
The question: "Do I have to have the conflict outside the character? Can't I have the character at war with himself inside his head?"
Answer: The conflict has to be on the outside. If you remember the example of writing something which could be put on the theater stage, you will not forget this principle.
Of course there will also be conflict inside the character. Ideally, the conflict taking place on the stage now, in this scene, will dovetail nicely with whatever internal conflict the character is experiencing—and will make it a lot worse. But readers can't be lectured about internal conflict that doesn't show —doesn't "play" dramatically — and so can't be seen. In the scene portions of your story, Fred can be going through a hell of internal torment and in all kinds of conflict with himself. He should be. But in the scene that's not where you focus. You focus outside, not in.
