Techniques of the Selling Writer (13 page)

This is especially true while you’re still a beginner, getting the feel of this device.
For example, you do
not
fall into the trap of writing, “Now,
Brad saw
the red Jag pick up speed,” etc.

The reason you shouldn’t do this is that it’s very, very easy for the inclusion of
any mention
of your character in a motivating sentence to transform said sentence into one of
reaction; or, at least, to mix the whole thing up to the point where there’s a feeling
of clutter to the sequence.—Whereas what you want is something that confuses your
reader not at all . . . external circumstance pure and simple, state of affairs to
motivate your focal character. You even make it a point to watch your language: “careening
recklessly” is the terminology of an outside observer—onlooker, not driver.

The second sentence, in turn, is a
reaction
sentence. That is, it’s
about
Brad. It describes how he behaves
in consequence of
the action that takes place in Sentence 1. His state of mind is made clear by the
use of the phrase “stiff-lipped,” and the fact that he “grinds” out his cigarette.

Another example? How about a love story:

Sue is our focal character. Sentence 1, external to her, provides motivation, in the
form of Dave’s action. Sentence 2 shows how she reacts. We even tell how she feels—“A
strange, rawedged sort of panic gripping her . . .”

By now, someone no doubt is complaining that the onesentence limitation isn’t valid.

He’s right, of course. Often two, or three, or even more sentences may be needed in
order to present a given motivation
or reaction with proper impact. So what we’re really dealing with is what might be
termed one
unit
of motivation and one
unit
of reaction.

Thus, take Example 1. That first, motivating sentence leans over a bit on the cumbersome
side. Breaking it up and elaborating might make it stronger:

Now, with a roar, the red Jag picked up speed. Careening recklessly, it hurtled down
the drive; then, with a scream of protesting tires, fishtailed out onto the highway.

More vivid, right? Easier to read! And we’ve even eliminated the implication of simultaneity
conveyed by the “as” of the original version.

Brad’s reaction can stand a little attention, too:

Stiff-lipped, Brad turned from the window. “I’ve had it!” he snapped, grinding out
his cigarette. “The little bitch can go to hell!”

Yet though extra sentences may sharpen up your copy, there still are virtues to the
one-sentence rule. When you’re just learning, for example, you tend to kid yourself
that you need a lot more verbiage than really is essential. Given half a chance, some
of us would feel it necessary to mention that fury seethed within Brad; that his blue
eyes grew bleak; that muscles knotted at the hinges of his jaws; that his nostrils
flared and his fists tightened and his face flushed. As the saying goes, the kitchen
sink would be there too if we could only figure out a way to get it through the door!

Even more important is the issue of confusion. The moment you get two sentences in
a unit, there’s also the danger that you’ll give your reader the impression that there
are two (or more) motivations in a row, or two (or more) reactions.

Here’s a sample:

Stiff-lipped, Brad turned from the window. He snapped, “I’ve had it!” He ground out
his cigarette.

The problem is that each new declarative sentence with your character as subject tends
to appear to constitute a fresh reaction, unless you handle it carefully. The moment
you say something
like, “He got up. He crossed the room. He opened the window. He peered out,” your
reader gets the feeling that all’s not well . . . classifies the passage as jumpy
and jerky.

Now such choppiness is acceptable for effect, upon occasion. But overworked, it can
destroy you.

The thing that bothers your reader, though he’s seldom aware of it, is the absence
of anticipated sentences of motivating stimulus. Your construction makes him feel
as if they should be present. But they aren’t there.

A reconstruction will show you what I mean:

Each of your character’s actions now is motivated, even though the writing is rough
and awkward. And high time! Confusion is a luxury you simply can’t afford. So, see
to it always that your line of M-R development is kept absolutely straight and clear
and to the point.

Does this mean that every choppy passage demands insertion of motivations or reactions?

Not necessarily. Often, the answer is merely to juggle words or sentence structure
until you achieve a surface unity; an impression of continuity that draws apparently
divergent elements into a single motivation or reaction.

For example: “Getting up, he crossed the room, opened the window, and peered out.”

Simple, eh? You shouldn’t have any trouble with that . . . even though you surely
will!

To maintain the flow of mounting emotional intensity in your copy, continue to alternate
sentences (or, if need be, larger units) of stimulus and response, cause and effect,
motivation and reaction:

. . . and so on, step by step, as your character—and your reader—live through the
rising action of the scene.

Note also that such rising action is an interaction, actually. For just as your focal
character reacts to his external motivation, so the world outside reacts to him. Whatever
he does will have an effect on others.

So much for the M-R unit . . . the concept of motivation and reaction as it applies
to fiction. Deceptively simple at first glance, it sometimes poses problems of choice
that are little less than fiendish.

Fools will sneer at the motivation-reaction pattern as mere mechanics; or, with equally
unhappy results, will attempt to use it as a mere mechanical device.

Clods will snatch at the first motivation that comes to hand, then pair it with a
painfully obvious reaction.

Literary nit-pickers will drag forth a thousand instances in which master craftsmen
have achieved brilliant effects while appearing to ignore completely every precept
here set forth.

(After all, shouldn’t any of us be able to duplicate the feats of a professional marksman
the first time we get a gun in our hands?)

Writers with better sense will recognize the M-R unit for what it is: a tool, infinitely
valuable, whose use they must master so completely that its skilled manipulation becomes
automatic and instinctive. How well it serves them will depend on their own sensitivity,
their choice of materials, their insight into character, and their talent at deciding
which bits to build up and which to subordinate.

How do you least painfully achieve such mastery?

The best way, I suspect, is to write in whatever manner comes easiest for you, paying
no attention to any rules whatever.

Then, go back over your copy and check to make sure that each reaction is motivated;
that each motivating stimulus gets a reaction; and that ineptitude in use of language
has not in any way confused the issue.

Do this conscientiously on a hundred pages of copy, and on the hundred-and-first there’ll
be few errors in motivation or reaction.

Meanwhile, it’s time you turned at least part of your attention to the dramatic scene
as a useful tool for building conflict.

*
Carefully
, in this instance, is a good example of a word with connotations to color apparently
objective description. It implies importance and/or strong interest (Why consider
anything “carefully” if the item considered isn’t somehow vital or otherwise intriguing?)
and hints at danger: The situation apparently makes caution advisable.

CHAPTER 4

Conflict and How to Build It

How do you build a story?

With scene.

With sequel.

Two basic units. That’s all. Master their construction and use and you’ve won half
the battle. At least.

To that end, you need to learn five things:

A scene is a unit of conflict lived through by character and reader.

The big moments in your story are scenes. Or, to put it the other way around, if you
want some incident or bit to loom large to your reader, cast it in scene form.

A sequel is a unit of transition that links two scenes.

How do you handle them? Let’s start with . . .

The scene in skeleton

To repeat: A scene is a unit of conflict, of struggle, lived through by character
and reader. It’s a blow-by-blow account of
somebody’s time-unified effort to attain an immediate goal despite face-to-face opposition.

What are the functions of scene?

How does a scene provide interest?

It pits your focal character against opposition. In so doing, it raises a question
to intrigue your reader: Will this character win or won’t he?

Exhibit A: Round X of a prize fight. Will Our Boy knock out the villain—or vice versa?

How does a scene move your story forward?

It changes your character’s situation; and while change doesn’t always constitute
progress, progress always involves change.

Again, consider the prize fight: A hero knocked out is in a far different situation
than he was at the beginning of the round.

Same if he knocks out the villain.

What unifies the scene, holds it together?

Time. You
live through
a scene, and there are no breaks in the flow of life. Once the bell rings, there’s
no surcease for the fighter. Until the bell rings again, he has to stand and take
his lumps—moment by moment, blow by blow.

Scene structure is as simple as
a-b-c:

Just to see how this works, let’s build a scene or two or three.

Take our boxer. His goal is to knock out his opponent.

His opponent has a goal too: to knock
him
out.

Warily, they circle . . . feinting, punching, counterpunching.

Conflict.

Now Our Boy lands a solid blow. His adversary lurches—staggers—goes down.