What Do They Want?

Have you ever been in the middle of a book or a movie, and realized you simply don’t care about anyone in it?  The characters mean nothing to you, there’s nobody to root for, and you have no interest in the final outcome.  Sometimes we even close the book or leave the theatre, tired of investing our time in a losing proposition. 

This can happen for a couple of reasons.  One is that the author hasn’t made anyone likable enough to intrigue you.  Even a villain should have one or two redeeming qualities to make him believable (after all, no one is 100 % bad).  In fact, when I was in USC’s Professional Writing Program, we were urged to give our hero a scene, early on, where he demonstrates a virtue and wins our hearts.  After that he can make a hundred mistakes, but you will still root for him because you know he has a noble core—he did something kind or selfless in the first few pages.

But, more often, the reason we don’t care about the people in the story is because they don’t care.  The author has committed the writing crime of not giving them any motivation.  Kurt Vonnegut once said, “Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.” 

Too many writers let their characters flounder without a goal or purpose.  They’re simply there, like window dressing.  The descriptions might be beautiful, the dialogue truly witty, and the threats genuine.  But if the characters have no motivation to do anything, the story won’t have momentum, and it won’t interest the reader.  It’s as if they’re mired in the bushes at the banks of the river, and they don’t really care to push themselves back out into the current and get somewhere.  You could even be writing about prisoners of war where motivation seems obvious, but if you don’t establish their genuine desire to get out, get even, or simply stay alive, then we’re reading about lackluster people who could use some depression medication.

And don’t think your characters have to want something grandiose, like conquering a country, becoming a king, curing a disease, or establishing world peace.  Like Vonnegut says, they can simply want a glass of water.  But they must want it, and strive to get it.  They must not give up, despite the obstacles you place in their path.  It must become their passion.  They must be determined to achieve their goal at all costs (getting the ring grandma promised her, getting even with the high school bully, winning first place for a pie at the county fair).

So apply this test to your writing, and see if you can identify what every character wants.  Is it clear enough so that the reader will know the desire of each person’s heart?  If it is, you’re on your way to a captivating story.  And isn’t that what you want? 

Should You Tell the Whole Truth?

            Anyone who sets out to be a writer soon discovers they have countless friends and acquaintances with stories they believe should be told. They want to tell you the entire, blow-by-blow story of their grandfather’s emigration from Europe, their sister’s struggle with infertility, their aunt’s arrest for embezzlement, and on and on.

            And some of these accounts are actually good, inspiring, entertaining, and even commercial stories.  But not usually the way you’ll hear them.  Every person has several wonderful books and/or movies in them.  The problem is that strict autobiography, with every single detail included for accuracy, does not always make a great tale.  Just as wonderful storytellers know to embellish and embroider here, and subtract there, so should these real-life accounts be adjusted to make them more palatable to others.  And it’s not a crime to fictionalize a story, as long as you’re up front about it.  Obviously if you claim something to be nonfiction, then you have to stick with the facts, documentary-style.

            But most of us are not writing unadorned nonfiction, or testifying in court.  We are making art, as opposed to photography.  We need to learn how to pick out the best berries, and discard the unusable ones.  Maya Angelou once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”  And she’s right, but a good writer knows that the story can have even more power and impact if you shine it up a bit. Yes, tell your story, make your point.  But leave out the details of your grandfather’s every sneeze, your sister’s aggravation with her hair, your aunt’s fascination with where she parked each day.  Most people’s diaries are not published exactly as written for a reason.  Most of them contain parts that can be edited out—they veer off track, they ramble, they repeat, they contain mistakes.  Cleaned up, some of them might make good reading.  But cleanup is usually essential.

            My husband, Bob, used to host game shows and talk shows when we lived in L.A., and one time he interviewed Nicholas Sparks about his book, Message in a Bottle, which had been made into a movie.  Bob had been grandly disappointed that the protagonist died after finally finding love again, and asked the author why he did that.  Mr. Sparks replied that, quite simply, that’s how it actually happened—it was his grandfather’s story.  But Bob was so upset about this unfair turn of events that it prompted him to write a novel of his own, one with a happier ending.  It was nothing like Sparks’ story, but it made Bob realize the importance of putting the romance first, and the accuracy of historical events second, if they undermine the suspense or the intrigue a reader expects.  Sometimes you simply have to let go of “truth at all costs,” to craft a story people will love.  Now, Mr. Sparks is a widely popular writer, so it’s hard to criticize a choice of his, when so many people follow his work.  But it does make you wonder if he might have pulled in even more readers for that book, if only he had given the story its own heart, its own path to follow, and simply let history be the backdrop.

Nobody's Going to Steal Your Work

            Okay, this is a lie.  Sometimes.  I cannot promise you that no one will ever steal your ideas or your work; this is why we have copyrights and the Writer’s Guild of America.  HOWEVER the chances are so miniscule that you are wasting time if you’re worrying about it.  I was going to say the chances are minute but a certain percentage of people read that word as the increment of time that lasts 60 seconds, so I went with miniscule.

            The point is that, much as some of us think our ideas are worth zillions of dollars, most other writers have ideas of their own and are not much interested in yours.  I, for one, have files and files of ideas I will never get to in my lifetime, and the last thing I want to do is take someone else’s “baby” and try to make it my own.

            You can get paranoid and make a video of yourself putting your brilliant work into an envelope (zooming in on the cover page), licking the envelope, and dropping it into a mailbox next to a newspaper bearing today’s date for absolute proof, but seriously, do you think this video will someday become Exhibit A in a law suit?

            Here’s my advice if you simply cannot stop worrying.  First of all, obey the rules of the agents, publishing houses, and studios and don’t submit “through the transom” when they specifically say they will not accept unsolicited material.  They do this to protect themselves so that when they come out with a blockbuster story about a talking tree, you won’t accuse them of stealing your story about a talking tree.  Second, register your work with the appropriate agency.   And third, forget about it.  If you spend your time stewing, your brain will be bogged down and you won’t be creating new material.

            One of my professors in USC’s Professional Writing program said that a story of his had once been stolen, but that he couldn’t prove it.  He asked us students what we’d do in a case like that.  I raised my hand and said that if you’re really a writer you wouldn’t worry about it; you’d just move on, creating more material.  The thief is the one who should worry, because he obviously can’t generate his own ideas.

            My professor stared at me, then said, “I just spent thousands of dollars with a therapist who told me the same thing.” 

I shrugged.  “You should have called me; I’d have told you for free.”

Can You Write Comedy?

            Psychologists tell us that if you want to give a compliment that virtually anyone will accept, tell them they have a great sense of humor.  Every person on the planet believes they know what’s funny.  They may not be funny, but they know what funny is.

            And, of course, it simply isn’t true.  There are legions of people whose idea of humor is a cheap shot, a predictable corny line, a silly set-up.  Yet, to them, that stuff is brilliant.  And when introduced to genuinely clever wit, they don’t get it.

            My husband is hilarious.  As a game show warm-up guy he virtually had to do standup for a living.  And his audience was usually a dreadful mix of sleepy retirees bused in from an assisted living facility, and hormonal teenagers unable to contain their excitement about being in a TV studio.  He had to rev up the first group and calm down the other one simultaneously.  He also hosted and announced game shows and talk shows, which required him to think on his feet and be witty almost constantly.  And, truth be known, it came easily to him because he’s one of those naturally funny guys  (Google Bob Hilton and you’ll see him on Wikipedia—he’s the Bob of “Bob, tell ‘em what they’ve won” fame).

            My point in telling you this is that through our entire marriage, Bob has been entertaining.  Our kids have grown up with it and are, themselves, funny as well.  So it was greatly perplexing to them when their friends would come over and not understand the jokes.  Many of them came from homes where no one ever teased, said anything sarcastic, or tried to lighten up a moment with a laugh.  They had never encountered humor outside of scripted television shows. Yet I’ll bet every one of them thought they had a good idea of what was amusing. (Incidentally, I mourn the moment when TV executives decided to scrap all the funny cartoons and replace them with cartoons about taking over the universe.  We now have generations of kids whose formative years were completely comedy deprived.)

            Which brings us to editors.  The sad reality is that, while none of them would admit it, one or two of them don’t have the sharpest sense of humor.  For years I used to laugh with a professor of mine from USC’s Professional Writing program, when we’d send in Op-Ed pieces to the paper, or articles to magazines, and they’d cut out all the funny lines.  As if these were the most dispensable parts when you’re squeezed for space.  But what the editors didn’t realize is that the rest of the paragraphs were setting up the very pay-off lines they were cutting.  My professor used to wince, “So now it’s all lies!” because what would have been seen as obvious exaggeration now looked like serious claims.

            Not everyone can—or desires to—write humor.  But if you do, be prepared for more rejection than usual, due to this very disparity in opinion about what’s funny.  It’s far more subjective than regular writing.  There’s no style book or formula you can apply.  It all comes down to how something hits someone.  Some people are offended by any kind of joking.  Or maybe they had a fight with their spouse that morning and don’t feel like laughing about anything.

            Today, in the Joniopolis section of this blog, I posted a story about a disastrous trip I once made to Bangkok, Thailand.  I wrote up a similar version of it years ago and sent it to various newspapers, which in those days occasionally printed humor pieces.  On the very same day I got two letters in my mailbox:  One, from The Las Vegas Sun editor saying he failed to find any humor whatsoever in my article, and one from the editor at The Los Angeles Herald Examiner saying it was the funniest thing that had ever come across his desk and he wanted to buy it.  

            So ignore the nay-sayers, sell your funny stuff, and then you can laugh all the way to the bank.

Don't Be Coy with Readers

            I love my readers.  I’m so grateful for each person who shared a portion of their life with the characters I’ve invented, that I could hug them.  The readers, not the characters, although I’d love to hug some of them as well.

            And when you love someone, you take tender care of them.  You respect them, you try to give them your best efforts, right?  So do not be coy with your readers, any more than you would be coy with your loved ones.  Do not deliberately withhold information they need.  Do not dangle hints, thinking you’re a master of suspense when all you’re doing is being sadistic.  It’s not only disingenuous; it’s bad writing.

            You should be able to shower your readers with the facts they need—details about your character, important events in the back story, motivations they have for what they’re doing, and the perils that loom if things go wrong (which they must).  And this abundance of information should not weaken your plot in the least.  In fact, it will make your upcoming solution all the richer, all the more appreciated, because the reader will not feel cheated out of vital facts or important clues. 

            When writers are coy, they conveniently leave out information that makes you feel as if you’ve been playing with someone who changes the rules of the game at the last minute so they can win.  They have a hero locked in a trunk as his foreign captors chatter away, racing down the street.  And when the kidnappers park and the hero kicks out a tail light and gets rescued, we do not want to find out that he suddenly understands Armenian and heard exactly what they were planning.  Whaat?  He speaks Armenian?  How?  Why weren’t we told this, earlier?  It’s not fair.  It’s something we couldn’t possibly have known.

            Beginners often worry that their story will lack suspense if they’re too forthcoming.  But suspense doesn’t come from secrets; it comes from an impending crisis.  Spill the secrets but set up the story.  Let us know and love the characters so we’re invested in the outcome.  Let us know exactly why the hero’s plan can’t work and wince as it inches towards disaster.  Readers want to trust you.  They want to feel they can put their hand in yours as you lead them on an adventure, knowing you’re not going to suddenly trick them and then laugh in their face because they didn’t see it coming. 

            If you’re really good at your craft, you’ll bare the souls of your characters.  You’ll be able to throw open the windows, let the harsh light fall where it may, and know that your story will be all the more remarkable for coming out of the shadows and dealing honestly with your readers-- those folks you love.

Who's Your Audience?

            Whenever you sit down to write, you have an intended audience.  Even if you’re just venting for mental health, your audience is you.  And it’s important  that you remember your intended target.

            The best audience, of course, is yourself.  You shouldn’t write artificial claptrap you think will please someone else.  As long as you’re true to your own voice and story, that’s enough.  Writing a stiff, formal essay because your teacher likes those is a painful sellout, something you shouldn’t do once you get the grade and get out of there.  Unless that’s actually your style, in which case you shouldn’t budge from it no matter how many people urge you to be edgy and modern.  There’s an audience for every style if it’s done well, and let’s face it: Where would Downton Abbey be were it not for restrained formality?

            Writing for a teacher or a publisher who wants horror or fantasy or whatever else, is not going to be as fulfilling as writing what you love in your heart (and, again, that might be horror or fantasy). 

So I’m going to give you two messages today.  One is to write only for yourself, and the other is to write commercial stuff that sells.  Is it contradictory?  Not as much as you might think. 

First of all, you have to write material you can be proud of.  Not schlock, even if that’s what sells.  I couldn’t write erotic bodice rippers if it meant saving my house—I’d move into smaller digs first.  That’s because I’m LDS and I have standards I’ve chosen to keep at all costs.  That’s a bar I’ve set, a personal vow I’ve made.  You have standards, too—maybe you’d feel ashamed if you wrote sitcoms.  Or corny material that only amuses adolescent boys.  Or formula stuff with the token chase scene, the token karate scene, the token sex scene.  To you, that’s not quality literature.  Everybody has their own self-imposed limitations.

At the end of the day, you cannot be ashamed of your work.  You must feel you are leaving behind something of worth, something you can put your real name on.  Something your kids can read.  But, having said that, you must be able to bend and adapt—still keeping your standards—yet be willing to modify your work to suit its buyers.  If an agent or an editor tells you to change your character’s name or profession, don’t be a ridiculous crybaby and refuse to do it.  Be someone people can work with, who isn’t so wedded to every word in their manuscript that they can’t cut a single phrase.

This also means being willing to take on something that has a buyer, even if it’s not your favorite genre or your signature style.  This flexibility is often the difference between selling and starving.  Yes, you keep your basic standards, and you remember the things you refuse to do (glorifying drug use or violence, for example).  But you keep an open mind about the rest.  If you were an architect of palatial homes are you telling me you’d really turn down a lucrative, boxy shopping mall just because it wasn’t artsy enough for you?  C’mon.  Be willing to write a Western, a mystery, a spy theme, a cookbook, a children’s princess story.  Like the best actors, the best writers take on challenges that make them stretch and grow.  Oh, yeah, and challenges that get them paying jobs, too.