Elements of Fiction Writing - Scene & Structure Page 5

  If you have not been writing with full awareness of scene structure, let me urge you to practice planning a number of scenes strictly as an exercise. Always start with a goal, plan your conflict, and devise a solid disaster. If you can't quickly come up with a list of possible scene goals of your own, you might want to try the following, in each case writing at least three paragraphs outlining the nature of the opposition and some of the key steps in the conflict, and then specifying a good disaster that might usefully end that scene.

  Here is your working practice list:

  1. Accused of cheating on a test, Janis goes to visit her math professor with the goal of convincing him she did not cheat.

  2. Searching for an embezzler, Calvin accosts the bank examiner with the goal of convincing the examiner to give him the name of the prime suspect.

  3. Lost in the caverns, Billy explores a narrow shaft with the goal of finding his way out. (A hard one! No living opponent.)

  4. Ted visits Jennifer with the goal of getting her to marry him.

  5. Wanting to win permission to enter graduate school, Bari goes into the office of the graduate dean with the goal of convincing him to let her in. (If the dean is a male, there is a very obvious "Yes, but!" disaster possibility lurking at the end of this scene.)

  See Appendix 3.

  CHAPTER 5

  STRUCTURE IN  MACROCOSM: SCENES WITH RESULTS

  The Good, Effective Fiction Scene will have results. That seems pretty obvious: A fight ending in a disastrous setback changes the situation in which the story is playing out, and nothing will ever be quite the same again.

  In devising your scenes, however, it's important to consider scene goals, angles in the conflict, and the nature of the disaster you impose at the end of the scene — all in terms of scope of result, immediacy of result, finality of result, and direction of result. Conflict usually causes pain, and disasters usually cause significant changes in the course of the plot. But it's possible to have too much of a good thing, just as it is to have not enough of a bad thing.

  All of us yearn as writers for grand scene goals, powerful conflict, and gloriously terrible disasters. But we all have to plan carefully lest we write ourselves up some blind alley. Let's consider first scene goal and how the goal, if selected badly for a scene, might bring us to grief in terms of the ultimate results of the scene.

  In terms of the scope of the result of the scene to be written, a writer can err in two possible ways: She can select a goal so small or insignificant that the scope of the result cannot possibly be broad enough to affect the course of the story, or she can select a goal so gigantic and all-encompassing that the scope of the scene result will be earth-shattering—probably ending the story right then and there, or possibly changing the course of the rest of the story so drastically that the main character may never again have a realistic chance.

  Fred Redux

  How could you err by giving Fred, the mountain climber, a scene goal too insignificant to have measurable results in terms of a later disaster?

  GOAL SELECTION

  Suppose you decide that he chooses as his first scene goal the procurement of a good pair of climbing boots. (Scene question: Will Fred get good boots?) Leaving aside the obvious fact that few readers in their right mind will be willing to worry much about such a petty matter, suppose you develop a scene around this goal anyway. How much meaningful scope can possibly come at the end of such a scene?

  Maybe Fred learns that there simply aren't any boots made that are as good as the ones he has envisioned (a "No!" disaster). Or maybe Fred learns that the kind of boot he really wants is so expensive that he'll have to borrow a few hundred dollars—or work overtime a few nights —to be able to afford them (a "Yes, but!" disaster). Maybe he even learns that they don't make boots to fit his oddly shaped foot, and sprains his big toe trying to fit himself into an ill-fitting pair that happens to be available (a "No, and furthermore!" disaster).

  Big deal! So what? Who cares? How has such a "disastrous" result really made things significantly tougher for Fred? The goal was too small, the scope of the result too narrow. The story has bogged down to a virtual standstill.

  Now imagine trying to start over with a terrifically more important scene goal. Is it possible to select a goal that's too vast in scope? Oh, yes.

  Imagine that we let out all the stops and decide that Fred's first step, on his way to the mountain of his dreams, is to go on a local television talk show and convince the interviewer—a notorious cynic—that local people should contribute money to his climbing expedition for the sake of civic pride; his goal is to get his needed financial backing through this TV appearance, or else.

  Going in with this great goal, Fred encounters hostility and barbs from the show host, and at the end loses his temper, is laughed at, and becomes such a laughingstock in the community that not only will he not receive any financial help, but some members of his family start thinking seriously about having him committed for long-term psychiatric care.

  This is a great disaster, all right, but by setting up a scene goal of such massive scope—by allowing Fred to put all his eggs in one basket— we have doomed ourselves to a scene disaster of such enormous scope that he can never recover. We have doomed his quest.

  We must always be on the lookout for scene goals that are too small to allow for sufficient scope of disaster. Just as obviously, we must guard against allowing our heroes to pick goals of such magnitude that the scope of scene disaster will destroy them.

  Another goal-selection error can be found in picking a goal which cannot logically lead to a scene-ending result with any immediacy. The careful writer of fiction wants the disaster which grows out of the goal to put considerable additional pressure on the character very soon. If you allow Fred, for example, to pick a scene goal of convincing the Smithsonian Institution to fund his expedition, it could well lead to a "disaster" in which some Washington official says 'Yes, but" such requests have to be formally approved by a board which meets only twice a year —thus meaning that the result of this disaster is a waiting period of several months. Or—and this is a much more common mistake—you might err by failing to have Fred note at the outset, in stating his goal, that he needs a decision or declaration right away; in such cases, disasters have a tendency to look more like indefinite delays —and again the story bogs down because the goal was not set up or stated in such a way that a fairly immediate result could be forthcoming.

  It's also possible to select goals which will result in scenic outcomes with too much immediacy. You've perhaps seen published books where this problem caused pacing too hectic to be believed. Going into the warehouse, gun in hand, with the intent to do or die, hero George gets shot at, almost run down by a car, and then mistakenly arrested for improper entry. He then runs for it—one disaster following another with machinegun rapidity, so that he never has time to think or plan at all.

  ideally, a goal will be picked which will have immediate results, but not so horribly immediate and pressing that the character won't have time to draw a few breaths.

  As to finality of result, it's good to remember that you can err by setting up a scene goal for which a disastrous ending may be too final. If your detective George enters a scene with the goal of kill or be killed, the chances are quite good that his disaster will be—being killed. Where do you go after you've killed your central character? (I think the book just ended!)

  The reverse of this coin must be considered, too. It's cheating —and the reader won't like it a bit—if you set up a goal which will lead to an outcome that isn't final at all. We can return to our friend Fred for one example. Let's suppose he enters the bank, wanting his loan, but we take note of the fact that there are five banks in town, and this is just the first one. Now after he is turned down, the disaster isn't final at all; it's just a momentary setback, and he has four more banks to try.

  Readers get irritated fast when they are asked to read scenes like this, where the disaster
isn't really final—and therefore serious at all.

  Finally, in terms of scene goals, it's important always to keep in mind the general direction in which you the author want the story to go after this particular scene. If you're intent on writing a mountain-climbing story, you don't have Fred go in for the bank loan, telling himself that if he fails to get the loan, he's going to go get a gun and rob the joint. The result of such an ill-advised plan at the outset of the scene will force Fred to turn bank robber after the disaster ending this scene —and we wanted to write a story about mountain climbing (not bank robbery), remember???

  ANGLES IN THE CONFLICT

  Once you have avoided the pitfalls inherent in planning scene goals, you enter the dark and scary jungle of the conflict portion of the scene —a place where efforts to build the tension can sometimes result in various miscues. This danger exists primarily because of the writer's wholly laudable desire to intensify the conflict in every scene as much as seems reasonable, and to diversify the grounds on which the conflict is based.

  Just as a whole story can't be written in a boring, repetitious "Did So! — Did Not!" circle, the conflict portion of the scene can't be a seemingly endless repetition of exactly the same statements, either. The opponents must circle and feint, dodge and parry, try different arguments or strategies, think they're gaining and then fear they're losing, escalate their efforts, and so on. This is all to the good unless you the author get so carried away that you lose control of what's going on, with the result that the potential for conflict at the opening of the scene gets overrun in such a way that we no longer have battle #6, for example, but all-out Armageddon.

  The converse is also sometimes true. Sensing, perhaps, that a particular angle developed in the conflict portion would be extremely difficult to write —or perhaps even personally painful to deal with —the writer may sometimes ignore or block out potentially useful angles that the conflict might take. In such cases, all the possible excesses of result that could follow overdoing the conflict are reversed —and the conflict is so watered down that little can possibly result from any conceivable disaster that could grow logically out of the scene struggle.

  It's easy to see how either of these miscues can happen, causing bad things in terms of scope of scene results, immediacy of result, finality of result, or direction of result.

  Let's look first at what happens when you go overboard and make the conflict too vicious or strong.

  The Strongman

  In terms of our friend Fred, the mountain climber, suppose you sense a weakness in the conflict portion as he and the banker argue about a possible loan; your goal statement was fine: "I must get a loan to fund my expedition." But now in the conflict portion you feel uneasy, think the argument may be starting to be repetitious, and so you escalate.

  "What if," you say to yourself, "Mr. Greenback starts attacking Fred's business background, and Fred angrily hurls onto the table his home mortgage and papers for an existing loan made to his company?" (With this escalation, you figure, the conflict will toughen up.)

  It's highly possible that the escalation would indeed make the conflict sharper and more interesting. It's even logical that such an escalation could take place, growing out of a goal statement that didn't necessarily promise such huge single-scene stakes. But throwing so many blue chips on the table carries with it the danger that the disaster which must now grow out of such an escalation could have greater scope than you desired early in your story; it's possible that Fred could leave the bank not only sans his desired loan, but with his company loan called in for immediate payment and his home mortgage in jeopardy. And maybe that's a disaster with considerably broader scope than you intended when you started to write this scene! Occasionally such a "surprise" may stimulate you to heighten tension throughout the rest of the story; usually, however, you're in danger of losing control of both the direction and pace of your story.

  In like manner, overdoing it in an effort to bolster a scene's conflict can bring on results that are too immediate. Fred may—as an escalation of the conflict—demand to see the bank president, for example. This may look like a good development as the "inspiration" flits into your mind. But such an intensification could result not only in his failure to see the president, but in his being thrown out of the bank, branded a kook, made the subject of telephone calls to other lenders warning that a madman is on the loose, etc. Given such bad and immediate results, Fred might have no time to plan a new course of action —might be virtually wiped out instantly.

  Overintensification of the conflict, or introduction of a wrong angle, can also have an adverse effect on the finality of the result. If, for example, in building the conflict, you decide to try a more physical angle to the fight —and have Fred lose his temper and punch out Mr. Greenback — Fred is almost certainly going to play his next scene in jail, and has a trial date; his quest for the mountain has almost surely been lost—period! — right now.

  And how can overintensification or selection of a wrong angle result in a bad direction at the end of the scene? This is perhaps the most common mistake made by new writers in creating scenes, and it goes of course to the larger problem of plot planning.

  Suppose you decide somewhere in the course of the conflict portion of the scene in the bank to have Fred start arguing that he can always borrow the money in New York, but he doesn't want to go that far from home. Mr. Greenback can interpret this as an insult or a threat, and the fight can sharpen. But once Fred has introduced the New York angle, you the author will be forced to follow up on it if this scene ends in disaster— as it must. So you suddenly find yourself one or two scenes following Fred into the lobby of Chase Manhattan—all because you escalated by putting a wrong angle into the conflict in the earlier scene.

  (It's this kind of scene-handling error, incidentally, that usually can be found in the work of a novelist who complains about losing her way in the plot. Sometimes they even say something like, "I don't know what's happened! My characters have just taken over the story!" Characters don't take over stories! Characters don't exist except in your imagination. When you think a character has taken your story off in the wrong direction, it's likely that the real culprit is your failure in technique—the introduction of a potentially damaging angle in the conflict part of the scene. There are a couple of other places where you can inadvertently send your story off on the wrong vector, and we'll get to those also in due time.)

  So efforts to "build up" a particular scene can have awful effects on the nature of the disaster to follow, with even worse results later in the plot. But conflict sections that are too soft or weak —ones in which the author makes a move to duck or tone down conflict, for whatever reason, can be just as bad.

  Ninety-Eight-Pound Weakling

  Now that you see clearly what I'm talking about here, it doesn't seem necessary to go through every type of impact that weakening or diluting a scene's conflict portion might have. I think you can see clearly that conflict that is too weak, or over an issue that's insignificant, can hardly be expected to lead to a logical disaster that's very big in terms of scope, immediacy, finality or direction. The writer who makes a move (selects angles in her scene development) which weaken or duck the conflict is a writer whose disasters can never credibly be very disastrous. And if she does happen to come up with a decent (i.e., difficult) disaster growing out of weak conflict, it won't likely be the time that puts pressure on the hero to do anything anytime soon.

  Why would a writer dilute the conflict or even duck it altogether? Every so often, she might do it intentionally to "ease off' on the reader, momentarily slowing the story for a desired effect. But here I am talking about unrealized, unconscious easing off. This is almost always a bad thing, and there seem to be three possible reasons for it to happen: shyness, fear or fatigue.

  I've used the word "shyness" to describe one reason a writer might dodge or water down the conflict part of a scene, but I'm not entirely happy with the choice of that word
. It's just the best I can come up with. What I'm referring to is the fact that most of us try to dodge or soften conflict in real life, and many of us find that even the writing of strong conflict is a bit painful since we are not, after all, violent people. So some writers weaken their conflict portions without realizing it because they're so "nice."

  Fear may also cause one to dilute the conflict or pick weak angles of development for it. In such cases the writer may see clearly the direction she should go, and she may even realize that her conflict is weak. But, "I could never write well enough to portray such a fight!" she'll say. Or, "I see that there should be a car chase here, but I don't describe things well enough to handle that, so I just had Fred pull over voluntarily."

  One of the finest writers I ever coached had such a fear problem. She was so unsure of herself and her ability to write of powerful conflict that she went to amazing lengths to "write around" such segments she had imagined and plotted as vital to her story. For example, in one case I remember, she drove the plot relentlessly, through cause and effect, to a scene where the hero had to enter a business office and confront a powerful magnate with a demand that he relinquish control of a subsidiary company. A chapter ended with the hero walking into the building, and I turned the manuscript page, eager to read about the fight that was clearly at hand. The next chapter began with words very much like, "After the showdown with Jacob Simms, David drove directly home, feeling. ..." Because she was afraid of her ability to write the big scene well, she had skipped it entirely!