Holly Bodger

Ugh.

Yeah, that’s all I have to say.

As you know, I like to share my Ah-ha moments. I try to keep the ones I post limited to writing (although I’d be very happy to tell you what I learned about the pillow-top mattress mafia some other day). Anywho, today’s Ah-ha lesson starts with a question:

What one thing is your main character most afraid of losing?

Think about this one really hard. It doesn’t have to be a tangible thing. It can be money, reputation, love. Whatever it is, losing it must be the worst thing that could ever happen to your main character. For example, in Velveteen Rabbit (the movie), the boy loves his stuffed bunny more than anything in the world. So, the worst thing that could happen to him would be losing that bunny, right? Right. Well, here’s your Ah-ha:

Your main character must lose this thing at the climax of your novel.

Now, I realize that for most of you, this Ah-ha is about as enlightening as Hillary Clinton’s hairstyle. But here’s the thing—many people get this wrong. Many people are tempted to make this worst thing occur at the inciting incident. After all, nothing is more inciting that having the worst thing ever happen, right?

Wrong. Your inciting incident should not be a worst thing at all. In fact, it should be significantly less bad than the climax, otherwise the tension in your novel will go down rather than up. Also (and this is your second Ah-ha; an added bonus for the day) whatever happens during your inciting incident should create a desperate need for that thing that will be lost.

I know what you’re thinking–what is this lunatic drinking now? Well, the answer is peppermint tea. Let’s go back to Velveteen Rabbit so I can illustrate why this works:

Inciting Incident: Boy’s father goes away, leaving him with miserable grandmother.

Result: In his solitude, boy discovers bunny which becomes his favourite toy.

Climax: Bunny must be destroyed.

Ah-ha?

I started reading a book last night and the writer did something that really bugged me: she kept the identity of her main character a secret. Or maybe it wasn’t so much a secret as it was deliberately vague. It honestly took me around 30 pages just to figure out if the character was male or female and by page 37, I still wasn’t sure exactly what time frame I was in.

As a result, I put down the book and I will not pick it back up. After 37 pages, I wasn’t engaged in the main character’s plight nor did I understand what that plight was since I’d spent all 37 pages trying to figure out if HE was a SHE!

So my short advice for writers today is this: you don’t need to give readers the main character’s complete details in chapter one, but for the love of all things blue, PLEASE at least find a way to tell the reader:

1) if they are male or female (and don’t assume they’ll know just because you called your character Chris, Pat, Morgan, Taylor, or Andy!)*
2) approximate age (I personally prefer an exact number but even just a ballpark is nice. Are they 14? 40?)
3) approximate time of setting (present day? 100 years ago? 100 years in the future?)

*Small print: The only exception I will make to #1 is for an awesome book called Gentlemen and Players. Those of you who have read it will understand why.

Sarcasm has been getting a bad rap lately and I thought it was time that I finally defended my friend. For those of you who don’t know me, let me start by saying that I am an extremely sarcastic person by nature. It comes across in my writing and my speech, not because I am using it as a tool but because this is how I think.  In fact, I often have to remind myself that being sarcastic in the middle of a BIG SERIOUS MEETING is probably not wise. Of course, after I have reminded myself of this, I do it anyway. But enough about why I’ve had 17 jobs in the past 6 months…

The reason sarcasm has become the sandals with socks of literature is because some people are using it incorrectly, and when used incorrectly, sarcasm is just plain annoying. And so, because no one likes annoying less than me, I’m going to give you my Sarcasm Rules of 2011.

<drum roll please>

Rule # 1:  There are two kinds of sarcasm: sarcasm as wit and sarcasm as avoidance.

KNOW THE DIFFERENCE! Sarcasm as wit is when someone uses exaggeration with the intention of being funny. It is VERY common in British sitcoms as well as in my kitchen. For example:

Mom: Are you wearing that skirt to school today?

Tina: Of course not. I’m planning at least 3 wardrobe changes before the bus comes in 5 minutes.

Conversely, sarcasm as avoidance is something people use when they’re afraid to answer honestly. For example:

Jane: You don’t actually want to go to the dance with Bob, do you?

Tina: Of course not. I’d rather take a chipmunk.

The main difference here is in intent. The first use of sarcasm was intended to elicit humour. While the second one may come across as funny, the speaker’s intent is to hide her real feelings by burying them in humour.

Rule # 2: Sarcasm is almost never used inwardly.  

This is probably where I see the biggest problems when sarcasm is used in writing. People who are inherently sarcastic are DEFINITELY sarcastic in their thoughts, but when they are, they’re directing that sarcasm at someone else. Maybe they’re imagining what they would say if someone asked them about their bad hair. Maybe they’re thinking about what they wish they had said to that mean woman in the grocery store.  Whatever the reason, they’re not being sarcastic to themselves. For example, this would NOT happen in a real inner monologue:

I looked down at my outfit and wondered if my skirt was too short. What did it matter? I was planning at least 3 wardrobe changes before the bus arrived in 5 minutes.

The problem with this attempt at sarcasm is that it reads as serious. We honestly believe this character is going to change 3 times in 5 minutes. Why? Because people with one personality don’t generally try to fool themselves.

Now there is one exception to rule #2: If you’re writing in a way that addresses the reader, then you can get away with the sarcasm in inner monologue because it’s directed at the reader, and not at the main character. For example:

I’m sure you’re wondering what I was doing wearing a mini-skirt in January. You need not worry. I planned at least 3 wardrobe changes before the bus arrived.

If you’re doing this, it needs to be a consistent character trait so readers know not to take it seriously. You can’t just throw in one line like this and call Bob your uncle.

Rule #3: Using sarcasm to insult yourself is acceptable and often funny. Using sarcasm to insult someone else is bitchy.

People are generally more accepting of insults when someone directs them at themselves. When they’re directed at someone else, they can come across as mean and if your main character comes across as mean too often, she won’t be sympathetic. For example, the comment above about the chipmunk is insulting to Bob. If Tina made comments like this constantly, we’d think Tina was mean. Conversely, had Tina said, “Yeah right. He’d probably rather take a chipmunk,” then this would not come across as mean. In fact, it would strongly illustrate the main character’s insecurities.

And now to find some socks to go with my sandals…

When building a mystery in a novel, there are two kinds of clues you need to include:

1) The obvious ones. These are the clues the reader needs in order to get hooked on the mystery and stay hooked on the mystery. Ideally, you pepper them throughout, revealing major ones at the turns in the novel.
2) The ambiguous ones. These are the clues that you have to give but want to bury in the back of the reader’s mind so that they don’t figure out the mystery before you want them to.

There are probably a few techniques to differentiate between an obvious clue and an ambiguous clue, but the best one I know is by using detailed or distracted visuals. If you want to give the reader an obvious clue that will really stick, you use a detailed visual treatment. For example, if you want the reader to remember that Emma wore red shoes, you might write this:

I saw Emma’s shoes before her face. They were red. Red like fresh blood. Definitely not her color. Definitely not her style either. The heels were high–way too high for her five foot frame. She teetered and tottered until she finally had to grab the railing to steady herself.

However, if you want Emma’s red shoes to be an ambiguous clue, you can distract the reader from it by burying it in another visual, like this:

I stared at the cafeteria wall. The breeze-block was painted a cream color but it had yellowed after all of the food fights. I should have been listening to my friends but, much like the color of the walls, I couldn’t stomach it today. Penny was whining about some scarf she wanted and Emma was gushing about something like a stupid pair of red shoes. Like I cared. My head was about to explode and…

In the first example, the visual description of the red shoes should be detailed enough to stick in the reader’s mind until the end of the book. In the second example, the visual is of the walls and the red shoes are buried in something the main character says she doesn’t care about. The reader is less likely to remember this because it’s written in a way that says this doesn’t matter.  In this instance, if you were to reveal that Emma had red shoes in the end, you’d probably get that , “Oh crap I knew I heard that somewhere” reaction that you want at the end of the mystery.

I warn you from the start, there is no way I am going to be able to do this topic justice. I mean, Blake Snyder normally makes my brain explode but this particular insight of his was like instant spontaneous combustion. But I will try my best because I promised and I only break promises on Tuesdays.

In his book Save the Cat! STRIKES BACK, Snyder proposes a new way to look at the three act structure of a novel and that is what he calls the Transformation Machine. You really need to read his chapter on this topic, but it boils down to this:

Act 1: Thesis. This is the main character as they are NOW, when the novel begins. Their life isn’t perfect. Their world isn’t great. But they are who they are.
Act 2: Antithesis. This is the main character in the opposite world as seen in Act 1. For example, if the main character was unpopular, they are now popular. If they were attractive, they are now unattractive. The point is that the main character’s world has been rocked. The main character is unsettled. He doesn’t know how to live in this world.
Act 3: Synthesis. This is some combination of the worlds in Act 1 and Act 2. The world is now one the main character wants to live in and is comfortable living in. Using the above examples, maybe he is not really popular but is in the mid range of popularity.

I know what you’re thinking and it’s the same thing I thought when I first read this. So? Whatever? Does anyone have any cheesies? But think about it. REALLY think about it. When you’re done, come back and answer this: are you really rocking your main character’s world in Act 2 or are you just shaking it up a little?

I’ve wanted to write a post on POV problems for a while now, but when I saw this post by Diane O’Connell, I realized there was no point because she said everything I wanted to say, and more.

So go. Read it. NOW! And please don’t make these mistakes or I will hit you with a wet, virtual noodle.