Recently I read a book where the flow of the story was chopped off in the jump from chapter one to chapter two. I’ve also read books where the flow was interrupted from one sentence to the next, or one paragraph to the next. Flow hits on all levels from word to word all the way up across the story.
Flow is one of those important, yet, neglected writing topics. This may be due to being something difficult to really nail down.
We read about pacing all the time—how the story needs to have good pacing and not sag in the middle. Flow is a little different. Flow is about linking thoughts to gently pull the reader along. The Truman Capote quote may sum it up best, “’What I am trying to achieve is a voice sitting by a fireplace telling you a story on a winter’s evening.” That is a very good way to think about flow. It can make the writing seem effortless, very much like a river that is just moving along.
The flow can be in fast paced or slow stories. Flow is more about linking one word to the next, one sentence to the next, one paragraph to the next, one scene to the next, and one chapter to the next. It is about using words and sentences in such a way that the reader is engaged—but never thrust from the story. It is very much like a river’s flow that move on without the reader noticing the water is being deliberately move.
This idea was first introduced to me by Elizabeth George’s excellent book Write Away. It is something a writer should think about, but I believe it is something to work on after you get the basics of craft down and you’re looking to bump your writing to the next level. It can leave a writer choked if thought about too much. It also is something that shows up if you read your work aloud.
That trick of reading a story aloud is one that I often think is neglected. Different things show up when you read a story aloud—and it is a pity we’ve lost the habit of sitting down in an evening with one person reading while others do handicraft. Typos jump out, stumbles become clear, and flow—or the lack of it—becomes much more obvious.
Flow is about word choice, but also about sentence structure, and how paragraphs are built. This is why I consider it a more advanced topic for a writer—if you’re still struggling with the basics of building a character, of crafting dialogue, and structuring a scene, flow is something to look at after you finish a book or two.
In an article by David Jass on ‘What Writes Mean by Flow’ he speaks to the importance of syntax and writes that, “…altering our syntax does more than help us write flowing prose; it allows us to get our thoughts off the normal track on which they run.” When it comes to the use of syntax and varying sentence structure Jass quotes Robert Hass, “New rhythms are new perceptions.” This is what someone means when they say the writing is or isn’t fresh.
So…fresh and flow…and syntax. It is enough to stumble any writer into a block—too much thinking about this can be deadly. But if you write enough words, you will start to find your own flow…and when you get to revising what you’ve written this is where a focus on flow becomes important (also called word choices, and syntax or use of variable sentence structures).
One general guideline that helps me is to keep in mine one thought to a sentence, one topic to a paragraph. If I chop up sentences, or paragraphs, I want to do so with intent for the scene and still keep flow in mined even as I look at the pace. Thinking about the emotion behind each word—its connotations as well as its meaning—and looking at how the sentences and paragraphs, and scenes reveal character I want to keep asking a couple of questions. What should the reader feel? And is it all getting too intellectual? Sometimes, if the emotion is on the page, you want to leave things alone.
I do believe that if you write long enough you start to get a handle on flow with a writer’s instinct. I also believe that reading a lot can help with absorbing this idea of flow. It also helps to stop and take apart a sentence, or paragraph, or scene that either thuds for you or has that “flow”. (This is the curse of a writer—you start to read like a writer, not like a reader.) To head back to the analogy of a river running, leading inevitably to the sea, that is why the word “flow” crops up for writing. The story can carries the reader along is the one the reader has trouble putting down—I’ll just read one more chapter, a few more pages…oh, I finished the book and I want the next one from that writer. Flow is attached to a writer’s voice—it’s not just the rhythms of thought, it is the rhythms of intent. It is something that makes writing forever an interesting challenge.
I’ve been reading some contest entries of late, and one thing that struck me is that I don’t see the point of the story emerging right away to hook me into the story. Theme is the point of a story–it is why it has to be written. It may be something a writer naturally puts in (I envy those folks), but most writers need to think about theme and make it stronger by intentionally building it into the story and weaving it in to everything.
But let’s start with a definition: Theme is an idea that recurs in or pervades a work of art or literature.
Another good definition is that theme is the underlying idea an author is trying to convey to an audiences.
If you write a novel, spend weeks and then months catching it word by word, you owe it both to the book and to yourself to lean back (or take a long walk) when you’ve finished and ask yourself why you bothered— why you spent all that time, why it seemed so important. In other words, what’s it all about, Alfie?— Stephen King
In other words, the theme is really the ‘big idea’ that is woven through the entire story. It is a critical belief about life that transcends cultural barriers. It is usually universal in nature, and works best if it is integral to the story, instead of only being used once (which can make it come across as heavy handed, like a club over the head).
Another way to think of theme is that it is a touchstone. Theme is going to help you develop your characters, their main goal, and the main need for each character. It will tell you what you need in the story, and what you need to leave out. It will tell you what should be the dark moment or climax of the main character’s arc. Theme is what makes a story resonate with a reader long after the story has ended.
Theme can be a statement, or a question posed to explore, and smaller themes may echo the larger one. You do have to be careful about making theme a statement. That can make the writing preachy, or come across as a message instead of strong story with vital characters. Sometimes it is best to go with a theme that has you needing to answer that question.
I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.— Joan Didion
Theme also tends to work best if it is something that, as noted above, resonates with you, the writer. If the theme is just an intellectual exercise and doesn’t hit home with you, it can come across to the reader as ‘shoved into place’ or not really fitting—it stands out like a red flag in a field of green grass.
Now, when I say theme is what the story is really about, this does not mean theme is the action that describes the plot.
As in: Two people fall in love, but their families hate each other due to a long-standing feud.
That describes the action of ‘Romeo & Juliette’, but not the theme. Now there are several smaller themes int he play, but a main theme is that “We cannot overcome our fates.” Romeo is fated to fall in love with Juliette. Their love is fated to have a tragic outcome. And Mercutio—the man caught in the middle—is fated to die.
Oil Painting by Frank Bernard Dicksee, 1884
To look at another example, “Lord, what fools these mortals be,” pretty much comes right out to state the theme of “love makes fools of us all” for A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream.
Theme may be explicitly stated by a character. (In Blake Snyder’s book on screenwriting, Save the Cat, he argues for this to be a beat in the story, and indeed this can make for a great scene.) Or theme may be woven into motifs and thematic elements—such as Mercutio’s death foreshadowing the tragic fates awaiting Romeo and Juliette.
Here is one simple rule to remember: Characters carry theme.— James Scott Bell
Theme does need to be both rejected by the characters, and then proven at some point, usually in the climatic moment of the story. You usually see theme best at the ‘dark moment’ of a story.
Theme shows up in songs as well (beyond thematic melodies). Think of favorite songs that really resonate with you and you’ll find more than a catchy melody. Theme can be something you explore in one book, in several, or over a lifetime of writing.
‘Nowhere Man’ embodies one of my favorite themes—the hero completely out of his element. It’s really near and dear to my heart.— Ruth Glick
I used a theme of “What is too great a compromise of self in any relationship?” to explore the idea of compromise to make a relationship work, and I used this over three books. Another theme I’m drawn to is “How do you find a sense of belonging in this world?” I used that in the Proper Series Regency romances I wrote. You may well find yourself drawn back to the same theme over and over. It’s quite possible to either have a lot to say about a theme, or do want to really push into a theme in different ways. A great theme can be explored over a lifetime of work. It’s all about if you still have more to say or discover about that theme.
So…how do you find your theme?
To Learn How to Identify Theme
Pick out three favorite books from your keeper shelf. Look at the opening when the protagonist’s life is thrown out of balance, and then look at the dark moment. See if you can identify theme from those two moments–it’ll be a moment early on when the protagonist doesn’t think that theme holds true, and the dark moment is a moment of realization that relates to the theme.
If you can’t find the theme there, head to three favorite movies–again, look for that early scene when the protagonist is thrown into hot water, and then toward the end when the protagonist is faced with the toughest choice.
Finding Themes
With a pen and paper (writing by hand connects left/right brain in a different way than does a keyboard) Write down what ticks you off? What lights a fire inside you? What do you feel compelled to write about? Jot down three things that hit you emotionally.
Now….look at a story you are currently working on. What is it about? Write a sentence that poses a core, emotional question for that story. Then compare the two—are you writing about something that really hits you emotionally?
Another Way to Find Theme
Write down a paragraph about your main character’s arc in the story you’re working on.
Now, read it over, and see if you can condense this to a one sentence theme. The main character’s arc—what the protagonist faces as a dark moment—is going to help reveal theme to you.
If you can’t find your theme right away, don’t sweat it. Start writing, and wait for the theme to show up. That sometimes happens anywhere from 40 to 100 pages into the story. That’s when you can go back and start weaving it. Or even get the book done, and then figure out what needs to be cut or added or changed. Editing is your friend–and sometimes the ending reveals the true beginning, along with that theme.
The first draft is just you telling yourself the story. —Terry Pratchett
By 1815 the Palais-Royal was already known for being the place to go in Paris not just for a meal, but for gambling, and to indulge in every other vice. John Scott wrote of his visit to the Palais-Royal in 1814: “It is a square enclosure, formed of the buildings of the Orleans Palace; piazzas make a covered walk along three of its sides, and the centre is an open gravelled space, with a few straight lines of slim trees running along its length.”
Scott called it, “…dissolute…wretched, elegant…busy, and idle” The palace began life in the early 1500s as the Palais Cardinal, home to Cardinal Richelieu, but became a royal palace after the cardinal bequeathed the building to Louis XIII. It eventually came to Henrietta Anne Stuart who married Phillipe de France, duc d’Orléans. That’s when it became known as the House of Orléans.
The building was then opened so the public could view the Orléans art collection, and that began the palace’s more public life. Louis Philippe II inherited the royal palace, and the duc renovated the building, and the center garden was now surrounded by a mall of shops, cafes, salons, refreshment stands and bookstores. The Parisian police had no authority to enter the duc’s private property, which meant it became a hub for illegal activity, and the cafés, particularly the Corazza Café, became a haunt of the revolutionaries. During the French Revolution, the duc dropped his title, changed his name to Philippe Égalité and even voted for the death of his cousin to the end monarchy. That didn’t save his own head. But the Palace-Royal continued on.
Scott writes, “The chairs that are placed out under the trees are to be hired, with a newspaper, for a couple of sous a piece; they are soon occupied; the crowd of sitters and standers gradually increases; the buzz of conversation swells to a noise; the cafés fill; the piazzas become crowded; the place assumes the look of intense and earnest avocation, yet the whirl and the rush are of those who float and drift in the vortex of pleasure, dissipation, and vice.”
On the ground floor shops sold “perfume, musical instruments, toys, eyeglasses, candy, gloves, and dozens of other goods. Artists painted portraits, and small stands offered waffles.” While the more elegant restaurants were open on the arcade level to those with the money to afford good food and wine, the basements offered cafés with cheep drinks, food and entertainment for the masses, such as at the Café des Aveugles.
After the Bourbon restoration in 1814, the new duc d’Orléans took back his title and the Palais-Royal kept its reputation for a fashionable meeting place. It was said, “You can see everything, hear everything, know everyone who wants to be found.”
Scott visited Paris during the peace of 1814 and wrote of the shops, “…they are all devoted to toys, ornaments, or luxuries of some sort. Nothing can be imagined more elegant and striking than their numerous collections of ornamental clock-cases; they are formed of the whitest alabaster, and many of them present very ingenious fanciful devices. One, for instance, that I saw, was a female figure, in the garb and with the air of Pleasure, hiding the hours with a fold of her scanty drapery: one hour alone peeped out, and that indicated the time of the day…. The beauty and variety of the snuff-boxes, and the articles in cut-glass, the ribbons and silks, with their exquisite colours, the art of giving which is not known in England, the profusion and seductiveness of the Magazines des Gourmands are matchless.”
The bookshops sold erotic prints along with French classics, and political pamphlets and the restaurants were crowded every evening and night with anyone who could afford the price of a bottle of wine and a fine dinner. Upstairs were the gambling houses and bagnios, and as Scott wrote, “…the abodes of the guilty, male and female, of every description.” Lanters illuminated the crowds that strolled past along with dancing dogs, strolling musicians, singers, and “….Prostitution dwells in its splendid apartments, parades its walks, starves in its garrets, and lurks in its corners.” Scott spoke of “The Café Montansier was a theatre during the revolutionary period…” Just such a café/theater went into Lady Lost, as the place where the heroine Simone, also known as Madame de Mystére, practices her illusions. In March 1815 the Palais-Royal saw more soldiers than it had in ages for Napoleon brought his troops to Paris, chasing out Louis VXIII.
EXCERPT LADY LOST – Jules and Simone dine at the Palais-Royal
Simone stood at the entrance to the Café Lamblin in the Palais-Royal. Even this late, some lingered over their supper. The looking glasses that lined the wall facing the street emphasized the crowd. The other walls, painted white and trimmed with gilt, shone in the light of the Argand lamps set between the silverware and china placed on tables covered with white linen. Ornamental iron stoves warmed the vast space, and four clocks, hung high on the walls, showed the hour as well past eleven. Perhaps three dozen diners remained—gentlemen and ladies, soldiers and courtesans. In Paris, anyone and everyone chose the pleasure of dining out when they had the money to pay the bill. Her mouth watered at the aromas haunting the room—soups and meats, liquors and wines, and the sweet scent of fruit and ices melting into their glasses upon the tables. To her right, behind a barrier and seated on a rise, the lady proprietor took payment from two men who shrugged into their coats and donned hats. Simone handed her cloak to an attendant and waved for Jules to do the same with his outer garments. A waiter appeared, a long white apron around his waist and flapping at his ankles, partly covering a black vest and breeches. With a bow and a snap of his shoes against the marble floor, he showed them to a table and handed over broad, paper menus. Jules stared at the printed sheet. “Not as extensive as that of Le Beauvilliers but far better prices.” Simone glanced around the room. The wine and liquors flowing endlessly—along with coffees—and waiters dodged tables with trays of food and drink. Laughter and conversation rolled across the room. No one in Paris liked to refuse the flow of francs into the hand, not even for so late a meal. She glanced back at Jules. “Prices? Do not be so provincial as to think that is all that matters.” Putting aside his menu, mouth twisted up on one side, he shook his head. Blue eyes gleamed bright. “Oh, but I am just that. A wine merchant who has never before been to Paris, I am amazed by such an extensive printed menu. Order what you wish. I think we can stand the nonsense.” “You may regret that,” Simone told him. She ordered lobster soup from a choice of half a dozen others, cold marinated crayfish, chicken fricassee with truffles in a sauce of leeks and oysters, duck with turnips from an array of roast birds, a side dish of asparagus and one of early peas, a dessert of cheese and nuts, and a bottle of Volney, which Jules sipped and sent away, ordering a Latour instead, which indeed tasted better but would take more coins from his purse. Dishes came and went. Jules kept up an astonishing chatter about Paris, the food, droll comments on the other diners, and everything but what lay between them. She pushed at the peas on her plate with her knife and glanced at Jules. “You manage to say a great deal without saying much of anything.” He held still as only he could, studying her, eyes a sharp blue in the glow of the Argand lamps. “The art of polite discourse. It is second nature. Would you care for more of the duck? I must say, they have a pleasant way with it. The skin is crisp and the taste a delight. They must feed them good corn before they come to the kitchens. Then you may tell me if you think Henri had any part in poor M’sieur Breton’s demise.” Putting down her knife, she propped one elbow on the table and cupped her cheek with one hand. “That is…no, tell me first, what transpired with those men who took you up? Why do you not speak about that?” He pushed at a slice of duck with his fork. “Will you in turn tell me if your brother would have jumped for the chance to meet up with the not-so-good duc in my place?” Straightening, she smoothed the napkin on her lap. “Do we talk of such things here? Where others might listen?” A woman’s laugh pulled her attention to a table with four soldiers and two ladies whose dress—or lack of such a thing—proclaimed their status as those who sold their favors. Jules waved his wine glass at the room. “Everyone else is bent on pleasure of one sort or another. We might be the only sober souls in this fine establishment.” She traced a fingernail along the edge of the tablecloth. “Henri…he would not…no, M’sieur Breton was his friend. A good friend.” “Had he known the man long?” “No, but that is Henri. He charms everyone quickly. We only met the m’sieur after we come to Paris. Now do I get a question?” “It has gone beyond coincidence that your brother is a friend—or perhaps I should say was—friend to the late M’sieur Breton. Now we have the duc embroiled in events—the Butcher of Lyons you named him—and it all has me wondering if your parents might have lived in that charming city. Perhaps during the Revolution? That automaton reveals also that your father was a man who made expensive clockworks for those with money.” With a small shrug, she took up her wine. “What would you have me say?” “You may act as casual as you wish—you are practiced at that with your stagecraft—but I will have the story. Consider it a fair exchange for dinner.” “What of payment in an answer for an answer? I am curious, too, and have questions. Why are you not in London? Do you have no wife, for you keep only the mistresses?” “Multiples is it? You think perhaps I have one woman for each day of the week, or perhaps only one for each season of the year? They are expensive things, and I have no wish to beggar my estate for any such entanglements.” “Then you have casual liaisons? Was that true of the woman you once wanted to marry as if…for one that, you sound as if you don’t want to speak of her at all?” “My past has no bearing on the incidents of tonight. It is yours that stirs my interest. May I serve you more of the chicken? You may then tell me of this tie between yourself and Lyons, for you speak of the past as if it is far too present, and the excesses of Madam Guillotine’s rampage certainly reached everywhere in France. Come now—a straight question and a straight answer. Did the Butcher of Lyons touch your family?” “The past can haunt us all—can it not? What is it you really do in London? Do not the ladies interest you?” “Ah, now you make me into a gentleman who spends all this time only with other gentlemen. I’ve had other things to occupy me—the world has been sorely troubled of late, and ladies…courting takes a great deal of work. There are rides and walks and dancing to be done. Flowers sent, and if you get that wrong they either wilt too quickly or any real interest does the same. Turn your back but once, and the lady is off on some other man’s arm. Now, what of you? I expose myself, but you remain the lady of mystery? Since you ask it of me, I shall be forward as well and ask why you are unmarried?” Holding up her hand, she ticked a count on her fingers. “I do not plan to marry a soldier, and look around just now—that means most men in France. Second…actors. I meet many and I follow Maman’s advice and leave them to flirts only for it never ends well.” “That does not surprise overmuch.” “Third…” She wiggled her fingers and picked up her fork again. “Third is that I do not want to keep a shop, or run a tavern, and even that sort thinks a woman who goes onto a stage is not respectable, but I am!” He reached for one of the plates to serve himself more asparagus that had come out with an excellent white sauce that did tempt her, but she would not allow him to divert her focus. She put her hands in her lap. Glancing at her, he put down the asparagus. “If you will not finish this, I shall. Will you have more of anything else?” She plucked a green spear from the plate and waved it at him. “Answers. Why are you not in the army? Is not every man fighting on one side or another? Why are you really here? We are back to you talking around and about. Do you think I do not know distractions? That is the principle of sleight of hand.” She bit into the asparagus, then licked her fingers. When she held up her hand again, a coin glinted in her finger tips. With a quick move of the other hand, the coin vanished, and she showed him bare palms. Putting down his fork and knife, he fixed his stare on her. Heat bled into her face, but she met that direct gaze of his. For a moment, he pressed his mouth tight and hesitated as if making up his mind about something. Finally, he threw his napkin onto the table. “Very well, if you must know, you must. As to a uniform, it was considered, at least by me, but responsibilities kept me from doing more than that, along with…well, at the time—and this was a long time ago—the woman I wished to court had vapors at even a mention of something so vulgar as fighting and armies. Odd, really, considering she eventually deserted her husband to run off with a sailor. Actually, a captain at the time, although not in the British Navy. However, I also have wretched aim, and while I look very good on a horse, I am not given to charging about. I prefer to think things through and take my time, and that is a quality I found I could put to use elsewhere.” “Bah—you still tell me nothing. What do you mean, ran off? She is alive still? And she was married when you wanted to court her, or she did marry elsewhere after the courting?” “We slip from the more pressing topic at hand—that of your brother’s involvement in a death.” She stiffened. “Do you tell me…did you…? This woman, she is—is no more?” “Please do not speculate. Far too much of that has dogged me over the years. What I will say is that seventeen is a very stupid age, one I am grateful to have outgrown. Also, her husband suffered more than I at that time. But the situation as well as my family history stirred up old talk about my family, for scandal dogs us like hounds on a high scent, even when I should rather leave all of it far behind.”
Some stories just take more time—and this one took ages! Part of this is due to the research needed for Paris in 1815. Part is just due to Jules being a reticent character who took a bit of coaxing before he finally agreed to this. Another part comes from the interruptions of life. But at last Lady Lost, the third book in the Ladies in Distress series, is done and coming out March 2025.
Below is an excerpt from the book…
Chapter One Paris, March 1815
She stepped onto the stage in a ripple of smoke, shadows dancing on the white plaster of the wall behind her. Jules sat straighter in his chair. The illusion of fog was a good one. It would hide any trap doors. The actress took one step forward, into the light of the stage lamps. Makeup left her oval face pale and perfect—a slash of dark, arched eyebrows, a curve of a red mouth. Under her black cape and hood, the brown of her elaborately arranged hair showed through glistening white powder. Her skirts rustled and the spangles on her gown glinted. The dress belonged to a previous generation, but the woman moved with the grace of youth. She swept the room with a look…a challenge…arrogance in the dark eyes. For an instant, their stares clashed. Awareness shot through Jules and tingled on his skin. The woman commanded the stage—and his attention. Her gaze seemed to linger a heartbeat longer before it shifted. He let out a breath. With a wave of her hand and a burst of smoke, she conjured a box with thin legs onto the stage. A good trick from Madam de Mystére, otherwise known as Simone Raucourt, the featured act. She was his connection to Henri Allard…and the missing courier. Shifting restless in his chair, Jules glanced around the theater. It was more of a café with its tables and chairs, and its black-and-white checkered floor. Past splendor haunted the décor with bits of carved columns in dark corners. Two chandeliers clung to the ceiling as if desperate to hold onto past glory, their crystals dusty and dim. The crowd had quieted. Those sober enough to give their attention leaned forward. For an instant, irritation surged that he must wait for his answers. “Patience, patience,” he muttered, keeping his words in French, not English, his accent that of his old governess who herself had come from Paris. He let his gaze slip back to the stage. The woman proceeded to conjurer a bouquet of violets—the symbol for this rebirth of Bonaparte’s Empire. She transformed them into a deck of cards and back again, and threw a few into the audience. They cheered. More cards appeared from the ether. Fanning them out, she changed the suits all to hearts. She managed several other sleights of hand. Coins did not go over well, but scarves in the tricolors of France’s Revolutionary flag had the audience going wild. Turning to the box she’d summoned onto the stage, she beckoned with a slim, pale hand. An oddly still monkey in a blood-red coat rose from inside the box to perch on its top. Jules had seen more than a few automata—mechanical beings that ran on some sort of clockwork with gears and cams, metal discs with the edges notched to create instructions. Most played an instrument, while others could write or draw. One, he recalled with a smile, had been an extraordinary swan made from silver. It caught fish from glass rods that appeared to be reflective water. This mechanical monkey sat before a tiny harpsichord, bits of black hair glued to its head and the backs of its paws. Glass eyes shone in the lamplight with the illusion of life. The uncanny creature mimicked playing a sweet tune, its paws moving over the keys, which depressed on their own. The music obscured the click and creak of the mechanism. Madam de Mystére sang along, a plaintive melody about home and loss. She had a good voice, a deep contralto that would enchant anyone. An ache wound through her song. The audience quieted. Some stared into their drinks. A few wiped a tear. No doubt everyone here knew someone who had died for France—the wars drained more than a few villages of every able-bodied man. Jules turned his drink on the table once, like winding a watch that might turn time back to better years. The conjurer had power, he had to give her that. Her emotions seemed heartfelt. Perhaps she, too, had lost a brother or father to the wars. He tightened his fingers around his tumbler. Life had left him wary of maudlin sentiment. He shifted on the chair and wished he could pull off his boots. He knew himself not in a mood to be pleased. The hour for his dinner had long passed, this café stank of onions, wet wool and the acid of inferior wine, and his feet ached from tramping over this damp city. Allowing the last note to trail off into silence, the actress held still. The spangles on her dress sparked with each breath. She lifted her hand. The automaton did the same, a small pistol slipping down its coat sleeve and into its mechanical grip. The audience gasped. Jules did not. The female magician held up a card. A sharp report stung the air and sulphury gunpowder bloomed. The woman turned the card so all could see the image of the king shot through the center. The symbolism could not be clearer—royalty shot dead. Cheers rose, along with stomping. Deciding he’d seen enough, Jules stood and gathered his hat and gloves. He tossed a coin onto the table and made for the door at the side of the stage pausing long enough to speak to a waiter to ask directions and pushing a few francs into the man’s hand. On his way to the dressing rooms upstairs, he spotted a spray of violets on the floor, one tossed into the audience by Madam de Mystére. He hesitated, and then gave into impulse. He swept up the tiny purple flowers. He brought them to his nose only to have silken petals brush his skin. That left him wondering if the woman who had thrown the flowers was as false as the violets.
I’m giving a talk via Zoom for Orange County Romance Writers on November 9 on Pacing Tips and that has had me thinking about story pacing, and what I see so very often in writing contests. It is not a too slow pace, but actually a too fast pace–the story speeds ahead as if the writer is worried about losing the reader’s interest. The problem with this is that this steps all over immersing a reader into a story.
Now we’ve all read lists of great opening lines–some of them are on the verge of being cliche they’ve been quoted so soften. Pacing is about far more than just a good opening hook, however.
Any story needs to set the pace–and I often think about this in comparison to a horse race or a runner in a footrace.
There’s the short sprint that needs to be fast from the start to the end.
There’s the marathon or race over a couple of miles for a horse that needs for early speed not to be so fast it burns up the energy and leads to a lackluster finish.
You can hook a reader with a great opening line, and then lose that reader in the first chapter.
You can have a great first chapter, and then the book sags in the middle and the reader’s interest drops away.
You can also have a great premise, but weak execution means the reader is not pulled into a fully realized world with fully developed characters.
Dealing with all of this is what I’ll be talking about with those pacing tips, but what I’m talking about here is to just take a deep breath–and imagine more. Slow it down a bit. Figure out and put in those vital details that make the world come to life.
I think too often writers worry so much about a fast pace–a fast start–that what gets forgotten is building a scene and enjoying the process. There’s so much about agonizing about writing that we forget we love words–and love to put them together in fresh, inventive ways. We forget to pace ourselves and hurry to finish the scene or the chapter or the story, and forget to weave in all the stuff we love the most.
I sometimes wonder if we slowed ourselves down–read a book aloud, sat on a park bench and watched the world go by, took a drive into countryside with no destination in mind, strolled down a street without the idea of hurry or losing weight–would that help bring more to the page?
That’s one thing that writing by hand does–it slows us down a bit. It gives a little more room to thinking and imagining and a little less pressure to get a word count done. I think we have to look at pacing ourselves as well as our stories.
But there are still some more practical tips that can help–and those go into that talk for Orange County Romance Writers.
Today Susan Squires Guest Blog Part II on Settings, with examples from her own work….
Susan Squires is New York Times bestselling author known for breaking the rules of romance writing. She has won multiple contests for published novels and reviewer’s choice awards. Publisher’s Weekly named Body Electric one of the most influential mass market books of 2003 and One with the Shadows, the fifth in her vampire Companion Series, a Best book of 2007. Her latest book is Do You Believe in Magic? which is available in print or as an ebook.
Susan has a Masters in English literature from UCLA and once toiled as an executive for a Fortune 500 company. Now she lives at the beach in Southern California with her husband, Harry, a writer of supernatural thrillers, and three very active Belgian Sheepdogs, who like to help by putting their chins on the keyboarddddddddddddddddd.
And now let’s hear from Susan:
SET THE STAGE PART II
As an exercise, look at your current work in progress to be sure that every setting has at least some description. Then ask yourself, “Have I used the most telling details, ones that not only describe my setting, but my theme or my character?” Then continue with the question, “Do I need all this description for my reader to get the idea I’m trying to convey?” That’s a good place to start.
Now, I still struggle with this every day. Here are a couple of examples from my latest book, Do You Believe In Magic?, the first in my Children of Merlin series about the big and very successful Tremaine family who are descended from the wizard of Camelot. Each sibling will come into a magic power when they meet and fall in love with another who carries the Merlin gene. This first book is about Tris, the bad boy brother who doesn’t believe in his destiny. He certainly never suspects that he’s met his future in the middle of Nevada in the person of one Maggie O’Brian, a spitfire little rodeo rider.
First, a light description that introduces Maggie and Tris, in Maggie’s point of view, in the second scene of the book. We won’t be back to the diner, but her truck and Tris’s bike tell us a lot about them.
It was a hundred miles into Fallon. She’d been so anxious to get away, she hadn’t eaten breakfast. Since she was flush, at least for a minute, she decided to stoke up on some of Jake’s steak and eggs. Maggie O’Brian’s rig clattered into the dirt parking lot next to the diner. The four-horse trailer was one of those old iron slat jobs where the horses were tied in at an angle. It made a God-awful racket when it was empty. Truck wasn’t exactly new either. Ford F250, vintage 1970. But the big 390 diesel did the job. You couldn’t see much of the faded red paint under all the dust anyway, so the dings and dents didn’t matter.
She climbed out of the cab. A kick-ass black Harley with minimum chrome and scarred leather saddlebags leaned on its stand in front of the diner windows, no doubt so the owner could keep an eye on it. Covered with road grit and sporting a couple of dings itself, it wasn’t a Sunday afternoon ride for some rich Hell’s Angel wannabe. That bike had seen action. Maggie pulled open the ancient screen door, the smell of grease and fried pork product wafting over her.
The only people in the diner at this hour were usually locals. It was too early for tourists in the “living ghost town,” of Austin, Nevada. The counter was filled with single old guys, leaving only one empty seat next to a really broad-shouldered man. He was the youngest guy in the diner by probably forty years. She didn’t recognize him. He must be the owner of the cycle. His black leather jacket was slung over the low back of the barstool, leaving a faded blue work shirt, longish black hair, and some three-day stubble the only things she could see.
This, on the other hand, is a major description of the Maggie’s house as the Tris sees it for the first time. The house will be the setting for a climactic scene later in the book and it says something about Maggie, so I took some time with the description. The old rusted truck, the propane tank and the windmill will all be important to the story. Could I have cut it? As I read over it, I think maybe so. We all just keep trying to find the right balance.
A motel actually seemed like a safe haven. Tris couldn’t imagine spending the night under the same roof with Maggie and her father. Or rather he could. He could imagine what she’d wear to bed. Probably a tee shirt. And nothing else. He could imagine hearing her undressing in another room. He could see her slim, muscled rider’s legs and imagine them wrapped around his hips…. Shit. Apparently he’d gone from not giving a damn about women at all, straight to what probably amounted to addiction. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.
Her father would kill him if he saw the hungry look in Tris’s eyes.
He chewed the inside of his lip as she turned the truck down an unpaved road, really just two tire tracks in the sandy dirt where the mountains flattened out into desert. The tracks wound through a dry streambed that would have to be forded in the rain. In the distance a clump of feathery gray-green Palo Verde trees clustered around a weathered house with a corrugated iron roof and a sagging front porch. The whole shack seemed about to disappear into the gray and brown colors around it. The roof barely supported a TV satellite dish. A white propane tank that looked like a Tylenol pill settled out a ways from the house and a windmill towered behind it, blades spinning lazily in the desert wind. That well must be their source of water way out here. A pickup, circa ’48, more rust than metal, sat on blocks next to a late ’70s station wagon with peeling white paint. No yard. But he could see a lean-to full of hay bales out back and some pipe corrals with horses milling around in them, peering over the rail toward the approaching truck. He recognized the mustangs he’d watched her gentle but there were others too, less rough looking. As they got closer, he realized the horses were much tidier than when he’d last seen them. The lean-to was freshly whitewashed and the water barrels in the corrals were painted a bright blue-green in contrast to their desert surroundings.
Someone took care of the horse part of the property—the house, not so much.
He caught himself wondering what his family would think of a girl who came from a house like this. Sere and hard. That’s what her life must be like.
Her mouth was set in a grim line as she pulled up behind the station wagon. She cut the engine. Staring straight ahead, she said, “Don’t pay attention to Elroy. You’re my guest here.”
“Okay.” He hoped that word wasn’t loaded with the dread he felt. He tried not to let in an ounce of judgment either. He had no right. But he saw why she wanted to be on the road.
To read more about Tris and Maggie, and learn about Susan, visit www.susansquires.com.
Point of View is a phrase that writers use to death. It’s one of those things that a reader doesn’t notice until it’s done badly. But it’s also one of the most critical skills because it affects everything else in the story.
You don’t really think about until you have to figure out whose point of view gives you the best story.
Now, the “duh” moment here seems to be that well, of course any story uses the point of view of the main character. But sometimes that doesn’t work so well. Dr. Watson is the point of view character in Sherlock Holmes stories so Sherlock can seem smarter. (Watson’s no slouch, but by making him the POV character, the writer can hide clues that Sherlock will eventually use to make amazing deduction.)
My rule of thumb is to use the character with the most at risk in a scene–this gives the scene better conflict and drama. That risk also works better, too, if it’s emotional risk–a character who doesn’t care that a gun is pointed at him is not going to give you great drama if that character doesn’t care about dying. But this is a guideline, not a rule. Also, this doesn’t help with the whole story.
Should you write in third person, first person, multiple viewpoints, single?
This goes back to being a reader first.
What do you read? What do you like to read the most?
I’ll read just about anything, cereal boxes included. But while I like first person stories–when they’re good, they’re brilliant–I tend to read more third person. I’ve written first person stories, but I lean towards third person. But I’ve also learned over the years to control this so it’s a limited third person–I’m not dragging the reader into everybody’s heads.
There are also a few tricks to smooth viewpoint transition.
1 – Use proper names, not pronouns. He/she (or even worse, he/he) tends to put the reader deeper into his/her point of view. By moving out to a proper name, you’re moving the viewpoint out (like a camera would move out), which helps smooth the transition.
2 – Use action to hand off the POV switch. As in: Helen dropped the book. John caught it and handed it back. Notice how the action again moves the reader out of thought and into “seeing” a scene, so the action allows a change of POV by also helping move the POV out a little, into the room before dipping back into someone’s thoughts.
3 – Use clean sentence and paragraph structure to keep the transition cleaning. You can do anything, even change the point of view in the middle of a sentence. But why risk losing your reader by doing this? Instead, make your transitions clean and clear.
If you use POV right, no one will ever notice it. But oh, if you do it wrong, everyone knows.
1: a trite phrase or expression; also: the idea expressed by it
2: a hackneyed theme, characterization, or situation
3: something (as a menu item) that has become overly familiar or commonplace
That’s how Merriam-Webster’s defines a cliché — unfortunately, there are still far too many of them around. As writers, we owe it to our work, our characters, and our readers to change these hack phrases and situations around for something fresh. They are, to use a cliché phrase, easy as pie to come up with. And that’s the problem.
The first step, as with an addictive problem, is to recognize that it is a problem. And, yes, clichés are addictive. They pop out easy as easy as that pie from a greased tin, and they slide on by–which it’s why it’s a good idea to read your work aloud. You’ll catch these more easily when you read your own work.
They’ll show up in phrases–those are the easier ones to grab and shake out. The “stalking like a panther” phrases. Or easy as pie, or you’ll find many more over at Laura Hayden’s handout on Suspense.net. These just need a fresh phrase–an image that has not become used up in its overuse.
The harder ones to catch are the clichés situations that come from getting a little too lazy with the plotting. The ones I keep seeing crop up (in unpublished manuscripts) are:
1-Kidnapped heroine. Heroine stupidly ends up on her own and bad guy kidnaps her. Bad guy never seems to have a particularly good reason for this, menaces heroine without doing anything to her really, and ties up heroine for convenient rescue by hero. This is so old it creaks. Come on folks–if you need a confrontation with heroine and bad guy, come up with a better situation. How about bad guy throws a party and heroine is invited? Or what about kidnapping is really a plot to get to bad guy? Or how about a smarter bad guy who is just going to shoot the woman on sight and get her out of his way. This is easily solved with characters who are better motivated and who make sense.
2-Hero and heroine argue after making love. He pulls away, she pulls away, and all for no particular reason. How about letting your characters talk, hash it out, and make everything worse by blurting out the wrong thing at the wrong time? If you find yourself having to contrive the conflict, go back and give your characters deep, good reasons for not being in a relationship. If your characters are not acting in unique fresh ways, time to look at how do you motivate them to be unique, fresh folks.
3-Bad guy is infatuated with heroine. In such cases, heroine is usually hateful, mean, and bad mouths the guy, but somehow he still “wants” her. Another moldy oldy. This often comes along with bad guy wants heroine’s money–and while money is a good reason for a lot of things, it’s also been done way too many times. This is where you need to find better, deeper reasons for actions. Orson Scott Card gives wonderful advice in his book, Characters & Viewpoint, that the first four or so ideas you come up with for character motivation are almost always clichés–that’s why they pop up so fast.
4-Bad guy is just insane, which becomes explanation for everything. This shows up in almost every weak romantic suspense out there–and in more than a few Westerns, too. Bad guys need to make sense–they need motives and in some ways the word “sociopath” has led too many writers to think this is a bucket into which the bad guy can be dumped without any more effort applied. Go watch Dexter to see how a complex character can be created instead of just another crazy killer on the loose.
5-Hero/Heroine experience unexplainable attraction–beauty blinds sense and leads to lasting love, they are just “meant to be” soul mates. This often comes along after characters have been rude and horrible to each other for about 100 pages, but the truth dawns and true love (and sex) wins out. This situation is older than Cinderella, and is overdue for retirement. Give all your characters good reasons for their actions, and look for fresh reasons. Maybe your hero is a sucker for a great pair of legs, and that’s the initial draw–but it’s the fact she has a Cub’s t-shirt in her closet and wears it on game day, and eats hot dogs just the way he likes them (dripping with mustard, relish and sliced red onion), and won’t go outside without smearing every nose in sight with SPF 50 that does him in. Maybe her eye is caught by the broad shoulders, but he is a guy who cooks, loves pasta as much as she does, and he has a southern drawl that does her in, and he’ll do a deal to watch chick flicks with her (in exchange for a movie with stuff that blows up in between). Its the details that make your characters–don’t get lazy here.
6-Hero’s ex wants him back, and so causes trouble. Usually this means ex lies (and heroine believes her–and, really, you would believe whatever you guy’s ex said over what he says?). This also usually has the ex being so nasty that you wonder how the hero ever hooked up with her in the first place–it really does put him in a very bad light. There’s an easy fix for this one–just remember we are all the hero of our own story. Even the ex has a story that makes her sympathetic and a good guy–make sure you know this story about her (and that you like you as much as you like all your other characters). And keep telling yourself–characters who are one-sided are cliche.
7-The big “MISUNDERSTANDING”. Hero/heroine assume the worst about each other after glimpsing something. This is usually heroine sees ex leaving hero’s bedroom (and or an intimate moment) and heroine assumes he’s back with her (and why she doesn’t go pounding on doors for answers is a mystery), or this is heroine is seen with someone from her past and hero assumes the worst–oh, my god, she hasn’t changed. This is a case where you wonder what are these two doing together. Then you wonder why doesn’t anyone talk. Make it easy on yourselves, folks–when in doubt, put your characters together and get them talking. The talking should make things worse, not clear up misunderstandings. And always remember conflict based on misunderstanding is a cliché.
8-Bad guy has to explain all his reasons for his actions.The Incredibles gave us this present tense verb of monologuing. If you have to stop the story to explain a bunch of stuff, consider the possibility that either the plot is too complicated or that you need smarter characters who can figure out things without having to have stuff explained. The other way around this is to make the information so interesting that folks will sit though this cliché without complaint. But that’s a risky bet.
9-The hero/heroine suddenly has a skill that’s unexplained and doesn’t fit their past. This happens with careless writing (the writer forgot to foreshadow a skill), or when a writer has backed herself into a corner and needs to get out–that’s not usually done gracefully. Just remember to ask if you’ve set up a character who can pull off the skills needed to make the plot work. Also remember that readers are not very forgiving of “luck” factoring into a story unless it’s bad luck (or unless the character has had so much bad luck that the readers are rooting for the universe to give the characters a break).
10-The parents who want to force the heroine into a bad marriage. This one shows up mainly in historical romance, and sometimes in some contemporary romances. And, yes, while there are bad parents out there, this ignores the basic core of most folks, which is that we regard friends and family as attachments of ourselves–we want the best for them because they are a part of us. To go against anything that is core to most people, you have to use strong motivations–this is usually overlooked for the quick form of just having them be greedy folks. That’s a cliché because it’s going for a quick answer instead of really figuring out your characters.
Now you’re going to find all of these clichés in various best sellers. Which goes to show there are no rules. But you’ll find them carried off with either a twist that gives them a little fresh tread on an otherwise worn tire, or you’ll find them stuffed in with so much other good stuff that most folks will turn a bad eye. But how much better to be aware of the clichés and to be ready to make the effort to find characters who’ll take you through a story with a lot more interesting things going on, all because the characters themselves are fresh and new and worth spending your time in their company.
There’s a school of thought that there are somethings about writing that cannot be taught. In other words, you can teach grammar and plot structure and the technical stuff, but there’s something about story telling that you have or you don’t have. I’m not sure I buy into this.
Yes, we all have different levels of talent, but if you start fencing some folks out, you’re also fencing yourself in, and that’s never good. To me, this is like saying, “Well some dogs don’t chase chickens.” If you hit a dog for doing something, that will stop that dog’s instinct to do what it loves to do–but that doesn’t mean that dog was not born to chase and hunt. And folks just like to tell stories–we all love stories.
I’ve taught story telling before–I’m about to teach an online class for Lowcountry Romance Writers on this (because there are classes on so many things, but most folks don’t talk about how to put it all together). And I think if you have a strong desire to do something because you love that thing, you’ll find a way to improve. You don’t get the desire to do something without some level of talent to go with.
Now, American Idol auditions may point to this not always being the case. But I’m willing to bet a lot of those really awful singers are there not because they love music and singing, but because of a desire for fame. This means their desire and talent don’t match: a love of fame is not going to make you a singer. (Or a writer.) You have to love your art enough to sweat for it, and be willing to do it for pennies, for free sometimes, and just because you cannot not do it. You tell stories because you have a story telling instinct. This, like any other instinct, can be developed and improved–or it can be beaten into oblivion. It’s that small, still voice inside that tells you when a story is on track, and it’s the thing that stops you from writing when the story is going wrong. It’s something you have to come to believe in and the more you use it, the better it will get.
And here’s ten ways to know if you have this instinct.
1-You cannot tell anyone about what happened today without embellishing, just to add some interest.
2-If someone’s giving you gossip about others, you always end up asking: “And then what happened?” And it’s really irritating if that person doesn’t know.
3-When you walk a city at twilight, you not only look into the open windows, but start inventing things about the people who live there.
4-If folks start telling you real life stories you want them to put a good ending on it even if there wasn’t one.
5-For any news story you don’t just wonder why someone acted as they did, you can come up with all sorts of plausible reasons.
6-When something bad happens to you, yes you cry–but there’s always some small part of you taking notes.
7-When a friend starts telling you about terrible things that have happened to them, you think about how this would be great in a story.
8-It’s almost impossible for you to walk out of a movie or put down a book–even the really terrible ones–because you always have a hope the story will get better, and you have to see how it ends (even if its obvious, because its cliche, how its going to end).
9-Your pets always have back stories–and you’ll tell them to anyone who will sit still.
10-You’re willing to do stupid things at times just because you’ve never done them and you have a character (or might someday have a story with a character) who is going to do them.
If you start nodding at five or more of these, you’ve got the story telling instinct, but it needs work. If you’re only nodding at a couple, your story telling instincts have been beaten out of you by past teachers who have also killed their own instincts–time for lots of meditation and getting back in touch with your subconscious. If you nod at eight or more of these, congrats–you’re instincts are going to serve you well.
Shannon Donnelly's Fresh Ink 