Category Archives: Storytelling

Story Versus Craft, in a Cow Pasture

We’ll consider story and craft first, then relate them to a cow pasture.

Impetus

Image generated on www.perchance.org

I read Craft in the Real World by Matthew Salesses, hoping to learn to become a better writer. The book’s second half helped with that. The first half, which I read first, differed. It enumerated a list of grievances with a writers’ workshop that the author attended.

To understand the gist of his complaint, let’s start with definitions.

Story

For our purposes, let us define a ‘story’ in broad enough terms to encompass all human cultures across all human history. We could say a story is a text narrative featuring one or more characters in one or more settings, in the course of which, one or more events occur.

Craft

Craft, we’ll say, is the way a writer writes a story. It includes the techniques the writer employs, the story aspects the writer emphasizes, the words the writer chooses, etc.

The Universal and the Particular

We’ve defined ‘story’ in a universal manner so it includes campfire tales told by prehistoric tribes, Gilgamesh, The Story of Tambuka, Romance of the Three Kingdoms, and King Lear. ‘Craft,’ by contrast, varies across cultures and time periods. A particular technique, word cadence, or plot structure might resonate in one country but not another, one century and not another.

Controversy

A difficulty might arise when a writers’ workshop or Master of Fine Arts (MFA) course teaches craft suited to its culture, but a student accustomed to another culture’s craft attends.

That occurred when Matthew Salesses, a Korean-American, attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. To him, the workshop seemed too prescriptive, too intolerant of other approaches.

My Take

Never having attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, I can neither validate nor dismiss Salesses’ experience. That workshop, founded in 1936, produced graduates who went on to earn Pulitzer Prizes, Booker Prizes, National Humanities Medals, and MacArthur Fellowships. Five graduates went on to become U.S. Poets Laureate.

Matthew Salesses has written six books and dozens of essays, been named one of thirty-two Essential Asian American Writers, and received multiple awards and fellowships for his writing. He runs his own graduate-level workshops in creative writing.

Perhaps the Iowa Writers’ Workshop had been teaching craft suited for modern-day tastes of U.S. readers. Perhaps Salesses found that approach too rigid and inflexible, based on his experience with Korean literature. If so, his dissatisfaction appears understandable, despite the success and staying power of the workshop.

As I’ve noted, though, craft changes, often based on reader whims and sudden fads. A given formula works well for a while, then readers tire of it and it becomes stale. A different kind of novel catches on, perhaps one from a foreign country, or one written in a foreign style, or a nostalgic return to a previous style from long ago. Other authors then write in that vein to capitalize on the trend, to catch the wave. In time, that style fades in its turn, soon replaced by another.

Why do these fads, these literary waves, occur? The fickle nature of readers doesn’t explain it all. I suspect some influential readers, eager to experience fresh books, seek something unusual, find it, and enjoy its newness. They see beyond craft to the underlying story. They spread the word, sparking a trend.  

The Cow Pasture

Permit me a silly, Iowa-based simile. Think of story as a cow pasture, one of vast size with grass growing in every acre. Readers are the cows, gathering to devour grass/stories in a particular area. We’ll call that particular patch of grass the craft. In time, the cows consume the grass in that place, and have deposited cow-pies there, rendering that grass less desirable.

One cow moves on, finds a fresh patch with tall, tasty grass and begins munching there. Other cows notice and join the loner.

The process continues, cows moving from zone to zone. They drop fertilizer as they go, so previously grazed parts grow and become fresh again later.

Takeaway

Writers generate stories. They grow the grass, but don’t control the cows. Writers can create stories using currently successful craft. Or they can write stories outside that craft and hope a straying cow notices and draws the herd. A writer might dislike the popular and crowded area, and might fume that his favored grass zone attracts no cows. But cows go where they go.

Hey, cows! Over here! The tastiest grass is grown by—

Poseidon’s Scribe

November 3, 2024Permalink Leave a comment

Want to be a Character in Your Own Book?

When authors write themselves in as characters in their fiction, we call it ‘self-insertion.’ Why and when might you try this literary technique?

The list of authors who’ve done this includes names you’ve heard of— Dante Alighieri, Rudyard Kipling, Somerset Maugham, Kurt Vonnegut, Stan Lee, Clive Cussler, Stephen King, and Daniel Handler (writing as Lemony Snicket). Pretty good company.

The technique varies. In Dante’s Divine Comedy, Dante made himself the main character. He used self-insertion to give the book more credibility, to imitate a nonfictional account of an actual journey.

For Stan Lee, Clive Cussler, and others, self-insertion serves a comedic purpose. The author/character assumes a minor role in the narrative, a cameo. The character may offer a humorous comment about the plot, setting, or protagonist. In Cussler’s books, the character named Cussler often gives the protagonist some useful information, serving as a self-named Deus ex Machina.

One of the strangest uses of self-insertion appears in an experimental novel by the French author Charles de Fieux De Mouhy (1701-1784) in his novel Lamékis, or The Extraordinary Travels of an Egyptian in the Interior Land; with the Discovery of the Isle of Sylphides. I haven’t read it, but others say the novelist enters the book as a character about halfway through. The book’s other characters recognize him as the author of the book they’re in, and berate him about the falsehoods he’s written. When characters realize they’re in a book, that’s called ‘breaking the fourth wall.’

The technique of self-insertion differs from the related term, ‘author surrogate.’ That’s when a character (usually not sharing the author’s name) speaks for, or otherwise resembles, the author. In the broad sense of this term, you might see this in nearly every work of fiction. At some point, a character offers an observation sounding more like the author than the character. A beginning writer may use the technique without intending to, because it’s difficult to get out of one’s own head and think like someone else.

Back to self-insertion. However quirky the technique may seem to readers, it comes with obvious advantages for the writer. You don’t have to invent this character’s name, or draw up a personality profile, or ponder what the character might say or do at any point. You know all those things already.

The danger lies in representing a self-inserted character as better than the writer really is. Such a character may always look right, say the right thing, and act the right way. In short—flawless, perfect. Readers find such characters unrealistic, whether self-inserted or not.

Self-insertion works best for stories set in a contemporary time period. That is, while the author is alive. Inserting yourself into historical fiction or future fiction would seem weird, but might work as humor, or as part of a philosophical reality-questioning work like De Mouhy’s Lamékis.

The technique might strike you as bordering on egotism, or as crossing way over that border. That’s why many authors who use it go for the comedy aspect. (Yes, I’m vain, but I’m poking fun at myself.) I see it more as wish fulfillment—an author loving the story and yearning to be in it.

“Time to wrap this up, don’t you think?”

Um, who are you?

“Don’t you recognize me? I’m Steve Southard, the main character of this blogpost.”

This isn’t fiction. You don’t belong here. I’m the narrator, and writer, and I say what belongs in this post. You don’t.

“Too bad. I’m here, and it’s time we signed off with my other name—

Poseidon’s Scribe”

March 5, 2023Permalink

12 Purposes of Food in Stories

Real-life humans (you and me, for example) eat food to convert it to energy and use that to grow and move. Fictional characters get along just fine without food. Why, then, do we often read entire scenes showing characters eating?

On the other hand, many novels and short stories don’t mention food at all. Fictional years and decades may pass without a character consuming even one morsel or drinking one drop. Yet the character doesn’t die of starvation. What’s with that?

Readers assume a character eats ‘off-stage,’ just as we assume characters use the bathroom as needed without the author belaboring the waste expulsion process.

Since readers will assume a character eats, that takes us back to our original question—why do authors sometimes describe a character eating? I’ve come up with a dozen reasons, though there may be more:

  1. Setting. Food represents part of the setting in which the characters speak and interact. An author’s description of food helps the reader picture the location and background. Depending on the author’s intent, the food may complement the rest of the setting or provide a counterpoint to it.
  2. Authenticity. Some stories feature food as a central part of the story, and the author must show the character eating for the sake of realism. It would seem weird if the character didn’t eat. 
  3. Mood. The author can use food to show mood. (Apparently that’s true for poets, too.) A character’s opinion about food clues the reader into the character’s state of mind. That mood might not match the character’s out-loud dialogue, but will reveal the character’s true emotions.
  4. Talent. The preparation of food, especially difficult or dangerous types of prep, can showcase a character’s talent. Even an odd method of eating food (such as tossing candy in the air and catching it in the mouth) can demonstrate a talent useful to the story.
  5. Status. The type of food a character eats or prepares, whether hobo stew or truffles, may indicate the character’s status or wealth in the society. An author may also flip that script for an amusing or shocking contrast.
  6. Personality. Discussion about food, or the manner in which a character eats food, can unveil a character’s personality traits. Does the character slurp soup, season food before tasting, eat all the carrots before touching the potatoes, chew very slowly, slice the meat into many pieces before consuming one, etc.? How a character deals with food tells readers about the character’s general behavior patterns.
  7. Thoughts. Delicious food often reduces inhibitions, prompting people to say what they really think. This is particularly true as characters imbibe alcohol.
  8. Dialogue. People talk while eating, and a shared meal gives characters a chance to converse. This dialogue, like all fictional dialogue, must serve a purpose. It must reveal something about a character or must advance the plot, or both.
  9. Prop. The mechanics of food and drink consumption—sniffing, licking lips, arranging a napkin, cutting, lifting to the mouth, blowing to cool hot food, chewing, savoring, swallowing, etc.—help break up dialogue with action. A character may use an eating utensil to illustrate or emphasize a point.   
  10. Relaxation. A quiet meal can serve as a low-tension scene separating two high-action scenes. It gives the reader a chance to catch a breath while characters catch a bite.
  11. Conflict. A meal may afford the opportunity for characters to confront each other over a disagreement. They may argue, or even fight.
  12. Symbolism. An author may use any type of food or drink to symbolize something else. If a character keeps coming back to a particular type of food, and it’s either described or consumed in a different way each time, chances are it symbolizes some aspect of a change in the character.

Unlike us, fictional characters don’t need food to survive, but a story might require a character to eat anyway.

Don’t know about you, but this discussion of food has made me hungry. It’s off to the kitchen for—

Poseidon’s Scribe

June 5, 2022Permalink

End of the Story

…and they lived… Well, how exactly does the story end? Some time ago, I discussed rules for writing endings, but today let’s explore various ways stories can end.

I did a little research, and writers agree there are only five or six possible story endings. However, they each have their own categorization methods, so there may be well over six, even after counting for overlaps. (In each case, I’m simplifying their lists for brevity.)

For example, author C. Patrick Schulze categorizes endings by the protagonist, the goal, and the protagonist’s state of mind:

  1. Attains goal (happy)
  2. Attains goal (sad)
  3. Doesn’t attain goal (happy anyway)
  4. Doesn’t attain goal (sad)
  5. Realizes goal was flawed (doesn’t care)

Scott Francis categorizes in terms of the protagonist, the goal, and things greater than the goal:

  1. Attains goal (happy)
  2. Doesn’t attain goal (sad)
  3. Attains goal, but loses something greater (classic tragedy)
  4. Sacrifices goal for something greater
  5. Ending is ambiguous or bittersweet (literary fiction)

A blogger known as NDRW postulates these five more plot-centric endings:

  1. Happily ever after
  2. To be Continued…
  3. Learn something
  4. Deux Ex Machina
  5. Sorrowfully ever after

Dean Elphick’s six endings are different, but also plot-based:

  1. Resolved Ending
  2. Unresolved Ending (to be continued)
  3. Implied Ending (ambiguous, often unsatisfying)
  4. Twist in the tale (surprise)
  5. Tie-Back (ending foretold at beginning)
  6. Crystal Ball (months or years later/epilogue)

The Write Redhead cites writer Michael Orlofsky’s six ending types (mostly character-based):

  1. Death Ending
  2. Recognition Ending (learn something)
  3. Framing with Recognition (cyclic, return to beginning)
  4. Surprise/Revelation Ending
  5. Journey Endings (protagonist starts a new journey)
  6. Response to Theme (need to balance emotional and intellectual power)

These various bloggers and writers may differ in how they categorize ending types, but they do concur that endings must flow naturally and logically from the story.

I also think they’d all agree you should spend a lot of time getting the ending right. Take the same effort you did in coming up with the perfect beginning hook, to make sure you’ve ‘nailed the landing,’ as Michael Orlofsky put it.

If you’re unsure how to end your story, look over the list above, read the blogs I’ve linked to, and write a few different endings. Your optimum story ending should emerge from that effort.

Now, with the perfect ending to this post, I’ll close with my characteristic sign-off, as—

Poseidon’s Scribe

January 17, 2021Permalink

You Are Scheherazade

Welcome, budding writer, into the sultan’s palace in 9th Century Persia. The sultan’s former wife was unfaithful, and he now distrusts all women. For the last 1,001 nights, he’s taken a woman to bed and ordered her execution the next morning, to ensure she couldn’t cheat on him.

 Now, Scheherazade, it’s your turn.

Luckily, you know a story that might keep the sultan interested. You also know when to interrupt your story so the sultan will be forced to delay your execution so he can hear the ending the next night.

During the next night, you’ll finish that story and start telling a new one. Again, you’ll pause at the right point, leaving a cliffhanger, and the sultan will temporarily spare you again. How long can you keep that up, knowing the moment the sultan gets bored, you’re dead?

Recently, I read the book Talking About Detective Fiction, by the late P.D. James. At one point, she compares readers to the sultan in the Scheherazade tale. Like him, readers can be insatiable, hungry for a good, new story. They always want more, and each tale must be different from the previous ones, fresh and interesting.

That metaphor casts an author like you in the role of Scheherazade. You’re the one running the risk of boring the sultan and of getting (metaphorically) beheaded at dawn. If your next book fails to live up to the standards of the last one, readers will stop buying, and all that royalty money will stop rolling in.

Are you feeling the pressure yet?

Perhaps not. Maybe you’re thinking the metaphor doesn’t apply to you. Sure, it applies to a successful author with an established readership, like P.D. James. If only you came up with an engaging series character, like Scheherazade’s Sinbad or P.D. James’ Adam Dalgliesh, then readers would keep demanding more stories featuring that character.

But you’re a beginning writer. You don’t yet have flocks of devoted readers anxiously awaiting your next book. You’re no Nora Roberts, Ken Follet, David Baldacci, or Stephanie Meyer. You’re no Scheherazade. You think.

Sorry, you don’t get out of my metaphor that easily.

How, Scheherazade, did you come to this point? You’ve read voraciously and amassed a vast collection of books. You’ve memorized many stories. You’ve come to understand the structure of a tale, how writers accomplish their craft. You’ve practiced your storytelling techniques and have honed your skill in hooking listeners with your words and keeping them spellbound.

You’ve prepared for this moment. Indeed, you volunteered for it.

See? The metaphor’s still apt. If you’re not yet Scheherazade, the accomplished story-weaver who sits before a sultan, then you’re a younger Scheherazade training yourself and learning the writing craft.

You learn it because you want to; you crave it. You love stories; an inner impulse drives you to understand more deeply how they work.

Now you see Scheherazade did indeed feel pressure to tell new and interesting tales, but that pressure came from within her, not from the sultan’s threat of execution.

It’s all about the stories. May you have 1,001 tales to tell and may they fascinate your sultan. After all, budding writer, you’re Scheherazade. And so is—

Poseidon’s Scribe

August 26, 2018Permalink

Are Your Stories Antifragile?

That’s no typo in this post’s title. Antifragility is a thing, and today I’m discussing the concept as it applies to fictional stories.

In his book Antifragile, Things That Gain From Disorder, Nassim Nicholas Taleb asks if there is an antonym of the word “fragile.” If there were such an adjective, he’d say it describes things that become stronger when stressed.

He doesn’t mean words like ‘robust,’ ‘tough,’ or ‘resilient.’ Those words describe things that sustain shocks without damage. He wants to describe things that improve their resistance to stress by being stressed. Lacking a ready word, he coined the term ‘antifragile.’

Can a story be antifragile? To answer that, we should consider the things that impose stresses on stories. These include criticism in negative reviews and mocking satire.

What would it mean for a story to become stronger? If it meant that the story became more widely read, more popular, with increased sales, then an antifragile story would be one that suffers negative reviews or even satire and yet its sales increase.

Are there any such stories? If I recall correctly, Nassim Taleb offered the more popular plays of William Shakespeare as examples. For four centuries, those plays have endured bad reviews and been mocked, but they are performed far more often and in more languages and formats than they were in Shakespeare’s time.

From an author’s point of view, antifragility seems like a wonderful property for a story to have, especially the increasing sales part, right? If you wanted to write an antifragile story, and perhaps lacked the skill of Shakespeare, how would you go about it? Are there tangible attributes of such stories? Is there a checklist to follow?

I hate to disappoint you, but there’s no checklist. Further, the only authors who really understand what it takes to make a story antifragile…well, they’re dead. That’s because stories don’t really demonstrate that property to the greatest extent while the author is alive.

Still, being me, I’ll take a crack at it, because I like a challenge. Here is my proposed checklist for making your stories antifragile:

  1. Create complex and compelling characters. They need to seem real, with strong emotions and motivations, with goals to attain, with difficult inner problems to surmount, and with bedeviling decisions to make.
  2. Appeal to every reader. That may be impossible to achieve in a single story, but in your body of work you should include characters of many types, in diverse settings. Include rich and poor, young and old, introvert and extrovert, city and country, etc.
  3. Explore the eternal truths about the human condition. You know many of these eternal truths—we’re born, we grow up, we have parents, we learn to relate to others and even fall in love, we have disagreements and conflicts with others, we become curious about the nature of our world, we deteriorate with age, and we die. When I say to ‘explore’ these truths, I don’t mean to write a philosophy book. Write a fictional story that entertains, but causes readers to ponder those deeper truths after reading it.
  4. Execute your story with style, flair, and creativity. Yeah, right. Simply do that. This one is hard to implement, but I’ll suggest some thoughts. Look for ways to turn a phrase well. Create a new word that English lacks but needs. Write in a manner that stands out, such that readers could identify your unique voice from a couple of paragraphs chosen randomly from your stories.

Okay, it’s not really a checklist where you mark off each item in turn: done, done, done. It’s more of a guideline with concepts to aim for. Who knows if it’s even accurate? After all, I’m not dead yet (as I write this), so I can’t possibly know.

Still, it’s intriguing to think that one day, readers may consider your stories to be antifragile, and when scholars trace it back, they’ll discover you learned how to do it from—

Poseidon’s Scribe

May 7, 2017Permalink

5 Rules for Writing Humor Right

You may think it’s difficult to write funny stories, but the truth is it’s excruciatingly agonizing. Also, if you endure all that pain and get the humor wrong, readers will laugh at you (and your mismatched clothes and uncombed hair) rather than at your story.

Since humorous writing is so tough to get right, why don’t we forget the whole thing? For one, if we can manage to tell a funny story, readers like it. An amusing tale lifts them from the gloomy tedium of their dreary lives, the poor things. Think of it as a public service, kind of a ‘clown-author saves the world’ idea.

I know, I know. I hear you saying, “But, Steve, I write serious fiction. I don’t need to know how to write humor.” Okay, surf elsewhere if you want. But you really should spice up your “serious fiction” with occasional bursts of frivolity, if only to break up the interminable stretches of seriousity.

For those still reading this, I’m about to reveal my five simple rules for writing humor. Well, they’re not that simple, and aren’t actually rules, but at least they do total up to five. To develop them, I scoured the Internet (and it needed a good scouring). Then I spent literally lots of minutes searching for good advice on writing humor. I found that good advice from Brian A. Klems, Joe Bunting, Annie Binns, and Joe Bunting again. While blindfolded, I then chose only the choicest rules, right up until I got tired. After five. Here they are:

1. Maintain the elephant of surprise. Take common sayings or clichés and tie them in knots. Go in directions the reader doesn’t expect.

B. Dare to ask why pants come in pairs. Start with the ordinary, the mundane, the familiar, and the everyday, then find some weird aspect about it all. Look at it from a bizarre angle. Drive your reader to that vantage and invite her to look, too. (Note, “Hey, Babe, let me drive you to my bizarre-angled vantage to look at my weird aspect” is not a recommended pick-up line. Ever. It’s a metaphor.)

III. It’s still legal to discriminate against words. Choose words carefully. Unearth a thesaurus and examine its guts. Select specific words, not general ones. Seek words that sound humorous when juxtaposed. (I think the word ‘juxtaposed’ is kinda funny all by itself.)

Four. It’s a story, not a routine. When a comedian performs a stand-up routine, he feels free to change topics several times. You can’t do that. Your story must hang together as an integral whole, not consist of disconnected jokes. I blogged once about how some movies do that well and some do it poorly.

7. No, sorry—5. Wait for it… Structure your sentences so the last words have the most impact. Ideally, the joke is in the very last word. Develop a comedic sense of timing so that you’re not rushing to get to that ending punch. Let your sentences roll along, lulling the reader, and then swing your sledgehammer. (Metaphor again.)

If you study those five rules carefully, I can guarantee that…well, that you’ve studied them carefully. You’re going to need a lot of practice to actually write funny stories, and so will—

Poseidon’s Scribe

January 15, 2017Permalink

13 Rules for Writing Fight Scenes

Conflict is central to fiction. Not all conflict is violent, of course, but at some point, one of your stories might require a fight scene. Therefore, even if it’s distasteful to you, it’s best if you learn how to write such scenes.

Fight ScenesViolent interactions can take many forms beyond individual combat. These include war, rape, terror, shooting sprees, etc. This post focuses on fights between two characters, but many of my suggestions apply to other situations.

People use a variety of weapons when fighting, including bare hands and feet, clubs, knives, swords, guns, any object available in the environment, and a wide array of science fiction or fantasy weapons. Again, most of the guidelines for fight scenes are general, and applicable to any weapon type.

For the following list of fight scene rules, I drew from, and combined, ideas from the following people’s blogs: Joanna Penn, Angela Bourassa, Amber Argyle, and the contributors to Wikihow. They’re all great sources of information, and I recommend you read each one. Now, here’s my list:

  1. If possible, observe a real fight. Note offensive and defensive movements, tempo, exploitation of speed vs. strength, etc.
  2. Study fictional fight scenes written by great writers. Pay attention to details selected, sentence structure, word choices, and techniques used to heighten tension.
  3. Ensure your scene is relevant to, and advances, your plot.
  4. Consider using the fight to reveal or further develop the characters’ personalities, and maybe the story’s theme. SwordintheStonePosterMy favorite example of this is the “wizard’s duel” in the Disney movie The Sword in the Stone. During their fight, Merlin and Madam Mim are each turning themselves into various animals. Madam Mim’s animals emphasize power and strength; Merlin’s emphasize cunning and intelligence. The superiority of brain over brawn is the lesson Merlin has been trying to teach young Arthur, and is the major theme of the movie.
  5. Ensure you’ve established that both characters have appropriate motivation. Why is each one fighting? What does he or she hope to gain by winning? That helps the reader care about the outcome.
  6. Break up the lunges, punches, slices, gunshots, etc.—the mechanics and logistics of the fight—with short dialogue or description to keep from boring the reader. When using dialogue, skip the ‘said.’
  7. Don’t overdo the description of the fight itself; trust the reader’s imagination to fill in such details.
  8. Use short sentences, with few adjectives or adverbs.
  9. Weave in all five senses in the fight, to put the reader there.
  10. Show the Point of View character’s thoughts and emotions as the fight goes on. This is as important as the description of the fight itself.
  11. Ensure your word choices and detail selections are appropriate to the genre and your intended audience. A fight in a military thriller must be accurate, believable, and authentic. A fight in a romantic adventure should focus on the POV character’s feelings.
  12. Don’t forget about the aftermath of the fight, how much the POV character hurts, his or her feelings about the opponent, thoughts about whether the fight was worth it, etc.
  13. In subsequent drafts, cut to the minimum.

It’s my hope these rules will help you write effective and compelling fight scenes in your stories.

Not to brag, but your characters couldn’t last one round with characters written by—

Poseidon’s Scribe

February 14, 2016Permalink

Inside Each Other’s Heads

For a male writer (like me), it’s difficult to write a story in a female character’s point of view. I’ve read that it’s also difficult for female writers to get into a male character’s head and write realistic stories. Still, we’ve all read books by authors who did this very well. If others have done it; you can too.

writing opposite gender povAdvance warning: this post is full of opinions that may sound stereotypical and sexist. As a caveat, let me say the characteristics I’ll ascribe to women and men are generalizations. Not all men, nor all women, are as described below. There is plenty of overlap in thoughts and behaviors between genders.

Your goal, as a writer, is to produce an entertaining and meaningful experience for your readers. Say you’re female and your lead Point of View character is male. You want readers of both genders to enjoy the story and not get jolted out of it with thoughts of “No guy would think (or do) that!”

Of course, all fiction writing involves getting into someone else’s head, someone different from you. Even characters who share your gender have personalities unlike yours, so you’re always setting your own feelings and motivations aside as you write what someone else would think, say, or do.

Writing from the other gender’s POV is like that, only a bit more so. Think of the following suggestions as tendencies, directions in which to stretch a little without going too far.

For you male writers dealing with a female POV character:

  • Ensure she takes in the appearances of things, and notices minute changes over time
  • Have her look into other characters’ eyes
  • Employ more dialogue, especially small talk
  • Allow her to comment on others’ appearances, clothes, and health
  • Have her care more about other character’s feelings, and to validate them
  • Make her more willing to share her own feelings with others
  • Ensure she talks more about people, their connections, and feelings
  • Show her inner feelings more frequently and more deeply
  • Have her think about people as a network, where each person is on a spectrum between nice/good and mean/bad, and connecting lines between people are strong or weak based on how the two interact

For you female writers dealing with a male POV character:

  • As he takes in a scene, ensure he focuses more on the functions of things, even how he could use or change them
  • Have him look around more at a scene than into other characters’ eyes
  • Make his dialogue more sparse, with less small talk
  • Have him care more about other characters’ problems (and how he could solve them) than their feelings
  • Make him reluctant to disclose his feelings to other characters
  • Ensure he talks more about objects and abstract concepts
  • Have his thoughts move quickly from feelings to action (i.e. what is he going to do?)
  • Have him think about people as being in hierarchies, ranking either higher or lower than him, and how to treat them appropriately

Others have written about the process of creating a convincing opposite-sex POV character. For example, Author Shaquanda Dalton suggests focusing more on the similarities between the genders. She recommends concentrating on dialogue and getting help from opposite-sex beta readers. She also says that the thoughts of fictional characters will focus on the plot problem whether they are women or men, and won’t be significantly different. Lastly, she urges writers to observe real people to get ideas for character actions.

Author A. L. Sowards believes there are differences in the way men and women think, and a writer should keep these in mind. Women, she states, often stew over upsetting things longer, while men get angry but let it go quickly. Women think about many things at once, while men focus on one. She claims it’s untrue that women are more detail-oriented; it’s more a matter of interests. A female character might describe flowers using more specifics, but a male character would describe all the facets of a car engine in the same degree of detail. She advises writers to read books written by and about the opposite gender, and to get to know the character’s personality, strengths, and weaknesses well.

We may try, in our modern age, to dismiss any differences between the genders, but on average, there are some characteristics common to women and others typical of men. You should understand these differences, so you can become capable of writing from the POV of either gender.

Looking back, I’ve only done this with two characters in my published stories— Dr. Anusha Bharateeyanakshatra in “The Finality” and Galene in “Against All Gods.” It’s up to readers whether these female characters were realistically portrayed by—

Poseidon’s Scribe

January 31, 2016Permalink

Body Dialogue

Some say our bodies speak more clearly and honestly than our mouths do. I don’t know about that, but I think it will help your fiction if you show your characters using appropriate body language from time to time.

Body DialogueWhy? For one thing, body language helps break up long strings of dialogue quotes to keep the text more readable and interesting. Body language allows you to show internal conflict within a non-Point-of-View character by contrasting that character’s words with some clashing body language. Also, body language can emphasize the emotions of a character by going beyond mere spoken words.

Body language, or kinesics, includes such things as facial expressions, body posture, gestures, and tone of voice. Subdivisions of kinesics include Oculesics (body language of the eyes), Haptics (body language through touching), and Proxemics (body language using distance).

Author Amanda Patterson, founder of Writers Write, has provided a convenient online table that provides the typical body language expressions for many emotions.

There are a few ways you could use this resource:

  • As-is. Just find your character’s current emotion, and have the character display some or all of the body language manifestations. This may contrast a bit with what the character is saying, and that shows either internal conflict or deception.
  • Characteristic body language. For one of your main characters, establish a pattern where that character displays a particular body language much of the time, thus establishing a character trait and linking it to a predominate personality trait. Jules Verne’s Captain Nemo often crossed his arms, denoting aloofness, distance, and defensiveness.
  • Given that the table provides typical body language, consider showing one or more of your main characters exhibiting slight variations on those common traits. Those variations may say something about your characters’ personalities.

It’s not clear if body language is common across all countries, all cultures, or all time periods, so be careful and do some research before assuming a character would exhibit the body language you do.

Lastly, don’t overdo it. Just like long strings of dialogue get boring, so does too-frequent use of body language.

Jumping up and down while pumping my fists in the air, I’m—

Poseidon’s Scribe

November 29, 2015Permalink