More Common Obstacles

Posted on October 4, 2024 by MHP

A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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More Common Obstacles that
Novelists Typically Confront.
Also: The Neurodivergent Writer.

I’ve previously mentioned those few literary hurdles I often confront when working with novice writers. Getting stuck (See: A Few Common Obstacles) is the most common dilemma that new writers encounter—and a conundrum that all writers face at one time or another. Although the act of getting stuck generally assumes that we’ll eventually get ourselves un-stuck as well. That occasionally annoying perceptive rut known as writer’s block isn’t supposed to be a chronic condition, and most of us manage to work our way free sooner or later.

However, if getting stuck increasingly feels like a permanent situation, or if you find yourself consistently accumulating little more than first scenes or first chapters—project after project, year after year—the issue(s) you face may run far deeper than simply a matter of ‘learning the ropes’ or ‘running out of fresh ideas.’ If you’ve been toiling away for a year or two or several on any single project, yet remain unsatisfied with the results or with your level of creative output, perhaps it’s time to dig a little more deeply into your writer’s psyche. Even if you consider yourself to be a gifted writer, your inability to produce adequate results (in terms of quantity or quality) may require some personal introspection. In other words, some of us must eventually confront those emotional or psychological roadblocks potentially inhibiting our progress.

And while the prospect of ‘personal introspection’ may carry a certain negative weight, don’t worry—it’s not a euphemism for ‘you suck at writing.’ Rather, if you’re aching to write but can’t seem to gain traction, self-reflection is simply my suggestion (unscientific as it is) that you look inward before contemplating all those extraneous external factors. Various assumptions for not writing—I can’t find a sharp pencil!; or It’s raining out!; or The rent’s overdue!—may feel like adequate excuses (and sometimes they can be) but more often than not, such superficial symptoms disguise a far more complex, subconscious quandary.

While legitimate factors such as fear of failure, or what if I’m not good enough? or even the very real fear of success do exist, those psychological roadblocks can often be overcome by simply acknowledging their presence. Thus, consider this: I’m certainly not good enough if I give up, but if I try, I may surprise myself. Because the only thing worse than failing to finish a novel is an unwillingness to start a novel.

You won’t know if you don’t try—and not trying (or succeeding) is often the result of unrealistic self-doubt or lack of confidence. Every writer born has suffered through great gobs of self-doubt. (Stephen King’s disposal of his first manuscript, Carrie, only to be resurrected from the trashcan by his wife, Tabatha, is legendary. Had he not have been married, the iconic Mr. King may never have sold a single book.)

For first-time writers (especially those without concerned spouses like Tabatha), various, ubiquitous subliminal roadblocks can feel pervasive and insurmountable… because sometimes our brains are funny that way. But, guess what? Every problem has a solution. Every story has an ending. There’s always a way to get from Point A to Point Z, no matter how seemingly hopeless the journey might appear. However, each of us needs to dig deep to find the patience and persistence to go the distance. So finish. That’s Rule #1 after all.

Refer again to Perfection should you remain uncertain. Because (spoiler alert!) perfection doesn’t exist. (You can always change a word, a sentence, a paragraph…) So stop trying to obtain the unobtainable. Allow your first draft to be little more than a messy, incomplete rough sketch of whatever greatness is meant to come. Allow yourself sufficient time to tweak and refine and polish through numerous, subsequent drafts. Even if you can’t achieve perfection, pretty damn good is worth striving for. (And also quite possible!)

Ask yourself What’s the worst that can happen by trying, by staying the course? If you can’t convince yourself to go the distance, maybe writing a novel isn’t your best creative outlet. Yet other creative endeavors may await you, and it’s probably important to discover your options before you spend a year writing an uninspired (no offense) 400-pages that will ultimately disappoint you.

However, before you give up completely and become a plumber or an astronaut, what unrealized roadblocks or self-doubts linger within your soul, waiting to be discovered?

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You may be #1: A Serial Story Starter. Starting a novel is a lot like a first date. The possibilities feel boundless, and our expectations are through the roof. Filled with excitement and confidence—even if our perceived ending (or second chapter, for that matter) remains a bit nebulous—some of us can easily write a fabulous ten or 20 pages with little effort.

And yet our creative expectations, like love itself, can be fickle. Here today, gone tomorrow. It’s not uncommon for new, assumptive writers to experience that roller-coaster of emotional highs and lows, once the initial rush of balloon-light giddiness dissipates beneath the eventual iron fist of reality. Before long we may begin to sense waves of self-doubt, fading hopes and unexpected stumbling blocks. Some of us will begin to approach our pages, our progress, with a tingling sense of dread. Might starting a novel have been a mistake?

Frequently, as we concoct and/or approach a specific story line, we may realize (correctly or not) that the story inside our head is more difficult to decipher than originally presumed. Maybe the plot sputters, or our premise begins feels weak or clunky. Our characters stop speaking to us or become lost in the fog. So many What if—? questions remain unanswered. So many Now what—? questions feel suddenly impenetrable. Or maybe, 30-50 pages into our story, an even better idea comes to mind. Those feelings are more common than you might think—and knowing when to stop can be as important as knowing when to hunker down and proceed.

It’s perfectly alright to revamp our daydream in another POV, or tell our story in a different way. It’s also perfect okay to start a completely new book from scratch. It’s all part of the learning curve, after all, and ’tis far better to disregard 50 or 100 pages and begin anew, rather than belabor to complete an unfulfilling brick of a book that you’ll ultimately stick in a drawer, disgruntled and disillusioned, and perhaps never write again.

Many (most?) published writers do have unfinished starter novels and dog-eared notebooks filled with half-baked ideas littering our drawers and PC desktops. Those false starts are also part of the process. We’re still in the process of learning to think like novelists. Sometimes, that development can take years or decades of effort.

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Or, you may be #2: A Pantser. Thirty years ago, the term pantser did not exist—or else did so clandestinely and had yet to evolve into the literary limelight. The term (should you have recently awoken from a coma) defines those freestyle writers among us who write without any perceived forethought or planning or, more often than not, without a clue as to how one’s story might end.

Personally, I love starting a novel with wild abandon, sometimes with only a vague or fuzzy notion of my characters’ personalities/motivations and with a single inciting incident in mind. But within 30-or-so pages I typically realize that I’m confronting too many options to wing it any further.

At that point I begin to outline my next few scenes and/or chapters. And while I shall refrain from mentioning the virtues of outlining yet again, if you’ve missed my last few dozen posts, HERE‘s a quick reminder. Do realize that outlining doesn’t necessarily mean religiously, unerringly, bullet-pointing an entire novel from cover to cover before you begin writing. Outlining can be as brief and as vague as a few jotted lines that jog your creativity or lead you out of a jam or dead end. For me, outlining is also a sort of reality check (can I do this scene differently? Can I do it better?) before I proceed into uncharted waters.

If you’re a pantser and decide outlining doesn’t work for you, at least you’ve eliminated the process as a potentially valuable tool. So it’s worth consideration.

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Or you may be #3: A Daydreamer. (All dressed up and nowhere to go.) We’re all daydreamers, we fiction writers. Ain’t nothing wrong with daydreaming—what’s a novel after all, but a daydream we write down, embellish, and ultimately complete? I’ve known a good many writers who concoct rather brilliant ideas, even come up with a functional synopsis or summary…and then perhaps finish a scene or two, a chapter or two, before realizing that Writing is hard. (Refer again to: A Few Common Obstacles.) For most creative people, concocting boffo story ideas is by far the easy part. The difficulty comes over the next several months, or years, attempting to complete the story you’ve envisioned. It’s not for the feint of heart. Nor for the incredibly busy.

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Or you may be #4: Trying Too Hard. A strange revelation, perhaps—as I’ve spent my entire blog suggesting to writers: Do your best! However, there’s a difference between doing one’s best and obsessing over every word, every comma, phrase, every nuance—because sometimes an over-zealous writer, compulsively, repeatedly editing, can’t see the forest for the trees.

So, yes—there is a Goldilocks Zone—editing/rewriting too much or editing/rewriting too little. Unfortunately, there’s no real litmus test for discovering this zone, other than the writer’s own creative intuition. However, realize that finding a balance in a novel—as with anything in life—finding balance is crucial.

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Or you may be #5: A Closeted Screenwriter. The novel isn’t the only game in town. If you love writing dialogue but hate elaborate scene-setting or nuanced character-building, consider writing a screenplay. A 90-120 page script (translating into a 90-120 minute cinematic runtime), can be completed in a fraction of the time and (imho) far easier to conceive and complete. Ninety percent of a screenplay (more or less) will be dedicated to dialogue. Deep thinking, indecision, unspoken secrets — all are non-existent, unless exposed through dialogue, or VO, or a few dramatically visualized, emotional cues. Scene-setting is reduced to a few lines of often vague information, and yet sufficient for a director to interpret. Thus:

EXTERIOR. SUMMER. DAY. SOMEWHERE IN NEBRASKA. A FARMHOUSE SITS ON A DISTANT HILLSIDE. UNSEEN COWS ‘MOO’ IN THE DISTANCE.

JAKE and MARY SUE walk hand-in-hand down a dirt road toward a tractor shed, where JAKE has parked his old ’67 Flatbed Ford.

MARY SUE
(staring cautiously behind them)

Daddy says I’m not supposed to see you any more. He says if he catches us together he’ll throttle me and kill you.

JAKE
(smirking)

Let ’em try.

MARY SUE

He ain’t jokin’, Jake. I’m scared.

JAKE
(motioning toward the Ford)

Then run away with me, Mary Sue. Today. Right now. We always talked about goin’ off to California. Now’s our chance. Let’s leave this shit-hole, and your no-good excuse of a father, in our dust. No more milkin’ cows. No more takin’ crap from a man who’s far more a drunk than a daddy.

MARY SUE
(frowning)

I can’t just up an’ run, Jake. I can’t leave little Billy alone with that man. Not for a single night. I need to stay an’ protect my baby brother. You know that.

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In a screenplay, you’re either choreographing actions (such as driving away) using very basic, sparse language, or else you’re expressing thoughts/emotions (fearing a drunk daddy, protecting a vulnerable little boy) largely through dialogue. So your options are simple. You’re either depicting visual actions using very few words, or else revealing necessary information through relevant dialogue.

It’s up to the writer to convey emotion as simply, as precisely, as possible. One can allude to visual cues (Perhaps we see Mary Sue frowning at Jake’s suggestion to leave, for instance.) But even that nuanced gesture or expression is ultimately in the hands of the director, working in tandem with the actor, to fine-tune those visual cues, based on the blue-print (script) that you’ve provided.

Nor is there need to transmit unnecessarily detailed info to your audience. Let’s look at the aforementioned Nebraska farmhouse for example. Unless that particular structure/color/location is somehow specifically relevant to the plot, it’s simply labeled (in your script) “a farmhouse.” Whether it’s new or dilapidated, big or small, white or brown or a pleasant Robin’s Egg Blue—if its description isn’t plot-specific, it’s irrelevant in your script. A set director or location scout will run those potential decisions past the film’s director.

Realize that a script is simply a tool, one of many foundational elements necessary in producing a film. And you, the writer, are simply the “tool maker.” (And a well-paid toolmaker, should your script make it into a film’s production stage.)

But you’re not the end-user. The director wears that crown. And seldom, if ever, will a script be followed verbatim. Some scripts, by the end of a film shoot, may even be unrecognizable by the writer. So just be aware that a great many story-making decisions — those exclusively decided by a novelist (although somewhat massaged by a publisher) — are now under complete control by a director (or a cinematographer or a set-designer). You’re merely providing those folks with a viable roadmap. A director may dramatically alter your story, change your vision in numerous ways, even hire various script-doctors and/or other writers to fulfill certain needs. It’s just part of the process. Film development is a team endeavor. Once the script is complete, a screenwriter simply moves on to another project.

Certainly, pro’s and con’s exist, and should be examined in far more detail than I could ever explain here. (Nor have I ever completed a screenplay, so there’s that!) I highly recommend William Goldman’s Adventures of the Screen Trade. (Goldman wrote Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Marathon Man, The Princess Bride, All the President’s Men…so the guy knew what he was doing.) Also check out Blake Snyder’s Save The Cat.

Writing, selling and marketing a script is a whole ‘nother beast, and in a marketplace far different than traditional book publishing. I have a friend who once optioned a single script three times. When a screenplay is optioned, typically by a production company or lone producer, your story is in limbo. Meaning that your script hasn’t—yet—been outright purchased, but is being held in escrow as that producer’s exclusive property. No other production company or studio can touch it for a fixed amount time (sometimes a year or more), until that producer either commits to film it or releases all rights back to you.

You are, however, paid a stipend (typically 4-figures, occasionally more) for the luxury of waiting—although there’s no guarantee that a producer will find sufficient money and actually begin production. (If so, you’ll sign a contract and be bumped into a 5- or 6-figure compensation.) And finding yourself with an optioned screenplay is certainly better than having no interest at all.) If your script is ultimately rejected, you’re free to put it back on the market. Some scripts will spend a decade or more, bouncing between various production companies, waiting to find the right fit.

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#6. One final consideration might be: Neurodiversity. Meaning neurodivergent writers. The short definition of neurodivergent is one who may think differently at base neurological levels—specifically someone with a ‘spectrum disorder’ such as ADHD, autism or Asperger’s; those of us who process language and thoughts in non-neurotypical ways.

Okay, so a disclaimer. I don’t really think there’s anyone in this world who’s “normal”. It’s a colloquial, catch-all word that defines… I’m not even sure of what personality type it defines. (Perhaps boring?) I’ve also recently heard the word allistic as a suitable, less-offensive alternative to neurotypical folk. Yet a great many people who don’t consider themselves as neurotypical do consider themselves very neuro-creative. Many of the artists, musicians and writers I know personally are brilliantly off-center in one way or another, and wouldn’t have it any other way. Nor would I.

Yet, throughout history, I suspect a great number of creative folk were neurodivergent—maligned perhaps, and yet managed to successfully publish. (I mean, you can’t tell me that Poe was just your ho-hum Average Joe.) And as technology has made the writing process easier, or at least more available—voice-to-text dictation apps like Speechnotes, Otter and Dragon come to mind—new methods of “non-traditional writing” are proliferating. And the upcoming acceptance of AI—unless it revolts and kills us all—may make alt-writing methodologies and idea prompts feasible.

The biggest obstacle I’ve heard from neurodivergent writers is how difficult the writing process can be for those of us who ‘think differently.’ While a neurotypical writer may take 10-20 minutes to complete a page, a neurodivergent writer may take days or weeks or months. The information flowing through our brains is there, just that the transition phase—from ethereal daydream to the excruciatingly linear extraction of thoughts on a page—may feel prohibitive. Reading how-to books designed for neurotypical writers can actually dissuade spectrum writers from even trying, because so few of the accepted rules apply.

I can also add my wife to that list of spectrum writers. She’s published two non-fiction books. She’s often told me that her thoughts appear as ‘holographic movements of energy’ inside her head, not in a linear cause-and-effect model that many of us perceive. That transference between head and paper, she says, is often hard to distill, and her process is often tortuous.

I don’t pretend to know the intricacies or underpinnings of the neurodivergent mind. I’m aware, however, that goal-setting is often an issue. So if you find yourself chronically troubled starting a story or book, or having trouble getting through that first chapter or scene or even page one, perhaps one possible solution is Outlining. An outline is simply a rough guide or roadmap—and can be a relatable buffer when trying to connect the ‘creative idea’ phase of writing and the ‘doing the deed’ phase of putting words on paper in a concerted, organized fashion.

Another option might be, if one’s so included to experiment: Write your book’s first scene or chapter, then write your book’s final scene or chapter—even if your last scene is intuited—vague, but promising. And then connect the dots. Knowing where you’re going (my wife’s told me many times) is essential for soothing the neurodivergent mind. As true in writing as it is in cross-country road trips.

Also, fight the urge to constantly check the clock or count your words. Write at the speed you find most comfortable. Write (and this applies to all writers) what’s fun to write. If you’re not having fun… why bother? Write the story that you want to write—even if you feel that the world’s not ready to hear your voice. (You won’t know if you don’t try.) Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, after all. And there’s no such thing as a ‘normal’ story. Take your time. Don’t write what you feel a neurotypical world might want to read. Write from the heart. Currently, publishers are looking for different approaches from new perspectives from forgotten, maligned and undervalued voices.

Also see First Drafts, for more info on The Idea vs. The Implementation transition. (And why that may matter for neurodivergent writers.)

FYI: There’s a fairly extensive list of neurodivergent writers on Goodreads. The most famous of the neurodivergent novelists (presumed ADHD) was Ernest Hemingway. Which explains much of Hemingway’s stylistic approach, IMHO.

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Not ready to give up on your current manuscript? Not ready to give up the prospect of being a novelist? One final suggestion. Put the manuscript away for at least two weeks. Maybe a month or more. Allow yourself sufficient time to clear your head, or to formulate new ideas (write a short story or two, perhaps?) and then approach your your manuscript with a newfound thrill and a fresh perspective. Sometimes, that down time can work wonders.

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Story vs. Plot

Posted on June 12, 2023 by MHP

A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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Story vs. Plot. What’s the dif?
(Also: How to resolve the
“My story’s-too-short” dilemma)

I’m aware of confusion among many newbie novelists concerning the difference(s) between plotting and storytelling. So what exactly is a plot? What exactly is a story? Are plotting and storytelling identical? While the two terms might appear synonymous upon first glance—they are not.

A fictional plot contains a series or sequence of events, circumstances or the collective steps of a journey (physical, emotional, spiritual) that typically begins with an inciting incident and unravel in linear fashion—from your story’s Once Upon A Time… until the conclusive The End.

A story is a fusion of the three primary components necessary to create a complete, believable fictional reality. A story must include: 1. Plot momentum, as well as; 2. Character development, and; 3. Proper (meaning sufficient) scene-setting. A good story will seamlessly blend all three components — and will comprise little else. (See Simple, But Exciting.)

Character development should be self-explanatory. That is, the deeper, more fully formed and complex your characters, the truer-to-life those paper-people will become to readers. Insufficient (wooden, superficial, mundane, re-active*) characters lack the charm, attitude, unique individualism and compassion (for a protagonist) or else lack sufficient heartless, conniving and/or downright evil (your antagonist) qualities. Pro-active characters will skillfully, creatively and intuitively create or solve problems — and proactive protagonists won’t simply and repeatedly react to whatever obstacles a writer dumps in their way.

Proper scene-setting is more than simply visualizing a bare-bones environment for readers. Scene-setting means providing characters with proper stage-setting, and the subtle visualization of all necessary elements in a scene. Scene-setting also allows readers to occasionally stop and smell the flowers (for no other reason than stopping to smell the flowers). With each new scene or chapter you begin, it’s imperative to update (if necessary) the scene’s new whereabouts, any new time frame—has darkness fallen? Have days passed? You’re even noting any mood or emotional shifts in your characters. Your job is to note any relevant changes and make the appropriate updates.

Scene-setting also means providing readers with necessary sounds, smells, and attitudes… so don’t skimp on using a multitude of senses. The aroma of a sizzling steak or the screech of a hungry osprey can be as emotionally relevant to readers as defining a quaint village, a crumbling hillside castle, an angry sea or a cadmium colored sunset. In terms of a timeline, do you begin your new scene on a new day (or night), the following day, next Tuesday, or 2027? So if your last chapter ends around noon, and 10 or 12 pages into your new chapter, readers discover street lamps aglow, you’d have better revealed to us right up front that night has indeed fallen.

Or, to put it very simply:

PLOT: Is what happens.

STORY: Is what happens to whom.

Need more prompting? Okay, so let’s say you want to write a story about a ship sinking. Let’s call this tub the R.M.S. Titanic. A rough outline of your plot might be that of an unsinkable ocean liner speeding across the Atlantic, hitting an iceberg and gradually descending into the icy depths of history. Good plot (and certainly the tragedy’s been written enough). The choreography of the ship’s sinking — the unseen iceberg, the waterproof bulkheads failing, the boilers blowing up, the eventual founding and the ship ultimately splitting in two — that all makes for a riveting plot. But where are the people? How do they cope? Without a host of characters integrated into your story, you’ve basically written a book about buoyancy, or the lack thereof.

But put 2240 souls aboard that sinking ship — and perhaps focus on a dozen of those passengers, each with a different, dramatic, chaotic story to tell — now you’ve turned that very basic plot idea into a very spine-tingly, emotional story. Who’s the hero? Who’s the coward? Who survives? Who doesn’t? Who watches their loved ones go down with the ship? Again, a good story isn’t necessary about the what, it’s about the who.

Finding yourself with a too-short page count?

Newer writers, working on early drafts, tend to work primarily on plot-development first and foremost—which is perfectly okay. When you’re in draft mode, ain’t nothing wrong with defining your plot from beginning to end before you begin to embellish and elaborate. After all, you want to know where you’re going and how to get there. But once a writer’s sure of that destination, it’s all about plumping up character personalities and motivations, and grounding readers in the here and now.

Typically (and this is a generic observation… exceptions always exist) for every 100 pages of plot momentum, one can easily write 100 pages of character development as well, some of which may directly or indirectly influence your plot as well, but can also add back-stories or side-stories or include secondary characters who fail at their tasks (or intentionally thwart your MCs…who then have to try again). And a writer can easily add 50-100 pages of scene-setting, exploring/explaining realms, adding visual excitement to scenes. Heck, some writers (and George R.R. Martin comes to mind) can write a dozen pages simply visualizing a feast, setting the table and choreographing a scene before the action even begins.

So if you find your characters moving mechanically through the book, mindlessly following the plot—realize that there’s room for all sorts of embellishment and unexpected twists and nuance. How many times have you seen a character fail to start a car, when time is of the essence? Those few moments of frustration aren’t directly plot-related, they’re intentional interludes meant to add tension and drama. You’re upping the emotional ante and giving readers additional reasons to turn the page.

Should you decide to throw in a few extra characters to foil your MC’s efforts, you can add dozens or hundreds of pages to a manuscript that don’t directly influence/effect the plot, but that add to the overall thrill ride. Not to mention that you’re creating characters far more exciting (clever or scary, unlucky or frivolous or devious…or whatever) for readers to discover.

* What’s a reactive character? That’s a character who’s always (or most often) responsive to an unfolding plot. Reactive characters typically resolve obstacles through luck or <gasp!> coincidence. (More than one or two discreetly placed coincidences and your novel may begin to feel fake or unbelievable.)

A reactive character wanders from scene to scene, and has little need for personal growth (See: Character Arcs), rational deduction, fortitude or tenacity. Sure, protagonists often initially react to initial drama or danger (again, your novel’s inciting incident) and occasionally to various situations beyond their control, but once a protagonist is motivated, it’s up to him/her to actively confront said drama or danger, to make important decisions and take control of the situation, no matter the risk.

For instance, your disgruntled PI can’t simply solve a crime by sheer luck alone, blundering into clues and having witnesses suddenly pop out of the woodwork, pointing fingers. Your gumshoe must make logical, skillful pro-active choices to solve the case. Or maybe your MC wins the lottery. (Somebody has to. Why not her?) But a character who’s flat broke, finds a dollar bill on the sidewalk and then spends it to win a billion dollar lottery, a day before her eviction, divorce and potential suicide? That’s borderline coincidental. So is the cop who defuses a bomb with 3 seconds remaining on the timer. (How many times have you seen that one? It’s not only coincidental, it’s pretty much a cliché.) Your protagonist(s) must actively rely on their cunning and knowledge to survive (or fall in love, or solve a dilemma or win the big game, or whatever). Sure, protagonists must be occasionally lucky… but too damn lucky? Unless you have an ironclad reason — a literary equivalent of a last-second Hail Mary Pass that wins the Superbowl — that’s pretty much taboo.

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Write the Daydream

Posted on June 20, 2022 by MHP

A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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Write the Daydream
(Intro to Plotting)

What’s a novel, but a daydream or fantasy we write down and embellish, expand and hone into something coherent, dramatic and hopefully entertaining?

Sounds simple enough, in theory. But how does one begin? How does one even attempt to begin?* How do so many fragmented and rudimentary thoughts (Hey, I’ll call this dude Romeo. I’ll name his girlfriend Juliette. They’ll live happily ever—no, wait, I have a better idea!) emerge to produce a provocative story? Maybe we gaze longingly at books like A Game of Thrones, or The Lord of The Rings, the Harry Potter series or The Time Ships, and think WTF!? How do people create such rich, complex, creative narratives? What were they thinking? What were they smoking? I could never begin to craft such an incredibly detailed epic adventure! Until I figure it out, I guess it’s back to watching reruns of The Gilmore Girls.

Do realize that before we sit down and actually put words to paper, we may spend weeks, months or sometimes years concocting and babysitting a concept that feels as if it could become a story. And yet some novice or wannabe writers will ponder or percolate (or else procrastinate) for years, waiting either patiently or frantically for Just. The. Right. Moment. to shift from creative daydreaming to actually beginning that first draft.

But until you begin actively writing that first line, that first page, that first scene, that first chapter—let’s face it, you may be lost in an uncertain Twilight Zone between creative inspiration and cranking out pages. Procrastination is a very real issue in a writer’s world and, yes—most writers subliminally know when they’re stalling, hiding behind the veil of “My story needs more research.” Hey, we all procrastinate a bit—but if you’ve spent years yearning to write, and you’ve yet to put a word to paper, you might want to tap out a few pages, just to see what all the fuss is about. (You may surprise yourself and feel an overwhelming sense of pride, or awe, or self-gratification.)

Conversely, some beginning novelists—heads filled with so many exciting possibilities—believe they can plop down one day in front of a notepad or a PC and simply begin to scribble or type out a coherent, fully-developed story. Most of those writers don’t realize that stream of consciousness writing will only get you so far….but then what? Writing a novel requires an incredible amount of pre-prose strategy, of organization and finesse. And most of us will likely require a working roadmap (see Outlining) so we don’t lose ourselves along the way. A few lucky writers are able to simultaneously craft a comprehensive story inside their heads as they write, but that’s an ability most of us do not enjoy.

But let’s back up a sec, to the aforementioned …but then what? Three of the most important words for a writer to comprehend. Because most, if not all novels begin with a single What if…? notion or premise. A novel is a logical, sequential series of What if…? scenarios. No sooner than you’ve answered one, another What if…? question should arise—a series of dramatic questions and answers that end only when your story concludes. Just realize that story-telling (e.g.; novel writing) employs the same cerebral techniques as does daydreaming. And more about What if…? questions in Plotting (Part I). One coherent thought leads to another sequential thought, to another thought that provides forward momentum of one sort of another:

Gee, I wish I could fly. What would I do if I could? What might I accomplish? What if…? Or, Linda doesn’t even know I’m alive. If I could only make her notice me! What if…? Or, I love to realm build! Dragons and castles and wizards and dark magic! But where do I start my story? How do I inhabit such a wonderful place. What possibly could happen that will interest readers? Hey, what if a young knight bumps his head, develops amnesia and then….? These fragmented notions, in the hands of a creative mind (or in the mind of creative hands), might easily become the core of a superhero thriller or romantic comedy or epic fantasy—or a thousand other fictional possibilities.

Can’t think of a daydream suitable to become something more? Sure you can. They’re everywhere—snippets of this idea, fragments of that idea— just waiting to be found. Quick—think of something dramatic! Or unexpected! An inciting incident can be as simple as a knock at the door or as ominous as a giant meteor, hurling toward Earth. What about chance meeting in a park? Or somebody in the wrong place at the right time? A lottery ticket found on the ground. Or what if that meteor crashes to Earth with a talking hamster inside. (Hey, I’ve read worse!) Maybe Aunt Judy’s just turned into a flesh eating zombie.

…but then what?
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* Don’t know where to start? See the appropriately named Where To Start.

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Obstacles

Posted on January 12, 2022 by MHP

A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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A Few Common Obstacles.
(And a few possible solutions.)

I’ve been hanging out in Reddit.com/r/writing for a few years now, lurking and occasionally offering comments and suggestions (as u/writer-dude) to new, struggling and/or curious writers. What I’ve discovered on Reddit are many of the same concerns and issues that I’ve confronted while editing clients’ manuscripts. Typically, I can assist confused, foundering or sidelined writers by presenting modest solutions to these six prevalent obstacles. Often times, a writer can self-identify (and overcome) such potential roadblocks and pitfalls. For anyone who might feel lost in the fog, allow me to point you in the right direction. In order of increasing concern:

6. Overcoming Inhibitions. The fear of failure is real. So is the fear of success. A fear of ridicule. The fear of isolation (AKA: Squeezing out sufficient writing time). The fear of upsetting friends or family. A fear of not writing a perfect novel…. the list of potential obstacles is quite lengthy. Some call it ‘writer’s block’. Or procrastination. Or ‘waiting for inspiration.’ The real reason(s) for not writing likely has deeper psychological and/or emotional roots. (But this condition is curable!) Is this you? LOOK HERE.

5. How to write effective (or scintillating) dialogue. Oddly enough, extended dialogue can be the culprit, can wander off-track in various ways, and it’s sometimes difficult to find one’s way back. Trimming dialogue can help—keep what’s pertinent and save the rest (the plot-essential chitchat) for another scene/chapter. Not sure? LOOK HERE

4. Overcoming one’s own ineptitude. Don’t have a clue how to write a novel, but starting out anyway? Afraid you’ll never have what it takes to start or finish? The best way to learn is actually to begin writing. You need not begin a novel or a short story, simply write what comes to to mind. Experiment and explore. Make mistakes and discover ways to improve. However, comprehending the fundamentals of being an author (LOOK HERE), as well as digesting filmmaker Noel Burch’s The Hierarchy of Competence, can be an essential guideline to perfecting your craft.

3. Plowing helter-skelter through one’s plot with little regard for scene-setting (equally as important) and character-development (ditto). A great novel should seamlessly blend plot momentum with sufficient scene-setting (where/when/why are we in this particular scene?) and character-development (or else why should we care about these uninteresting people?) Unsure? LOOK HERE.

2. Motivation. (Finding it, Keeping it). There exists two separate (but equal) qualities a writer must possess to write — and finish — a work of fiction. The first is creativity. We’re either born with it or else we take great pains to develop it. (See: Fundamentals.) Creativity is all butterflies and daffodils, rainbows and unicorns. We concoct a lavish daydream, refine and embellish it at our leisure (and that’s the fun part) until we eventually <sigh> attempt to reveal our visions to the world.

The second quality is persistence. (AKA, patience, perseverance, perspiration. A bunch of other P words.) And this is when shit gets real. A writer must begin to dissect, develop and revise that daydream, word by word, page by page, chapter by chapter. For some of us (most of us?) that’s the long haul. The marathon. The sojourn toward potential madness. And yet it’s that excruciating exactitude that a novel demands of a writer. Creativity is a right brain attribute. Developing and writing our daydream is pretty much left brain. A writer must ultimately decide to spend long hours, making tedious decisions, dealing with criticism, confronting many IRL issues (all those pesky things like jobs, family, trepidation and self-doubt.) We all face such challenges, and many writers won’t prevail. Some do. But to complete a novel, we need to engage both the left and right sides of our brain.

1. Getting Stuck. The most prevalent obstacle (by far) is a novice writer beginning a novel (or story) but very quickly becoming mired in the enormity of such a venture. Many newbies have a vague idea or a partial concept in mind and begin to write in earnest—sometimes 3 pages, sometimes 30—but then what? Once the inciting incident (usually a novel’s opening) plays out, how does one proceed to create an entire, enticing, integral book-length manuscript?

Maybe you sincerely yearn to write a novel. Let’s say that you have a nifty premise about a giant meteor hurling toward Earth. So you create a nice scenario—a young protagonist who’s perhaps an amateur astronomer and who discovers that pinprick of light hurling toward our planet. The inciting incident in the 1998 flick Deep Impact, BTW. And without creating a definitive inciting incident, you may find yourself spinning your creative wheels.

Once you’re able to define your story’s beginning, and know or intuit a potential ending, entire new worlds of possibilities will open up. So many options. So many tentacles. Will the meteor strike? Will it miss? Will we send astronauts into space with nukes? Or launch a rag-tag team of unlikely geologists to save the world (a la Armageddon)? How does once successfully stitch together a coherent, dramatic, conclusive tale? By writing one page at a time. When you find yourself stymied or cornered or fresh out of new ideas, and you’re still midway through Chapter 1, sometimes writing those next 300-400 pages can feel insurmountable. So take a deep breath and stay in the moment. (Worry about all those other pages when the appropriate time comes.)

One possible solution! If you’re writing in linear, chronological order (as most of us do) and you’re feeling increasingly bogged down, perhaps skip a few scenes or even a few chapters. Pick up your story line at some exciting future point, finish that scene/chapter and then see if you can connect the story from where you’ve left off. I’ll also often write or draft out my final chapter as soon as my ending becomes reasonably clear. I find that by having an ending in place, even a vague outline—it’s far easier to continue my story toward that goal. If I know where I’m going, and why, and my characters know where they’re going, and why, it’s far easier to get there without any wrong turns or unexpected obstacles.

Another potential solution! If you find yourself midway through a decent story, enjoying the ride—but suddenly find yourself lost or writing toward a dead end, stop writing! If possible, give yourself a short break (a few days or a week to clear your mind). When you return, delete (or put aside) your last scene or chapter and restart your story from there—but in an entirely new direction. Give yourself a few options. Maybe outline a few possible ideas that bypass or eliminate the obstacle.

Occasionally a writer may stray off the path of righteousness and suddenly we’ll find our sorry-ass brains mired in the cerebral muck. So by backtracking a few pages (or a few chapters, if necessary) and discovering that proverbial fork in the road, we can choose another way forward. Because very often this change of direction (or detour) will break the log jam. I’ve often used this tactic, and usually with success. However, you must be okay with cutting entire scenes, even chapters, and maybe killing a few darlings along the way. But it’s certainly worth the loss if it gets you back on track.

Other possible solutions….

Q. So, how to proceed?

A1. Outline.

A2. Take an extended (a few days, a week) off, then come back with a fresh mind.

A3. Try approaching the issue from a different character’s POV.

A4. Stop thinking about your story in its entirely. Focus on one scene, or one page, at a time. Stay in the now. (See: Focus On The Now).

Q. Still feeling creatively stymied?

A. See: More Common Obstacles

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Scene-Setting

Posted on October 10, 2021 by MHP

A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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Scene-Setting: The often overlooked
powerhouse in every writer’s arsenal.

You’ve heard this before from me, and now you shall hear it again: Rule #5: Continually scene-set, character-build or move the plot forward. In novel writing, nothing else matters.

Need a refresher? Look Here.

For fledgling and action-oriented novelists, scene-setting is often the most overlooked of these three essential fictive components. Yet proper scene-setting is imperative. One cannot simply rely on plot momentum and character development alone. (At least, not when writing a novel.*) But many novelists have trouble adequately grounding readers, largely because scene-setting can be radically misunderstood. Do realize that proper scene-setting is a far more complex concept than simply pointing out a big red barn or a hazy afternoon.

Since ‘scene-setting’ is typically considered an all-inclusive term incorporating all five senses, and optionally including how and when, grounding a reader can refer to a multitude of sensory enhancements necessary to fully develop a scene. Scene-setting can (and should) provide powerful imagery—colors, motions, sounds, fragrances, emotions or reactions to stimuli—that add more than a vague or occasional embellishment to your plot and characters, or to their environs.

For instance, consider:

Johnny Rocco was led through the prison yard by his guards toward freedom.

VS.

Johnny Rocco lumbered through the prison yard, his wrists and ankles shackled, with twenty pounds of tempered steel chain wrapped around his waist for good measure. The six guards surrounding Johnny had been hand-picked by the warden, each man heavily armed, and each secretly hoping that Rocco might make some stupid move, a twitch or smirk, resulting in a particularly bloody demise before the man made it past the yawning front gates to freedom.

I have absolutely no problem with minimalism, and yet if Johnny Rocco’s walk toward freedom is the first line of a new scene or chapter, I do have issues with an opening’s lack of emotional depth and visual stimulation. The latter of these two examples feels far more expressive, and better grounds the reader immediately in this new scene. Both examples adequately depict plot-momentum. However, one is doing so with a visually stimulating, potentially dramatic ambiance.

Very often when we sit down to begin a new scene or chapter, our brains are already overflowing with getting from-here-to-there, our thoughts crowded with profound, dramatic intent. We may visualize quick, fragmented glimpses of a basic setting as we write, but we’re here to tell a story, damn it, and tell our story we will! So we hustle off toward that final destination.

But wait a sec. Exactly where are we again? As writers, we may intuit every step that our characters take, but readers need sufficient sensory information (note I didn’t simply say visual information) to accompany our journey. Do remember that readers cannot see into our mind’s eye! They need sensory reminders, every step of the way.

So how important is scene-setting? It’s crucial enough to be considered a new rule. Rule#17: Every scene we write, before we begin (or before we continue) to propel our plot forward, we must establish a viable setting for our characters, and a firm grounding for our readers.

Another example:

Jane awoke in a haze, lying on a bare cot in a small, unfamiliar gray room. She could not remember how she’d gotten here—nor much of anything else of the last 24 hours. Abstract thoughts dizzied her brain. Attempting to move her arms, she discovered her wrists bound to the cot with thick leather belts.

Shaking her head, she felt a sharp stab of pain. A concussion, perhaps. Had she been knocked unconscious? Jane couldn’t remember. For a long moment she remained still, quiet, warily inspecting her surroundings. A single, wooden door stood across the room. Closed and presumably locked. To her left, Jane observed a solitary window. Worn, muslin curtains swayed in a light breeze, the widow open, revealing a faint hint of rosemary and sage. Lifting her head, Jane glimpsed little more than a cloudless blue sky outside, and the hazy peak of a single, treeless mountain far in the distance.

A sudden noise behind the door snagged her attention… (and here comes the plot.)

But before any action begins in earnest, our stage is now set. Perhaps not fully set—but sufficient information has been revealed to sufficiently ground readers in the moment. We can further fill in blanks or add nuance in later paragraphs or scenes or in subsequent chapters. Yet because we mention a door, a window, a distant mountain; most readers will intuit that these items are (or will likely become) necessary elements in our story in some significant—or perhaps insignificant but insightful—way, even if they simply provide a stimulating visual beyond her confinement that readers might ponder.

On the other hand, if you visualize a ragged hole in the roof above Jane’s head, but that hole provides no relevance to your plot or your character(s), why mention it?! So be judicious with your rationale to include any unnecessary snippet of sensory information, because knowing what tidbits not to reveal can be as important in knowing what to reveal.

However, in our haste to move our plot along, if we reveal too little descriptive or sensory info, we may easily underwhelm readers. Consider:

Jane awoke in a small room, tied to a cot. She couldn’t remember her name. Suddenly a noise outside the door startled her….

…because we’re cheating our readers by withholding descriptions (or ambiance) that can greatly enhance our intended experience. Kinda like serving dinner guests bread and butter on paper plates when they’re expecting Filet Mignon on fine china. Maybe they won’t go away hungry, but they certainly won’t go away happy. Without sufficient scene-setting, our writing can feel dry and emotionally vacant, lacking any sense of style and color and flavor. Realize that all sense of dramatic nuance, of stylistic intent, is easily lost behind a too swiftly moving plot.

Here’s a suggestion: Each time you begin a new scene or chapter, think of yourself as a theatrical set director (a.k.a.; set designer), confronting an empty stage. Your first step? Building a new reality. Visualize what’s necessary for the performers, and then what’s necessary for the audience. What physical elements will the actors need to fully tell their story, both in terms of location and stage props? What elements will the audience need to feel fully enveloped in your story?

The next step? Ask yourself what conditions have changed since the previous scene? A new local? A new time? New characters? Mood swings? Because all these changes should be sufficiently revealed before (or very soon after) any forward plot momentum continues.

Understand, that many of us (me, included) often skip a great deal of scene-setting (and character development as well) until a second or third draft. So when working on a first draft—then, yes!—by all means focus solely on moving your plot forward. For the moment, the color commentary can wait.

Meaning it’s okay for our story to remain temporarily incomplete, because the process of writing is fluid, and still very much in motion. At this stage, the writer has room to maneuver. My own first drafts are filled with gaping holes and unfinished thoughts, even random notes to myself—and God help anyone who tries to decipher my intent if they come upon the incomplete manuscript. I make notations in red (I draft everything on-screen, not paper) and rely on red ink to mark my unfinished thoughts. Thus, my first drafts commonly look something like:

Jane awoke [in a fog? Or is she coherent? Naked? Okay, so why naked…simply for titillation, or is there a logical reason?], lying on a cot in a small [describe] room. She found herself unable to remember how she’d gotten here. [why? Concussion? Amnesia? Drugs?] Cautiously, she observed her surroundings and… yadda, yadda.

Because sometimes it’s far easier to return and fully embellish a scene once the skeletal frame of the story is already in place.

Okay, so how much detail is too much? Scene-setting is, of course, a matter of personal preference—but also a question of our ability in gauging how much or how little grounding is necessary to properly immerse a reader in any given scene. As novelists, we can spend paragraphs or even pages attempting to properly scene-set in great detail—although I advise writers not filling pages to such an extent that one loses sight of maintaining plot momentum. In the above example, Jane’s waking confusion—plot momentum—is still our primary focus. So a writer must constantly compromise, juggling plot momentum, character development and sufficient (if temporarily incomplete) scene-setting.

One noteworthy caution: When scene-setting, beware of the dreaded red herring. Jane may notice, for instance, a set of sterling salt and pepper shakers on a table beneath the window. If such items are glimpsed in passing, fine. But if Jane dwells for any reason or spends any perceptible time noting their presence—take heed. Because unless that table and those shakers are somehow necessary to the story, I’d suggest brevity. Take too long to establish a minor character, a clue or a prop that will have no relevant bearing later in your story, (such unintended misdirection being the aforementioned red herring) and some readers may be miffed. Sure, it’s okay to tease readers with deliberately misleading clues—Detective Plum believes Mrs. Peacock to be the killer, for instance, only to have Mrs. Peacock die in the next scene—is perfectly okay in a murder mystery. Such intended misdirection is simply a dramatic invention that furthers the plot. But don’t dwell on the unnecessary.

Sensory Descriptors

Let’s look at those variables available to create a fully developed scene or chapter. Your options include one or more of the numerous sensory descriptors available to more fully inform readers:

• Sight (Visual cues)
This one’s a gimme. A slam-dunk. Either the writer observes (omniscient narration) or a character observes (POV) the various, necessary visuals that ground the reader in a particular reality. The vast majority of novels are primarily visual descriptions. For instance: A castle on the hillside. Belinda’s skin glistening in the moonlight. The zombie’s fiery red eyes. A flock of geese flying south overhead. John arguing with Mary.

Even dialogue, while not directly a visual cue, is typically written as an observable exchange, as experienced between two or more people. So even though we may hear John arguing with Mary, we also see them arguing. The exasperated expressions, the flowing tears, the pouty lips, all combine for a definitive visualization. An adept writer will weave together both visual and auditory cues for the reader to best grasp the situation.

Most adept writers will find ways to weave snippets of scene-setting with character development and/or plot momentum. For instance:

Riding behind Sir Reginald’s ambling horse, Lady Rockbottom noticed the distant ruins of a castle high atop a granite cliff, towering above the chilly evening’s encroaching fog. Exactly the type of place where the dastardly Sir Evilson would lay in wait for them. The castle, its old walls glowing a ghastly reddish orange beneath the setting sun, appeared little more than a devilish apparition. She feared the elderly Reginald would not stand a chance of defeating the younger, more powerful knight.

• Sound
The creak of a floorboard in a old, haunted house can provoke as much terror as a room filled with ghosts! As a species, we’re inherently drawn to ambient sounds—whether the strains of a finely-played violin or the gentle, distant crash of an ocean surf. Not to mention the aforementioned, classic floorboard squeak of a potential intruder. We’re also instantly wary of air raid sirens, of alarm bells or distant explosions, of an owl screeching in the dead of night. Of two men cursing and arguing loudly in a shadowed alley. Even background chatter—people mumbling, an occasional burst of laughter, glasses clinking—can signify a cocktail party, a single sentence that offers readers as clear a perception of location, without having to describe a room’s lavish contents or clog a reader’s attention with a host of milling, yet inconsequential characters.

Or perhaps little Wanda June is lost in the woods as as soft rain falls. But how the scene might change if she hears the howl of wind, a crash of thunder? Even more subtle ambient sounds—crickets chirping at sunset, the wind rustling autumn leaves—can provide subtle emotional cues to your readers. So don’t lose the occasional opportunity to use sound as a viable grounding tool.

• Touch.
Have you ever written a scene where a character wakes suddenly in the night—the surrounding darkness unrelenting and foreboding? Staring frantically into the abyss, Wanda June feels a feather-light tickle brush against her cheek. So, yes, touch matters. However, for the most part, touch relates to important sensual clues that can better define a condition or observation. For instance; the metal floor felt ice cold beneath James’ bare feet, or Mary awoke to the prickle of countless fat, hairy spiders scrambling over her bare flesh. Sure, Mary can simply observe the spiders—but how much more dramatic if you allow readers to feel the tickle of their hairy little paws as well.

Because yes, spiders have paws.

• Smell.
While not as common as the above descriptors, the ability to reveal scents and fragrances (both exquisite and putrefying) can leave an indelible impact to readers as well. So the next time you’re confronted with a plucky resistance leader chased into the underground sewer system by the evil prince’s guards—take a chance to share the full experience with your readers. Or as my old granny used to say, “When you’re covered in shit, you can’t smell the wine.” I suppose the more common, less offensive adage (as taught in Advertising 101) would be: Sell the sizzle, not the steak. In fiction, the same rules apply.

• Taste.
A picture, they say, is worth a thousand words. So are these ‘lesser’ sense descriptors. Again, Taste—like Smell and Touch—can cut through 1000 words of carefully worded narration in a single sentence. To famished little Wanda June, the sliver of chocolate cake tasted like heaven. Simple enough. Profound enough. There’s not a reader in the world who won’t feel the girl’s joy.

• How and Why.
Occasionally there may come a time when specific mechanics of a scene must be revealed to readers, for clarity’s sake. In Stephen King’s novella, Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption, prisoner Andy Dufresne escapes by crawling through Shawshank’s lengthy sewer system to freedom. A long and particularly gross escape (in both book and film), his friend Red narrates Andy’s escape for the reader. Rather than simply stating that Andy escaped through the sewer, Red’s colorfully grotesque commentary gives readers a delightfully gruesome moment to consider Andy’s trek through a hundred yards of pasty, putrid prison poop. Readers get a little sensual ride (visual and olfactory) along with the How of Andy’s getaway. Because that’s how it’s done!

Here’s another example. Let’s return to our hapless Jane for a moment, tied to a cot and lacking any sense of coherent memory.

…Lifting her head, Jane glimpsed little more than a cloudless blue sky outside, and the hazy peak of a single, treeless mountain far in the distance.
. . . . A sudden noise behind the door snagged her attention. A moment later the door swung open and a man appeared, small and haggard, his head shaven. The man wore a black cloak and smelled faintly of formaldehyde.
…..“Ah, Miss Cooper, I see that you are finally awake.” The bald man offered Jane a shriveled little smile. “I have an important question, my dear. Are you listening closely? How did you learn of Dr. Desparado’s whereabouts? Answer that single question and you will be free to leave. However, if you choose to remain silent—ahh, but I can only assure you that you’ll live long enough to regret your decision.”

The bald man’s entrance—whether his character is your novel’s arch villain, or simply a bit player who appears in this one and only scene—is to provide the Why of Jane’s presence in this room. Reading on, readers will likely discover the How in a page or two. (“Simply a drop of Rohypnol, my dear, discreetly added to your morning coffee,” the bald man explained with a cackle.) At the moment, the man’s nefarious comments are sufficient for the scene to move forward. Thus, via dialogue, you’re revealing a snippet of information that readers should find grounding enough to infer Jane’s troubles. The reader intuits that more data will soon be revealed.

Fail to reveal this information to readers—Jane’s presence here and the reason behind it—and you’ll find yourself with what we editors refer to, in hushed, shaky whispers, as: a big fat plothole.

• Time (and time’s passing).
When we write, we write in a strictly linear fashion. That happened then. This is happening now. What’s gonna happen in the future? (It’s that pesky time/space continuum thing.) One doesn’t usually pause to contemplate the profundity of such potential directional challenges (unless, of course, one’s writing in the Time Traveling arena). Flashbacks and flash-forwards are linear extracts—that is, scenes or chapters pulled out of an orderly timeline, and yet then told in a similar, precise order. Then, now, later. If a writer gets it wrong—for instance, doesn’t fully reveal to readers that a character’s ‘back in the then’ or ‘gone to the later’, those readers may become hopelessly lost. And, no, many won’t forgive you. So allow for the proper segue, which can be as simple as a few establishing words:

Several years ago, as I recall, when your Uncle Teddy was in the army…

Or,

Two minutes later, when Stephani warily opened the golden orb’s glowing hatch, nothing of her world appeared remotely the same. The old, asphalt road had been transformed into a carpet of tall grass. The little sapling that she had planted in the yard last month had morphed into an enormous, gnarled Oak. Her mother’s house, the tidy home she’d known all her life, had disappeared, replaced by a tall, spindly structure that glistening of polished metals and hummed gently under a blazing ocher sun…

Keeping readers aware of time’s passing—whether a few moments, a few hours or even a few centuries—can be instrumental in properly grounding readers in a story. And time changes can be tricky. For instance, if your last scene or chapter ended at high noon and this scene/chapter begins after sundown—and all other variables being identical—be sure to inform readers of the shift ASAP. If I’ve left the previous scene under the midday sun and suddenly I’m reading about the twinkling stars or glowing streetlights 3 or 4 pages into a new scene, and without any previous indication of the time change…well, consider that taboo. The solution is to simply keep the reader advised, as quickly and succinctly as possible.

Jane awoke from a deep sleep with a start. Her wrists remained tightly bound. She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, trying to recall the bald man’s words. Had he been an apparition? His appearance merely a dream? For the hundredth time she tried furtively to remember her name. Beyond the room’s little window, she could see the horizon beginning to darken. Night would be upon her soon, meaning she’d spent an entire day locked in this miserable little place...

• Moods/feelings/emotions.
Can moods and emotions help set a scene? Absolutely. Typically, we need not make any specific, in-your-face effort to establish a character’s mood. For instance: “Hello, I’m John, your new neighbor! I’m usually a cranky, cantankerous sort, so stay away from me!” isn’t necessary, when, “Yeah, yeah, so I’m your new frickin’ neighbor. BFD,” John grumbled from the doorway. will nicely suffice. Astute writing will best reveal your character’s moods and overall persona. But a terse gaze, a taut smile, a little hand-wringing or the drop of a tear can reveal much about the tenor of the scene. Thus, if a character is secretly angry or relieved or nervous—those snippets of info can help readers understand the scene’s ultimate intention.

Without properly establishing mood settings for your characters (when and if appropriate), you may as well be writing a telephone directory. The three examples below should aptly illustrate the simplicity (and necessity) of this rationale:

“Don’t do it, Madeline!” Rene said, laughing hysterically.
“Don’t do it, Madeline!” Rene cried out in alarm.
“Don’t do it, Madeline,” Rene whispered, a furious whisper in the dead of night.

Important information. Revealed discreetly.
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In a nutshell: When beginning to write or plot a new scene or chapter, stop to evaluate what’s different. What’s changed? How does this scene vary from the last scene? If three days have passed between the last scene and this one, and you don’t tell readers—that’s a blunder. If a new character has entered the room, and the writer fails to reveal his presence, and your character beings conversing with this unseen dude three pages in—that’s a blunder. If your evil faerie godmother’s been dressed in black robes for several chapters—and in this scene you’ve draped her in red velvet, but forget to tell us for several pages—that’s a blunder. Why? Because you’ve cheated readers into believing in various specifics (the time of day, who’s in the scene, even a wardrobe change) that are presently untrue. For readers, those omissions can be quite off-putting. Or outright confusing. So, when confronting a new scene, make a checklist, mental or otherwise, of what might be new, different or worth mentioning. And then mention it.
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*Can’t seem to get the hang of scene-setting after many attempts at failures at writing a novel? Is detailed world-building not your forte? Perhaps consider writing a screenplay. Seriously. Script writing is basically dialogue (really great dialogue, mind you) accompanied by the barest bones—a suggestion, really—of visual composition. Even plotting is written with a bare-bones simplicity. The trick is, of course, that a screenwriter must accurately describe the necessary components as quickly, and accessibly—think ‘basics’—as possible.

However, unlike a completed novel, a screenplay is merely the first step in a multi-leveled project where you (the screenwriter) have little-to-no say in the project once the script is complete. Subsequent writers, script doctors, producers and the director may tear your original script to shreds before the camera’s begin to roll. The finished product (a.k.a. a major motion picture) may look little or nothing like your original idea. On the other hand, successful screenwriters are paid increasingly and delightfully robust fees for their efforts and can afford to grin and bear it, whilst driving their Bentley’s to Beverly Hills Savings & Loan, their pockets laden with golden faerie dust. But I digress. Suffice it to say, screenwriting can be a viable option.

For instance:

EXT. (exterior) . . . FARMHOUSE — DAY
Old ANGIE (68) is sitting on a rocking chair on the front porch. Her house is decrepit, the paint peeling. Plastic covers one broken window. Young farmhand HANK is standing in the dirt driveway. Overhead, storm clouds are threatening.

ANGIE.
You get that back field plowed yet, boy?

HANK
(peering past the sagging old barn, toward the empty fields)
No, ma’am. Water pump gave out again. I gotta run into town,
get some new parts.

ANGIE
Storm’s comin’. That ol’ tractor’s gonna rust, if’n a downpour comes.

HANK
(Frustrated)
Not a dang thing in the world I can do about the rain, Miss Angie.

ANGIE
Well, for one, y’all can stop wastin’ time by jawin’ with me an’ git a move on.

Basically, your scene-setting needs are as simple as expressing: A farmhouse. Empty fields. A brewing storm. A bit of anger. It’s up to the director or set director to work out the minutia. As a script writer, you’re working on dialogue and character development, with the merest hint of location setting.
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If I can suggest only one book to curious, wannabe script writers, it’s William Goldman’s (Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid, The Princess Bride) Adventures in the Screen Trade. The book is as much a homage to Hollywood as it is a glimpse into what it might take to write a successful script. It’s a light, breezy and fun read…and yet contains a great deal of valuable info and advice.
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