FROM ANECDOTE to STORY

A few years ago, my then agent sent to all his writers a short list of what an editor he knew was looking for. One item on the editor’s wish list sparked my writing gears.

It was “A story unbelievable but true.” Documenting the factual in the story should come in an Author Note, it said.

 

I have a few such anecdotes from my own life, the sort that, when I shared them with friends, not all of them believed me. But I knew they were true because they happened to me, for real.

 

I immediately wrote about one of these and, as soon as I finished, I also knew it was not for publication because it wasn’t the sort of “True but Unbelievable” anecdote the editor was looking for. That story wound up on my website, where it appropriately seemed to settle.

 

You can read it here: https://mirkabreen.com/my-blog/f/before-you-check-my-real-bloga-little-story

 

The thing about anecdotes is that they are already stories. How to turn them into the sort a publisher would consider is elaborated on in this link: https://janefriedman.com/how-to-turn-an-anecdote-into-a-story/

 

Whether for publication and of wider interest or not, all interesting anecdotes are worth telling. If no one believes you, you know what you know and others were nonetheless hopefully entertained. 

WHAT MAKES A STORY?

 

Most people know how to give an account of happenings. “This happened, and then that, and after that then this.”

 

These are accounts, not stories.

 

Unfortunately, some writing advice completely misses the point. I’ve heard some variations of asking and answering “…and then, and then…” offered as process to constructing stories from writing coaches and blog posts about writing. It’s understandable, because this is the way young children tell stories. It’s basic to telling imaginative narratives.

 

But, as any listener or reader knows, these aren’t stories. They are accounts.

 

I like pithy definitions. I love Jonathan Blum’s description.

A story: mapping the process of meaningful change.

 

Every word in this six-word definition is relevant and essential.

Without mapping, it’s a meditation, not a story.

Without process, it’s a static photograph, not a story.

Without meaningful, it’s an empty collection of words.

Without change, it is just the same as nothing worth telling happened.

 

We are accustomed to happy or positive changes, because kidlit is wedded to such. But many stories for adults map meaningful demises. (Anna Karenina, anyone?) Either way, change is a must for a story not to be merely an account.

©Chris Brecheen

The THEME

 

I know I’ve posted on this before, though it’s been a while.

Good stories have an underlying theme, or themes.

We know the how-to advice, that strong stories are better born of strong characters, and the more generic/commercial stories are born of a plot arc.

 

For me, almost all stories are incepted from themes, and as I draft, I keep the theme front of mind.

 

Pivotal themes in picture books are family, the nature of nature and other man-made creations, feelings such as sadness or joy, and concepts such as numbers/colors/letters.

For middle grade readers (ages 8-12) central themes are friendship, family, school struggles and, as the perennial for all ages, the nature of our world, i.e., reality and our place in it.

 

I got to thinking about it again as I read this post here.

 

I know what themes I want to explore. Then, I choose the persons who would go on this exploration (protagonist and antagonist) and their side characters usually emerge as the plot unfolds. Mechanics of plot are so well researched in how-to books that this is the smaller, less demanding part of drafting.

 

Most storytellers don’t follow this order of construction, but I offer it as yet another way.

UPMARKET FICTION

 

If you’ve heard the term, you might have wondered what it is. There’s a good post on Upmarket Fiction here.

 

But this post is about what it is to me, personally.

 

Upmarket, the sort of fiction that holds supreme commercial potential while also manages to be literary, is what I aim for every time I sit down to write.

 

Upmarket is what most agents want to represent.

 

Upmarket is most publishers’ dream: strong sales potential while also gaining the prestige of literary awards and bragging rights of association.

 

Upmarket is this magical straddler that has one foot in the rarified and another in the common.

 

Upmarket may be the tallest order of them all.

 

I continue to work on it— never quite there on either mountain top, but not for lack of striving.

 

Let’s face it: upmarket must be simple linguistically (commercial) while elegant (literary). Plots must move in rapid clip (commercial) while layered (literary). Themes must be basic (commercial) while holding philosophical heft (literary).

 

Try climbing two mountains at once this way, one foot on either. It’s mechanically impossible.

 

 

But the word “impossible” is another to forget, because here I go again, always trying.

©Toni McCorkle

SUBPLOT VS. SUBTEXT

 

The prefix “sub” (when not a colloquial for substitute, or the famed sandwich-making chain) means below or underneath.

 

In this way, a sub-plot is a secondary story plot interwoven with the primary plot.

 

Sub-text is what is meant by dialogue, when a character says one thing but means another.

 

Good stories can have a few subplots, which serve to enhance, foreshadow, and augment the main story. They can become the readers’ more entertaining chain of events to follow, in which case they technically fail to be “sub” and in a way take over the story.

 

Subtext serves many of the same functions. This post elaborates on subtext.

 

Subtext can never take over. It only hits the spot for sophisticated readers who are experienced in life’s many unsaid sayings. In stories for young readers, subtext may go over the reader’s head, but they serve to expose them to this phenomenon in life. When a character says “you never looked better,” they may be saying you rarely look good. The second character knows full well what is meant, and responds with "Your words are always beyond kind." They mean the first speaker's cruelty has been registered. 

It takes life experience to understand layered meaning.

 

I never worry if a reader will understand. They will or they won’t, or they may upon re-reading sometimes many years later. A story must hold their attention just as it is. Layers woven will communicate at the reader’s pace.

 

If I heard it once, I heard it many times. “Will kids get this?”

 

I suggest not to be concerned about such. The only question is, will kids find the story enjoyable and worth reading to the end.

M is for MOTIVATION

 

Motivation—the kind that propels our actions (such as my writing this post) is key to a good story.

As a Beta reader, I have read manuscripts that had the plot move in just the right pace with all the arc points reached as a good story requires, and with the bonus of some surprises. “Save the Cat” and other how-to books on storytelling have done their job, and writers know what are the considered “must-haves.”

I’ve read some stories where the setting was interesting, the main character fully fleshed, and the descriptions added color in just the right amount. These are the craft aspects of good writerly executions.

But what is often not fully attended to is the motivation. Specifically, all the major characters’ motivations. This is most true with the so-called “quiet” stories, the ones that are reflective and capture a moment in time. Lyrical, lovely, just stop and smell the lilacs. All good. But what happens if the main character doesn’t?

Some refer to this aspect as “the stakes.” In stories where the stakes are not what drives them, there should still be a reason for characters to act the way they do, and the reasons should be compelling.

So, motivation. Reminder to self: a strong motivation drives the vehicle. Step on the internal gas pedal.

About TENSION *

 

*In storytelling and in life

In a manuscript, a writer pays attention to tension. Keeping a certain level, which even when reduced must never leave the narrative, is crucial.

It’s a curious thing that in daily life most of us want to reduce tension. We want things to go smoothly and without worries. When something stresses our veneer of peacefulness, we yearn to “get back our lives,” as if our real lives are a calm sea with a lovely sailboat gliding over sweet-smelling waters.

But when we pick up a book, or start a session of movie watching, we’d quickly drop that if the tension they exude doesn’t grip us by the back of the neck.

I watch my cats as they invent chases with nonexistent entities because their lives do not include the kind of stressors feral cats and wild animals must contend with. Their make-believe play hunt and chase is something akin to what we choose as stimulating entertainment.

I doubt people who are in the midst of real-life mega-stressors would do that. So called thrillers are for the fortunate among us. Tension-filled stories are what our domesticated species made to round up life.

Just musing here, as I contemplate amping up tension in my WIP.

HOW OLD IS YOUR OLDEST?

 

Make New Friends but Keep the Old

Those are Silver but These are GOLD

John Parry (1841-1903)

 

Old friends remember details we’ve forgotten, and we do the same for them.

New friends allow one to reinvent oneself.

Both have important places in life’s journey.

My oldest continuing friendship is more than half a century and counting. A few months back, when I posted a photo of little me, (in the context of having been a cat lover from way back) she reminded me that I used to concoct, compose, and communicate stories about my cat’s nightly adventures when the rest of our immediate world was in dreamland.  

Oh, then I remembered. Seems I’ve been a storyteller longer than even I had recalled. Back then, as soon as I told the tale— it became a real tail. A few years more, and I knew what was fact and what was fiction. But the visceral memory of what it’s like to be an imaginative person of four and five came gushing in.

Because old friends sometimes know you better than you know yourself.

Keep the old.

SELECTING THE NAMES OF CHARACTERS

 

“What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet”

From Romeo & Juliet by Shakespeare

 

        What’s in a name?

        Actually, a lot. (Sorry, Juliet)

 

Depending on the type of story, character names can be allegorical, (rife with meaning alluding to their function, such as in biblical narratives) a play on class and setting, (think of just about any romance story) or a tickle to the funny bone.

 

There is overlap in these naming categories. I think Dickens played on the humorous as well as class distinctions. J. K. Rowling does the same with some of her characters. But no matter the intention, the effect is for a name to be evocative.

 

There are times where a story doesn’t call for strong and piercing name choices. But I would never waste the storyteller’s opportunity to make a tale come alive with banal choices like Dick and Jane, which, come to think of it, may have been chosen specifically for a banal effect. They are “every girl and every boy,” I suppose. Not characters in the sense writers aspire to create.

 

Some choices are personal, as in a grandma writing a story using her grandkids' names. As such, they are fine for self-publishing home consumption. I’ve written short stories using the names of my nearest and dearest, which have meaning to me only. But from some years’ distance, I can see that for general audiences I have wasted the opportunity to layer every word by not choosing in a writerly way.

 

So back to Juliet: Love who you love, my sweet, and let your names not keep you apart. But for certain know that William Shakespeare chose your names with care.

Must Writers Feel Emotions Strongly?

 

One may ask the same question in the title^ about actors or fine artists. Where in the artistic process and being does emotionality fit?

 

Seems to me that the subject is not how much the creative person feels, but how much empathy they have for others' feelings. Unless the writing is entirely about self, the power to put oneself in another’s overalls is key.

 

In addition to enhanced empathy, there’s something called mirror-touch synesthesia, where others’ physical sensations are literally felt in one’s own body. Some quantified version of this is operative in good writing.

 

There is a price to pay for being an empath. Just take a look at artists. The talented ones cultivate ways to express what they sense, thus producing books, painting, and theater performances. But this comes after the first principal: feel another's joy but also devastation.

 

Ah, the joys of being human.

The Most Difficult Part

 Different folks struggle with different stretches. We’d be gingerperson-cookies if this weren’t so. But then, there are the life patches that we have in common and find challenging.

For many who write stories, the middle is the hardest part.

I used to feel alone in this until I began communicating with others. Some call it the muddling middle, which is just what writers would do for such— conjuring a nice alliteration.

But why should the middle of a story be so hard?

Part of it is the way we train ourselves to come up with roaring bang-up first line/paragraphs. This is essential to hook the reader/listener. Okay, Check. ✔

Then, there’s the matter of the ending. Pure pantsters (writing without any plan by the seat of their pants) may find endings daunting. Most storytellers know the beginning, the protagonist’s challenge, and (get ready for this---) the end. Check.✔

 The end is a bookend to the beginning of the protagonist’s quest.

I heard John Grisham respond to a question about writer’s block by saying he always knows the ending before he even starts on a new novel, and so he must envision how to get there and avoid the blocking bumps. Along that bumpy part, you must do everything not to lose the passengers/ readers.

This brings up the most challenging part: all that middle. The meat of the tale. The how to get from the beginning to the end.

Beginnings and endings take care of themselves. Middles don’t. Middles are the hardest part.

Below the Surface

 

This morning, while steaming milk for coffee, I removed the sort of skin that formed on the surface before using a whipper to make a homemade variation of latte. The moment I did that, the memory of an old relative, long gone, popped into my mind.

I noted an oddity about myself that had been there for years, but I never filed before. I steam milk every morning, and remove this layer, Lactoderm, from its top every time. The memory of this relative comes before me every time I do this, but rarely at other times.

For the first time, I’m not only noting this, but also wondering why it is so. There is no connection between the surface of steamed milk and this person. Or is there? If there is, my conscious mind can’t access it.

In the midst of revising on my next novel, it occurs to me that such little details pointing to subconscious patterns are essential to writing rich characters. In fiction, we have to make these patterns rise to the surface. The reader will be unsatisfied if we just note them and leave them there without explanation.  

I may have to use my storytelling imagination to build the tiny bridge real life doesn’t.

Fiction is so much tidier than life. In fact, the act of writing is itself an effort to tie up loose ends.

Storytelling is for Always

When I was one year old, my mother and I flew from Israel to the United States because her father, my grandfather whom I never met, had just died. My father stayed behind, and our stay in Florida, which was supposed to be short, lasted nine months.

It would be a foreshadowing of my parents eventual divorce, when I was seven. But for a time, it was an extended separation.

When we left, I spoke in two-word sentences in Hebrew. When we returned, I spoke fluently, and in English, a language my father barely knew. But my father understood the very first thing I said to him when he greeted us at the port of Haifa, where our ship had docked. He told me about this meeting many times. He said I looked at him, took his hand and said, “Daddy, tell me a story.”

I forgot whatever English I knew not long after. I would learn it (or re-learn) some years later in school, as a second language. But I knew this sentence because in re-telling my father always said it in English.

Tell me a story. No matter what or where, no matter how or whom. There are always the stories and the storytellers who tell them.

📚~Keep telling stories~📚

Replacing the Handshake

Or—

New Etiquette for the New World

A pandemic caused us to behave differently while wondering which or what of the old ways we may keep. One of the first things to go was the handshake.

You know, that thing the ancient Greeks developed to show an approaching stranger you are not armed and can be trusted. That thing young people had to practice so they can do well on job interviews. Firm, but not too firm. Spirited, without being too energetic as to cause a concussion. There you go, just right.

Apparently, it isn’t anymore. Neither is the elbow bump, that touching of the very place we’re instructed to cough into. The Far East’s light head-bow with hand on one’s heart (I always found this elegant and touching) is one fine new way.

There’s also new etiquette for virtual gatherings, a la Zoom and such. There’s new etiquette for how to walk on the street. Hence, there are new requirements for storytelling. Movies shot before look downright historic.

It’s hard to know how much will stick with humanity for the longer run. But considering how long we’ve kept the handshake, (well after the knife-in-hand lost its prevalence) it’s likely we’ll have a few new etiquette rules added to our collective vocabulary.

A friend made the observation that in her childhood she used to ask her mother why grandma saved every piece of string.

“Grandma lived through the Great Depression,” her mom explained.

Someday, our grandkids will ask why Grandma wipes grocery bags with bleach, and our kids would explain that we lived through the Great Pandemic.

Storytellers are watching, and everyone is learning.

Historical (not Hysterical) Perspective Needed

Though the global response and economic shut-down feels unprecedented for any who haven’t lived through the great depression or the last world war, (not many of them left) it is not the world’s end nor the end of history, and more than ever we need to know humanity’s past to regain perspective.

I’ve always loved historical fiction. My published novel is one such, about a traumatic episode when at one time and place a feeling that annihilation could be immanent saturated the air. I lived that one, and lived to write about it some years later.

My father had survived a far greater trauma. My mother remembered the Great Depression as something from her childhood that left her frugal for the rest of her life. We have many in our midst who lived through historic shifts in their countries of origin, some still ongoing.

From where I stand right now, I don’t feel the current crisis is in the magnitude of any of the above. But, of course, it’s the unknown-unknown while it’s ongoing. So my ‘”hunch” or feeling only matter to the way I conduct myself, while G-d knows what G-d knows.

Here’s my bit of perspective: As storytellers, we who write will have even more to mine. Stories are an integral part of humanity and always needed. I feel a responsibility not to contribute to fear, and while doing the right common sense things also keep notes and document this event for the future. This doesn’t mean specifically “COVID-19 Tales,” but observations of human behaviors, the good and noble and the less good, for future literary exploration.

The one sure thing is that it will pass. It will be history. Then, we’ll say (as the French do) “Quelle histoire!” (=”What a story!”)

In the meantime, I strive to stay well and most of all to stay generous. Same to you, everyone.