Tag Archives: author

How to use the five senses in stories

The five senses
Chris Lombardi on the five senses

In chapter 5 of Writing Fiction, the Practical Guide from New York’s Acclaimed Creative Writing School, Chris Lombardi offers us sage advice on how to catapult our readers and audiences into our fictional worlds through the evocation of the five senses.


Lombardi explains that we read and write with our brains, but we live life through our bodies. We therefore need to convey the experience of our fictional worlds through our five senses. Yes, our running to catch the bus consists of a series of internal events such as irritation at having to catch a bus in the first place, and the worry that we’ll miss it, but these internal states are motivated by the senses—the feel and sound of shoes striking the pavement, the sucking in of breath, the sight of the retreating bus, the smell of its exhaust and the roar of its engine. Experience of the world, in other words, is fed to us through our sense faculties. Our stories should do no less.

Lombardi presses the point: “To bring a reader into your fictional world, you need to offer data for all the senses. You want to make your readers see the rain’s shadow, taste the bitterness of bad soup, feel the roughness of unshaved skin, smell the spoiled pizza after an all-night party, hear the tires screech during the accident. Note that I’ve referred to all five senses. Don’t be tempted to focus only on sight, as many beginning writers do. It may be the sound after the party that your character really remembers. You may find that the feel of the fabric of a character’s dress tells more about her upbringing than her hairstyle does.”

“The skillful use of the five senses is one of the hallmarks of a good writer.”

The following passage from Amy Tan’s novel, “Rules of the Game” is a great example of the senses at work:

“We lived on Waverly Place, in a warm, clean, two-bedroom flat that sat above a small Chinese bakery, specializing in steamed pastries and dim sum. In the early morning, when the alley was still quiet, I could smell fragrant red beans as they were cooked down to a pasty sweetness. By daybreak, our flat was heavy with the odor of fried sesame balls and sweet curried chicken crescents. From my bed, I would listen as my father got ready for work, then locked the door behind him, one-two-three clicks.”

We see, hear, smell, feel, and even taste this world. It’s almost as if we are physically there.

But could we use a sense other than sight and hearing in a screenplay, too? Indeed we could, if a little more indirectly: We could write into the screenplay’s action block a character wrinkling her nose at the sight of some unsightly food on a plate with steam rising from it, we could have a character’s hand stroking the fur of a cat, a horse, a velvet dress,  we could describe a closeup shot of a child grimacing at the taste of a spoon brimming over with cod liver oil pressed into his mouth. 

You get the idea.

As an exercise write about a character on a dare from his friends to find a perfumed handkerchief hidden somewhere in a spooky, abandoned house. The character is blindfolded and has only a cane to help him/her navigate the interior. Write the scene for a novel or screenplay using only the sensory description of hearing, smell, touch, and taste. Omit any description of sight to force you to concentrate on the remaining senses.

Summary

Use the five senses in writing novels and screenplays to catapult your readers into the physical world of your story.

CATCH MY LATEST YOUTUBE VIDEO HERE!

Symbols – your secret power

Symbols in The Joker
Symbols in The Joker

What are symbols, and how can we use them to prolong longevity, add resonance and depth to our stories?

In his book, Man and his Symbols the renowned psychologist, Carl Gustav Jung wrote: ‘What we call a symbol is a term, a name, or even a picture that may be familiar in daily life, yet that possesses specific connotations in addition to its conventional and obvious meaning. It implies something vague, unknown, or hidden from us. A word or image stripped of its connotative aspect is a mere sign—it denotes or points to an object or event that has no added significance than its function—such as a chair, a table, and the like.” 

The strength of symbols, especially symbols that emerge from the unconscious to manifest as Archetypes, is that they endure. To put it in another way, as primordial remnants bubble up from the human unconscious, they are expressed by the conscious mind as universally applicable archetypal symbols. They do so by cleaving to specific actions, events and objects in myths and stories.

“Symbols, when rendered adroitly, promote the longevity of any story.”

To generate symbols in your own tales, start with story and character: 1. Ask, what is the genre of your story? 2. What is the key idea, theme, and moral premise of your story? 3. What goals and struggles are your characters engaged in?

The answers to these questions will direct you to the sorts of symbols you need to use. A note of caution here. Your symbols shouldn’t attract attention to themselves—they shouldn’t be too obvious. They need to grow on us as vessels of meaning. They also need to be specific and to generate emotion. The key here is to work out how they relate to the characters and to each other: Are these symbols actual objects that would feature effortlessly in the characters’ everyday lives? Again, subtlety is key.

Here’s how Todd Phillip uses character symbols in his film, The Joker:

The film opens with Arthur Fleck applying his clown make-up. We don’t immediately ascribe symbolic significance to this. Arthur is merely preparing to do his job as a clown. But as the story progresses the clown imagery deepens in meaning, driven by story questions: Why is it that after Arthur loses his job, he continues to wear his clown make-up? Is it that it offers him an escape from his dreary reality? Does it have deeper psychological connotations—indicate his rejecting his identity due to some past trauma that makes him wish that he was someone else?

“Well crafted symbols are universal and eternal.”

The figure of the clown now comes to symbolise the breakdown of social structures in Gotham—the conflict between the rulers and the ruled. The mob dons clown dress and rises up against the authorities, with the Joker, as inspiration.  A clown suit and mask are no longer symbols of fun and laughter—the Joker has become the symbol of something dark and dangerous—the symbol of chaos.

Symbolism can also emerge from setting, providing context, atmosphere and bolstering the theme. In The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, Mordor, as opposed to the idyllic life of the Shire, is shown to be a place of hellfire and horror—the entire landscape is symbolic of the evil represented by Sauron. 

And of course, the rings themselves are highly symbolic, with the last ring being especially significant. Having been forged by Sauron on Mount Doom it represents pure evil. But the ring also symbolises desire and greed. We see this clearly in Bilbo and Gollum’s desire to posses it.

The ring also symbolises temptation. Even honourable characters such as Gandalf and Boromir are tempted by its beguiling power. This temptation gains in resonance by reminding us of the original temptation in the garden of Eden, where Adam and Eve disobeyed God and ate from the apple of good and evil.

When deploying symbols remember to show rather than tell, to point them towards your key ideas and themes, to select symbols that give rise to emotion, and to avoid being heavy-handed in their use.

Summary

Use symbols to add resonance, meaning and depth to your stories.

CATCH MY LATEST VIDEO HERE!

Action-reaction: How to write air-tight scenes.

Action-reaction in Traffic.
Action-reaction in Traffic.

A sure fire way to create momentum in your story is by linking scenes together, and to do it often. Specifically, to end a scene with a hook of some sort—say with an action, question, or expectation that is fully, or partially fulfilled in the next.

In Advanced Screenwriting, Linda Seger labels this linking mechanism between scenes as action-reaction. She provides the following examples:

In the film, Traffic, Salazar asks Francisco to provide information about the men who present a threat. The scene ends with Francisco writing down a list of names. The very next scene shows Javier and Manolo getting to the men on the list. The link between those two narrative blocks is airtight and preserves momentum.

In a later scene Javier promises Anna that he’ll find her husband. In the very next scene, he does. And yet later, Francisco is shot, though he doesn’t know who shot him. In the next scene we see an unfamiliar man packing up a rifle. The implication is that he is the one who shot Francisco.

“Action-reaction scenes are airtight. They preserve story pressure.”

Here is an example from the same film where the flow is interrupted because a scene ends on a static note rather than one which links it to the next scene. In this scene Robert’s wife and daughter congratulate him on his being chosen as the new drug czar. His daughter says: “It’s great daddy. It’s just amazing, that’s all.” The scene ends on a statement, rather than a question, intention or demand, which interrupts the momentum.

Transitions can also be a little tricky, especially when an expected ending to an episode is omitted. At one point Gordon says: We have a warrant to search your house, Mrs. Ayala.” The scene ends on the expectation of a search and perhaps the finding of incriminating evidence. Instead, there is a hard break to the story in Mexico. Seger suggests that although the writer need not have necessarily followed up with a scene showing the search of the house, a follow-up scene of some sort that dealt with the warrant more directly ought to have been included. Although the scene in Mexico is a consequence, it feels a little dramatically disconnected—we are left with the sense of a missing reaction scene.

Summary

Action-reaction scenes avoid a slackening in momentum, especially in story beats where large changes in narrative time and space occur.

CATCH MY LATEST YOUTUBE VIDEO HERE!

Fascinating characters are a little paradoxical

Paradoxical characters in A Fish Called Wanda.
Paradoxical characters in A Fish Called Wanda.

Given the plethora of books, TV series, and films available nowadays, there is a danger that stories and the characters that inhabit them become stale and repetitive—poorly disguised imitations of themselves. It’s therefore important that we find a way to make them fascinating and colourful to avoid turning them into mere cliches.

One way to make a character more fascinating is to inject paradoxical elements into his or her personality. In Creating Unforgettable Characters, Linda Seger, quotes the novelist Leonard Tourney on the subject: Tourney writes “Characters are more interesting if they are made of mixed stuff, if they contain warring elements. To create these warring elements, you begin by establishing one, then asking, ‘Given this element, what elements are there in the same person that would create in that person a kind of conflict?” A ruthless hit man who donates all his money to a foundation for war veterans is an example.

“Paradoxical characters make for fascinating stories.”

But an all-out war between traits, however, is not the only way to create paradoxes—your character/s could merely display an unexpected conjunction of personality tendencies, habits, hobbies, or interests:

In A Fish Called Wanda, Otto is presented as nervous, dumb and jealous, yet he meditates and reads Nietzsche. This is surprising, which makes the character instantly more fascinating.

In Good Will Hunting, Matt Damon’s character, Will, recently paroled from jail and now a janitor at M.I.T, solves a difficult math problem posted on a blackboard that has stumped everyone else. Although this is not necessary a display of contrary traits, it does make us wonder why such a smart man ended up in jail and now works as a janitor.

To quote Seger, “Human nature being what it is, a character is always more than just a set of consistencies. People are illogical and unpredictable. They do things that surprise us, startle us, change all of our preconceived ideas about them.”

As writers we should seek to do no less.

Summary

Characters who display paradoxical or unexpected traits, traits that have been skillfully selected, make for fascinating stories.

CATCH MY LATEST YOUTUBE VIDEO HERE!

Describing characters and Action

Describing characters and actions in GI JANE.
Describing characters and actions in GI JANE

In screenwriting, where economy of space is at a premium, it is important to write action and character descriptions crisply and effectively. Although this article applies mainly to screenwriters, novelists ought to take some of these suggestions to heart too.

In describing characters or incidents in the action block: a) Write in the present tense: the story is unfolding right in front of you after all. b) Be concise: Describe only what is essential to the character and the story. Limit your descriptions to three or four lines, or less. c) Cut to the chase—describe only the essence of an action or incident. d) Have every word count. Use strong nouns and verbs. Don’t bolster weak words with adverbs and adjectives—choose better verbs and nouns.

In his book Story Robert McKee implores us to write using only apt nouns and verbs that capture the essence of character and action. The words should immediately paint vivid pictures in the minds of the readers.

In GI JANE the character who propels the protagonist on her mission, a US senator, is described in this way:

‘DEHAVEN is a tough-hided old Southern-belle, Scarlett O’Hara at 60. In her arsenal she carries conversational hand-grenades — and she’s apt to pull a pin at the slightest whim.’

“Be concise and impactful in describing characters and action. Make every word count.”

This description not only imparts information about Dehaven, it conveys her attitude and general demeanour, too. Not bad for two sentences.

Sometimes even the shortest of descriptions will capture the essence of the character:

‘Slimy Piet is short, rough, with the hygiene of an army privy on a hot day.’

Notice how the use of a figure of speech makes us wrinkle our nose. Figures of speech, used as vehicles of exaggeration or comparison, are powerful conveyers of the writer’s attitude towards a character. They are communicators of atmosphere, attitude and detail. Use them sparingly, but do use them.

In writing action, too, we should also use every opportunity to characterise, and convey ‘posture’ and demeanour. Never waste the opportunity to pack as much as possible into a verb or noun: Never write ‘walk’ when you can write ‘saunter, stroll, meander, mosey, and wander. Or if more energy is required: stride, march, storm, dash, streak, and the like. Each of these words says much, and does it economically.

As an exercise unearth one of your neglected stories. Pour over each character description and action block and implement some of the suggestions on offer here.

Summary

Be concise, precise, and impactful in describing characters and actions. Your writing will be the better for it.

CATCH MY CATCH MY LATEST YOUTUBE VIDEO HERE!

Masters of Subtext

As Good as it Gets - Screenplay: James L. Brooks, Mark Andrus masters of subtext.
As Good as it Gets – Screenplay: James L. Brooks, Mark Andrus masters of subtext.

I just can’t stop talking about the necessity of becoming absolute masters of subtext. Dialogue that ripples with subtext jumps right out of the page and declares to the reader—I am an accomplished writer. Keep reading.

If direct dialogue tells us about the literal meaning of the words—their denotation—subtext reveals the meaning behind the words—their connotation. Subtext is a far more engaging way of having the character reveal information because it lets the reader or audience into a secret, or at least, into the deeper layer of meaning that makes them feel more connected to the characters and the story. It does not spoon-feed the reader, as would direct dialogue.

“Masters of subtext stand out from the crowd. They are consummate writers of dramatic speech.”

There are many ways to write subtext, one of the most important being The Cover-Up. It may use a change of subject, a lie, a misdirection, a question, a threat, and the like, to achieve its goal. These techniques occur downstream, but first let me remind everyone that there are three chief areas to any dramatic text: 1. direct text, 2. its deeper meaning, and 3. when this meaning is to be conveyed to the reader or audience.

In As good as it Gets, we see Melvyn, who despises dogs, put the neighbour’s animal down the garbage chute in the hallway outside his apartment. We should note that the subtext can be (1) revealed before the actual subtext dialogue occurs, (2) during or (3) after the dialogue. Notice that here we already know that Melvyn has done the deed before the exchange with his neighbour, so we experience it as a Cover-Up.

INT. APARTMENT BUILDING (NEW YORK), HALLWAY – NIGHT

SIMON, the dog’s owner, rushes down the hall just as Melvyn is about to enter his apartment.

SIMON: Verdell? Here, good doggie…

He notices Melvyn at the end of the hall.

SIMON: Mr Udhall…excuse me. Hey there! Have you seen Verdell?

MELVYN: What’s he look like?

Here, Melvyn uses the technique of The Cover-Up by asking a question. But since we already know that he has stuffed the dog down the chute we know that he is lying. To spell it out: Melvyn’s denotation is: ‘What’s he look like’, feigning engagement. But the actual meaning is: ‘I got rid of your dog and I’ll lie so as not to get caught.’

Imagine if the scene had started with Simon looking for his dog. Melvyn’s question about what the dog looks like would then appear as if he was being helpful. When the truth was revealed later that Melvyn did indeed do it, the subtext would arise introspectively. Both instances would involve subtext, but the former is perhaps stronger because it occurs at the present moment. But that is something for you to decide in each particular instance.

SIMON: My dog…you know, I mean my little dog with the adorable face… Don’t you know what my dog looks like?

MELVYN: I got it. You’re talking about your dog. I thought that was the name of the colored man I’ve been seeing in the hall.

Again, because we know that Melvyn is the culprit, we experience the deception more acutely—every line promotes the Cover-Up, which demonstrates the sort of man he is. In other words, we learn far more about his character from the subtext than direct, denotative speech could reveal. Such is its power.

Summary

Masters of subtext – the sure sign of the accomplished writers. Study its various techniques until you master them fully.

CATCH MY LATEST YOUTUBE VIDEO HERE!

Emotions, Attitudes and Values in Characters

Emotions, Attitudes and Values in 300
Emotions, Attitudes and Values in 300

There are many skills that go into writing authentic, colourful characters. Having a handle on their emotions, attitudes and values is certainly one of them.

Attitudes: In 300, Sparta’s fierce and unyielding defiance stems from its sense of independence and its belief in its fighting ability. It is personified through King Leonidas’ response to the gauntlet thrown at his feet by the Persian envoy who demands that earth and water be offered by King Leonidas as a token of submission to the God-King Xerxes. Sparta can then be allowed to continue as a puppet state, or face annihilation. Leonidas’ response is: ‘This is Sparta’. It succinctly encapsulates Sparta’s attitude of confidence and defiance. The result? Leonidas plunges the messenger to his death, which initiates the war with Xerxes.

Values: Values are the deep infrastructure residing within the character’s core. They form the foundation of the character’s moral and motivational hierarchy. Values spawn ideology, sustain belief, initiate action and mould behaviour.

“‘Imbuing your characters with emotions, attitudes and values will help grant them a sense of verisimilitude.”

Staying with our 300 example, we find Queen Gorco echoing the importance that Sparta places on courage and strength in service of the community, even when facing the insurmountable odds of the Persian army under the command of Xerxes. The Queen tells her husband who is leading 300 warriors to the Hot Gates to block the invaders to ‘come back with his shield or on it’—in other words, to die protecting his people, if needs be. Self-sacrifice in service of the wider good is seen as a paramount Spartan value.

Emotions: Before taking the final decision to kill the messenger and, in effect, declare war on Xerxes, Leonidas seems to hesitate, contemplating the hell that is to be unleashed on the people of his tiny kingdom. He turns to his wife as if to seek confirmation that he is doing the right thing. She offers him the slightest of nods—no need for words here. It is a touching moment, filled with subtle emotion as befitting a warrior nation, where the King of Sparta seeks and gets the approval of his queen before plunging Sparta into war.

Summary

Humans are complex. Instill emotions, attitudes and values in your characters to increase their verisimilitude and effectiveness.

Grab my latest YouTube video through this link!

The explanatory power of need in stories.

In the film Tootsie Michael Dorsey‘s ‘need” manifests in his actions.

What is the difference between a character’s want and need?

In her book, Advanced Screenwriting, Linda Seger explains that one’s ‘want’ is related to the outer goal in the story—what the character thinks s/he has to achieve in order to solve a problem: get the girl, or the job, and the like. One’s ‘need’, however, is typically hidden from the character. It is revealed only late in the developmental arc as a result of the characters having learnt a series of lessons about themselves, and the world, through life’s hard knocks. 

We as writers, however, have to know how to work with this hidden need on behalf of our characters. We have to know how to work with the subtext—with what is suppressed, left unsaid, with emotions of guilt, shame or regret. These are the generators of depth and resonance in our stories. Without them we have only plot. With them we have in-depth characters whose psychological motivation rings true.

“Without an acknowledgement of need, characters are unable to complete their character arcs and achieve their story goals.”

Tootsie’s Michael Dorsey, for example, does not, at first, realise that he needs to be less difficult, more sensitive to others in order to achieve his outer goals as an actor. He does not realise that his insistence on ‘perfection’, his obsessive disagreeableness and fussiness stems from his own insecurities. It is only when he adopts the disguise of a woman in order to procure a television soapie role, a disguise so convincing that he is subjected to the sort of insensitivity and sexism he has inflicted on others, that he realises that his need is to be a better man. It is only then that Michael can accomplish his external goals—his desire for Julie, his need for work, his desire to maintain his friendship with Sandy. The accomplished writer understands this about his character(s) and implements this knowledge. It is a skill well worth emulating.

Summary

A character’s acknowledgment of ‘need’ comes late in the story and results in an adjustment of the story goal.

Catch my latest YouTube video on the craft of writing here!

Turning point versus twist — what’s the difference?

The twist in The Sixth Sense
The twist in The Sixth Sense

Stories depend on twists and turns to deliver their content in an engaging way. But what’s the difference between a turning point and a twist? Let’s look into it.

In her book Advanced Screenwriting Linda Seeger gives us six attributes that define a turning point: 1. Turns the action in a new direction. 2. Ushers us into a new arena and a new focus for the action. 3. The protagonist makes a new decision or commitment . 4. Raises the central question again. 5. Ups the stakes. 6. Propels the story into the next act.

Seger states that the turning point is not a surprise although how it is executed may be. That’s because the turning point has been prepared for—through the inciting incident for example, or other foreshadowing elements.

In Dead Poet’s Society the boys going to the cave has been prepared for by earlier scenes: The boys discover John Keating’s Year Book and ask him about it. Keating mentions that the cave was where the dead poet’s society used to meet. This sets up the context for Act II and the resulting conflict between creativity versus conformity, the theme of the story, that is to be unleashed. The cave scene, then, leads the story in a new but not unexpected direction.

“A turning point steers the story in a new direction, usually prepared for earlier. A twists uncovers a gut-wrenching emotion through exposing a secret that has the penny drop.”

The twist by contrast differs from the turning point in these ways: Twists are almost always rooted in secrets. Specifically, the twist is an action or event which reveals that things are not what everyone thought them to be. It is the moment when the penny drops—the moment in The Sixth Sense, when Malcolm Crowe realises that he is dead, the moment when a puzzle is suddenly solved as in Chinatown when Evelyn Mulvaney gives up of her shameful secret that Katherine Cross is both her daughter and her sister as a result of her father’s incestuous acts with her. Her shocking revelation explains Evelyn’s obfuscating behaviour, her seeming lies, her stutter upon the mention of the word ‘father’, and the like.

Here’s what you need to know about writing secrets and have them drive your twists: 1. What is the purpose of the secret? 2. Whose secret is it? 3. Who is unaware of the secret? 4. When should the secret be revealed? 5. To whom is the secret first revealed, and why?

Typically, then, the twist may occur near a turning point in a story, but it’s most important differentiation from the turning point is that it delivers a gut-wrenching emotion, couched in past secrets, that sheds light upon hitherto unexplained action.

Summary

Turning points steer the action in new directions prepared for earlier. Twists expose secrets and create powerful emotions through surprise.

Catch my latest Youtube video here!

Why have our stories grown stale?

Banish the stale! Follow Chinatown’s example.
Banish the stale. Follow Chinatown’s example.

Much of our viewing consumption, whether at the cinema or through streaming services, has grown stale. There is a repetitiveness to the story structure, genre, theme, and the subliminal messaging. Superhero stories predominate, and what’s worse, the sequel-generating machine has diminished the spark that may have existed in the original. The disconnected and visually numbing Ant-Man and the Wasp: Quantumania, is a case in point.

What’s the reason for this? I’d venture a lack of originality and character authenticity which the presence of the brand alone can’t compensate for. Then there’s the easy access to tons of tv series and films on streaming services which has educated audiences about the tricks that go into a story. Formulas are exposed for being just that—formulas. Add the avalanche of cardboard characters and limp story lines and you get the picture.

So, what’s the remedy? My instinct is to go back to creating strong, authentic characters driven by credible goals, hopes and ambitions—characters who harbour wounds and secrets, and who are immersed in situations, albeit fantastical on occasion, that we find believable. 

“We should banish what is stale in our stories by getting back to the basics, by concentrating on originality and verisimilitude.”

One of the things that makes Chinatown a great story is the power of the wounds and secrets that Evelyn Malwray harbours. These drive the entire story—wounds and secrets whose consequences affect the characters, generate subtext, and create story questions. And what a staggering reveal late in the story when Evelyn finally comes clean to Jake Gittes!

Citizen Kane too is an enduring classic in no small part because Kane has a painful secret that the audience is dying to know. Indeed the whole film is predicated upon unraveling the meaning of the word ‘Rosebud’ uttered by Kane on his deathbed. The theme that is encoded in that word—that the value of family outweighs material wealth and fame, also lends the story a transcendent meaning that elevates it and keeps it resonant and fresh. If only we could inject such verisimilitude into the current parade of stories.

Summary

Many stories have fallen prey to stale, repetitive formulas, plots, and shallow characters swimming in the sludge of endless franchises of dubious worth.

Catch my latest YouTube video here!