Make A Scene Read online

  PREFACE

  INTRODUCTION

  PART I ARCHITECTURE OF A SCENE

  CHAPTER 1 FUNCTIONS OF A SCENE

  CHAPTER 2 STRONG SCENE LAUNCHES

  CHAPTER 3 POWERFUL SCENE MIDDLES

  CHAPTER 4 SUCCESSFUL SCENE ENDINGS

  PART II THE CORE ELEMENTS AND THE SCENE

  CHAPTER 5 SETTING

  CHAPTER 6 THE SENSES

  CHAPTER 7 CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT AND MOTIVATION

  CHAPTER 8 PLOT

  CHAPTER 9 SUBTEXT

  CHAPTER 10 DRAMATIC TENSION

  CHAPTER 11 SCENE INTENTIONS

  PART III SCENE TYPES

  CHAPTER 12 THE FIRST SCENE

  CHAPTER 13 SUSPENSE SCENES

  CHAPTER 14 DRAMATIC SCENES

  CHAPTER 15 CONTEMPLATIVE SCENES

  CHAPTER 16 DIALOGUE SCENES

  CHAPTER 17 ACTION SCENES

  CHAPTER 18 FLASHBACK SCENES

  CHAPTER 19 EPIPHANY SCENES

  CHAPTER 20 CLIMACTIC SCENES

  CHAPTER 21 THE FINAL SCENE

  PART IV OTHER SCENE CONSIDERATIONS

  CHAPTER 22 MULTIPLE POINTS OF VIEW

  CHAPTER 23 YOUR PROTAGONIST'S EMOTIONAL THREAD

  CHAPTER 24 SECONDARY AND MINOR CHARACTERS

  CHAPTER 25 SCENE TRANSITIONS

  CHAPTER 26 SCENE ASSESSMENT AND REVISION

  INDEX

  Three years after I graduated from college, my lifelong aspiration to be a working writer foundered. I'd become sidetracked by massage therapy, a career I undertook to support myself but which wound up absorbing most of my actual writing time.

  One quiet afternoon at the Marin County health club and spa, where I worked as spa director, my co-workers and I assembled on the exercise floor in mild anticipation, summoned by an all-staff memo. What did our boss, Michael, have in store for us this time?

  He bounded out, dressed in skimpy Spandex bike shorts: "Today, we're having a morale-boosting exercise," he cried, exuberant as always.

  Fourteen of us, crammed into sports leggings and identical staff T-shirts, shifted and murmured on the exercise floor. What would it be—another power meeting or mini-marathon? A large-toothed motivational speaker to teach us to feel the burn? None of my fears materialized, but the tall, Scandinavian blonde who emerged from the locker room at a purposeful clip did not quell my concern. There was a mischievous twinkle in her blue eyes that made me a touch nervous.

  "This is Stephanie Moore," said Michael, waving in the beautiful woman's direction with equal parts awe and respect.

  With her straight posture and serious demeanor, she looked like she was there to teach us how to walk elegantly with books on our heads, or to count every last calorie. The look in her eye said clearly that she had plans for us.

  "You guys look great!" she gushed in a throaty, nightclub-singer voice after appraising us. What was this—an auction? Take-home-a-trainer for a day?

  "Are you ready? You better be ready!" she continued.

  Unlike Michael's dogged cheerfulness, which had a tendency to grate on the staff's nerves, Stephanie's exuberance commanded our attention, as did her astonishing good looks, and a powerful authority in her long, lean body that suggested she could turn drill sergeant at any second and demand we drop and give her sixty.

  "I hope you're ready to dance!" she cried, and before we could argue that, while we were fitness buffs, dancing was another story, she'd turned on raucous Latin music and started swinging her hips in rhythm to it.

  "You're going to learn to salsa," she cried, raising a slender arm, "in an hour. Pair up!"

  I had recently recovered from bad bronchitis and was weak and slow-moving. This did not escape Stephanie. She grabbed me by the arm. "You'll be my partner," she said. "I'll lead," she added, as if I had any doubt.

  "One, two, one-two-three," she said, demonstrating the beat to the music with her knees.

  Despite my klutzy nature, under her surprisingly steady hand my body showed a kinetic intelligence I didn't know it had. Within minutes even the beefiest and most graceless among us were hip-swinging away, unembarrassed, to the vivifying salsa beat.

  "Oh, you've got it now!" she shouted. And for a few moments, I did feel as though I had it, if that meant control over my body in a whole new way.

  Afterward, in the locker room, still giddy and panting with effort, I stopped her. "You're a great teacher," I said. "My creative outlet is writing, but I can see how dancing could be a great one, too."

  "Thanks." She flung her blonde hair out of her face and lasered in on me with those royal blues. "I also teach writing, and as it happens, I can write

  like I dance." I was all prepared to drop and bow to her multitalented nature when she offered, "I can teach you to do the same."

  Inspired by her skills as a dance teacher, I knew fate had handed me an avenue back to my writing, and I gladly took it.

  Stephanie was the first person to teach me about the scene—the tool I just used to illustrate the essential idea of this book. To write well, you must take the readers in hand and teach them how to move to your beat, or follow a mystery, or care about two lovers whose relationship is coming apart at the seams. Your reader must be able to enter your story as if it were the auditorium of a theater, or an empty dance floor with strange music playing. It is my hope that this book will teach you how to, well, make a scene with as much confidence as I had when I once danced like a salsa queen.

  I feel a bit sorry for the scene: It's a misunderstood element of writing because, unlike other elements, it is not a singular thing, but a sum of all the parts of great fiction. Many writers understand one element of the scene, but not how all the elements work together, inform each other, and create a narrative that is compelling and capable of maintaining a reader's attention.

  I feel confident saying that if you can understand what a scene is, how all its elements collaborate to create a vivid and compelling snapshot, and how those moments add up to a story, you'll write your drafts differently and become a more self-assured writer with a page-turner on your hands.

  In order to make scene construction clear, start with the basic function and structure of a scene, because even if you can identify a scene in someone else's work, you may not be sure what constitutes a scene in your own writing (and I have worked with plenty of writers who weren't). Where does a scene stop and start? Can too much or not enough of one element ruin the whole stew? I want you to know why you should bother to write scenes and how a single scene is built before you go on to learn how to build a house out of them.

  The bulk of this book looks at the different kinds of scenes that compose a narrative, from suspense scenes to contemplative scenes. These different

  types of scenes are like the notes in a symphony: Individually they may be intense or mild, contemplative or dramatic, but when they are used in combination, they form a fantastic narrative that feels rich and complex.

  By the book's end, you should be able not only to build a vivid scene, but to link each of your scenes to create a compelling narrative that will engage the reader and make you proud.

  Plus, throughout this book I've included sidebars in which published authors share their insights on all aspects and techniques of scene writing. These exclusive thoughts prove that even best-selling authors can be inspired and moved by a well-written scene.

  To help you avoid tactics that could bore the reader, I leave you with this caveat: The audience is watching. Never forget this. Even though the audience isn't actually present at the moment of your writing, you should write (and especially revise) as if the reader is sitting behind your desk, awaiting your finished pages. What this means is that, if your eye is ultimately on publication, it is your job to entertain and inform the reader through
clear writing and powerful scenes; if you are using fancy prose or showy strategies to amuse yourself or prove something, you aren't keeping your audience in mind.

  Though it's not wise to write first drafts with the super-ego breathing its foul, critical breath down your neck, your readers should be the most precious people imaginable after your characters. You see, most readers are not writers; they don't know how hard it is to write. They have very little patience or empathy for your struggles. They just want a good story, and they will put down one that doesn't hold their interest. It's up to you to ensure that they don't lose interest in your story.

  You've felt the pulse-pounding drama of a good story, you've turned pages at a furious clip, caught up in a book so real you felt as though it was happening to you. What makes that story, book, or essay come to life? Strong, powerful scenes.

  Writing is a wildly creative act, and therefore often seems to defy rules and formulas. Just when a rule seems agreed upon, some writer comes along to break it. While there is a formula to scene-writing, it's not straightforward. It's not like a paint-by-numbers kit, where you fill in the listed colors and voila, you have a perfect painting of dogs playing poker, in all the right proportions. The scene-writing formula is more like the messy spontaneity of cooking: You start with the ingredients the recipe calls for, but you work them in creatively, and variations on the main ingredients yield different, even surprising, results.

  The only certain result you want is to snare the reader's attention with your very first sentence. Since writing competes with the fast-paced, seductive intensity of television and movies, your challenge is to write engaging scenes.

  THE SCENE DEFINED

  So what is a scene, exactly? Scenes are capsules in which compelling characters undertake significant actions in a vivid and memorable way that allows the events to feel as though they are happening in real time. When strung together, individual scenes add up to build plots and storylines.

  The recipe for a scene includes the following basic ingredients:

  • Characters who are complex and layered, and who undergo change throughout your narrative

  • A point of view through which the scenes are seen

  • Memorable and significant action that feels as if it is unfolding in real time

  • Meaningful, revealing dialogue when appropriate

  • New plot information that advances your story and deepens characters

  • Conflict and drama that tests your characters and ultimately reveals their personalities

  • A rich physical setting that calls on all the senses and enables the reader to see and enter into the world you've created

  • A spare amount of narrative summary or exposition

  Arguably, the one thing in that list that makes a scene a scene is action— events happening and people acting out behaviors in a simulation of real time—but well-balanced scenes include a little bit of everything. Mixing those ingredients together in varying amounts will yield drama, emotion, passion, power, and energy; in short, a page-turner. Some scenes need more physical action, while others may require a lot of dialogue. Some scenes will take place with barely a word spoken, or with very small actions. Other scenes may require vivid interaction with the setting. As you make your way through this book, you will get a better grasp of the power of the scene and how to use it to achieve your desired effects.

  In part two we'll discuss all of the above ingredients, as well as these more complex scene considerations:

  • Dramatic tension, which creates the potential for conflict in scenes

  • Scene subtext, which deepens and enriches your scenes

  • Scene intentions, which ensure characters' actions are purposeful

  • Pacing and scene length, which influence the mood and tone of individual scenes

  These latter ingredients deepen your scenes and help you take them beyond the perfunctory. Dramatic tension will make the reader worry about and care for your characters and keep her riveted to the page. Subtext can build imagery and emotion into the deeper layers of scenes so that your writing feels rich and complex. Scene intentions help to guide your characters and take them through changes in as dramatic a way as possible. By pacing your scenes well and choosing the proper length for each scene, you can control the kinds of emotional effects your scenes have, leaving the reader with the feeling of having taken a satisfying journey.

  ANATOMY OF A SCENE

  To help clarify how all of the elements just discussed function within a scene, here is a complex snippet of a scene from Joseph Conrad's richly layered short story "The Secret Sharer," which I have labeled to show its parts.

  Before entering the cabin I stood still, listening in the lobby at the foot of the stairs. [First-person point of view.] A faint snore came through the closed door of the chief mate's room. The second mate's door was on the hook, but the darkness in there was absolutely soundless. [Physical setting that invokes one of the senses: hearing.] He, too, was young and could sleep like a stone. Remained the steward, but he was not likely to wake up before he was called. I got a sleeping suit out of my room and, coming back on deck, saw the naked man from the sea sitting on the main hatch, glimmering white in the darkness, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. [Action that provides a sense of real time.] In a moment he had concealed his damp body in a sleeping suit of the same gray-stripe pattern as the one I was wearing and followed me like my double on the poop. Together we moved right aft, barefooted, silent.

  "What is it?" I asked in a deadened voice, taking the lighted lamp out of the binnacle and raising it to his face.

  "An ugly business." [Dialogue.]

  He had rather regular features; a good mouth; light eyes under somewhat heavy, dark eyebrows; a smooth square forehead; no growth on his cheeks; a small brown mustache, and a well-shaped round chin. His expression was concentrated, meditative, under the inspecting light of the lamp I held up to his face; such as a man thinking hard in solitude might wear. [Detailed physical character description.] My sleeping suit was just right for his size. A well-knit young fellow of twenty-five at most. He caught his lower lip with the edge of white, even teeth.

  "Yes," I said, replacing the lamp in the binnacle. The warm heavy tropical night closed upon his head again.

  "There's a ship over there," he murmured.

  "Yes, I know. The Sephora. Did you know of us?"

  "Hadn't the slightest idea. I am the mate of her—" He paused and corrected himself. "I should say I was."

  "Aha! Something wrong?'

  "Yes. Very wrong indeed. I've killed a man." [Dramatic tension and plot information.]

  "What do you mean? Just now?"

  "No, on the passage. Weeks ago. Thirty-nine south. When I say a man — "

  "Fit of temper," I suggested, confidently.

  The shadowy, dark head, like mine, seemed to nod imperceptibly above the ghostly gray of my sleeping suit. It was, in the night, as though I had been faced by my own reflection in the depths of a somber and immense mirror. [Using physical setting to create the desired eerie mood.]

  Think of the elements illustrated in the marked sections above as crucial ingredients that you want to employ in your own writing. Conrad's story is an example of how unique each scene will be, even when you're using the same essential ingredients. You might choose a different method of creating dramatic tension—like writing in the third-person point of view, opting for more or less dialogue (or none), or using very different actions to create a sense of real time—but you can see that Conrad did, in fact, use all the foundational ingredients of a scene, and held your attention. This is exactly what your scenes need to do for your readers.

  THE OLE "SHOW, DON'T TELL" DILEMMA

  What exactly does it mean to show and not tell? Should your characters be doing wild strip-teases or crying "Look, nothing up my sleeve," before pulling out a rabbit? Only if you want, but in this case show is a caveat that means "don't over-explain; trust your reader."r />
  Telling, also referred to in this book as narrating or narrative summary, is a form of explaining. And while every narrative has some necessary summary, it must be used judiciously. Imagine yourself as the storyteller to a group of enthralled children gathered around and hanging on your every word. Say that right at the climax where Snow White bites into the poisoned apple (a juicy bit of action), you go off on a tangent like this: "Snow White thought about taking a bite of the apple, but she had been having trust issues since her stepmother had hired the woodcutter to kill her. Remembering her stepmother's betrayal sent her into a whirlwind of doubt. ..." Bored yet? You can bet those kids would be bouncing in their chairs asking, "But what happened to Snow White after she bit into the poisoned apple?!" Grown-up readers respond the same way to telling.

  Think about it another way: Most people read with their physical eyes and a handy little part of the brain known as the visual cortex. The brain is, in fact, considered more important in the function of sight than the eyes, and in the act of reading, this is even more true. The brain helps the reader with the most important organ of reading, the inner eye, meaning the eye of the imagination (not some mystical link to spiritual realms). This eye is responsible for constructing in the mind the visual images that are rendered only in text on a page. You want the reader to see what you describe as vividly as you see your dreams at night; therefore, you must give the reader as much opportunity to do so as possible. You must be detailed and specific, and provide enough sensory clues to make the task of seeing easy.

  Narrative summary, on the other hand, offers words only to the reader's inner ear, as if someone were standing off to the side whispering right to him. While the eye allows the reader to become emotionally involved, and activates the heart and the viscera, the inner ear seems to be linked more closely to the function of sound. Too much stimulation on the inner ear can temporarily lull your reader, or even put him to sleep. This is one of the reasons that narrative passages should be kept to a minimum.

  Scenes use the ingredients mentioned earlier to construct a powerful, vivifying experience that mimics life for the reader. At its best, powerful scene-writing allows a reader to feel as if he has entered the narrative and is participating in it, rather than sitting passively by and receiving a lecture. You know you're in a scene when your own heart is pumping and you're white-knuckling the pages waiting to see what happens next. When you fall into the story and forget the world around you, the author has done a good job of immersing you in a scene.