Six vital story ingredients

Here’s Six vital story ingredients from my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells.

Okay, so what about that first page? What, in the 200 or so words that appear in the sixteen lines of narrative on your first page, can you do to propel a reader on? You can make sure your narrative has as many of these story elements as possible:

• Tension
• Story questions
• Voice
• Clarity
• Scene setting
• Character
  

There are more elements to a story, of course, and adequate grammar is a prerequisite, but these six are critical tools for engaging a reader, factors that can create the hook you need to reel in a weary agent or browsing reader.

Tension

In discussions of writing craft, you hear about “tension” all the time. But what does that mean? Is it conflict on every page? Not necessarily. It means something in your narrative that creates a need in your reader, a small unease, an appetite to know more. It means that what happens in the story causes tension in the reader and fosters the lure of what will happen next. Tension is a real feeling that you, the reader, should experience on the first page of a novel. We’re not talking break-out-in-a-sweat tension here, more like an itch-that-has-to-be-scratched version.

You don’t have to have the main conflict in the first page of your novel to create tension. While it might be a stronger hook to begin with something like this . . .

In ten seconds, the dirty bomb would contaminate Manhattan with enough radiation to make it a desert for fifty centuries.

. . . the tension element, as long as it comes from story questions that are meaningful to the reader, can be relatively mild compared to the overall conflict or jeopardy in the story. For example, the opening sentence from Fly by Night by Frances Hardinge:

“But names are important!” the nursemaid protested.

There is implied conflict in that sentence, and story questions come tumbling out of it, certainly enough to carry you to the next sentence, and thus giving the writer a chance to sink in her claws.

But immediate conflict isn’t the only way to create tension, although it’s hard to beat as a hook-setter. Jeopardy, a sense of trouble ahead, can create enough tension to move the reader just enough further for more of the story to take hold. Here’s the opening sentence from one of my manuscripts.

Just after dark, death grabbed me by the tail.

Story questions

Perhaps my list should have started with story questions, for without them there would be no tension. You create story questions with information that forces a reader to wonder what will happen next (by information I mean action or dialogue in a scene). For example, how about this for the very first sentence you encounter in a novel?

The spider crept onto Judy’s bare neck.

Your knowledge of spiders raises instant questions: Will it bite Judy? Is it poisonous? Is it deadly? What will happen if she’s bitten? Will she feel the spider and avoid the bite? What’s going to happen next?!

Let’s add a little more information and see what happens to the story questions.

The black widow spider crept onto Judy’s bare neck.

Uh-oh. Now you know it’s poisonous, and its bite has more serious consequences—the stakes have been raised, the story question is intensified, and the tension mounts. And now you “see” the spider more clearly—it’s black! Is that enough tension? Enough story questions? Maybe, but we can do better.

The black widow spider crept onto Judy’s bare neck. She stirred in her sleep.

She’s asleep? Ohmygod! New story question: will she wake up in time to deal with the spider? Once more:

The black widow spider crept onto Judy’s bare neck. She stirred in her sleep. A second black widow crawled onto her naked skin.

New story questions (and tension): How many black widows are there? Where is she that there are so many? What will happen next?! And we did this with only three sentences. Just for fun, what if this comes next?

Judy opened her eyes just as the first spider crawled onto her cheek. She looked down to see what tickled, and then she grinned.

How’s that for a story-question-raiser?

Voice

What the heck is “voice?” Here’s a definition adapted from a most excellent book, Self-editing for Fiction Writers: “it is the way sentences read as prose.” I would add this: how they sound in your head.

In fiction, there are two basic voices: that of the author, and that of a character. In this book, the voice you read/hear is mine. I can cut loose and do what I want, unrestricted by theme or venue or a character. I’m the character.

In fiction written from the omniscient point of view, the voice is the author’s. When well done, as with authors such as John Irving, an author’s voice can succeed in engaging the reader. Here’s the opening from Irving’s The Fourth Hand:

Imagine a young man on his way to a less-than-thirty-second event—the loss of his left hand, long before he reached middle age.

As a schoolboy, he was a promising student, a fair-minded and likable kid, without being terribly original. Those classmates who could remember the future hand recipient from his elementary-school days would never have described him as daring. Later, in high school, his success with girls notwithstanding, he was rarely a bold boy, certainly not a reckless one. While he was irrefutably good-looking, what his former girlfriends would recall as most appealing about him was that he deferred to them.

The other voices you hear in fiction are those of the characters. For my money, that includes description of action and setting within a particular character’s narrative. Everything should evoke a sense of character. In a close third-person point of view, I think the author should suppress his own voice and bring out that of the character. I frequently see instances where a narrative that’s supposed to be that of a child is robbed of authenticity by word choices in the descriptive elements that are clearly adult in nature.

To exemplify, here’s how the narratives of three very different characters describe the same incident, falling off a bicycle:

A five-year-old boy:

The front wheel hit a rock and he hit the ground hard. He skinned his knee and it bled a lot. His mom was gonna be mad about the rip in his pants.

A teenage boy:

The front wheel banged into a big freakin’ rock and the handlebars ripped out of his hands. He flew off the bike and crashed. The pavement trashed his jeans and skinned his knee, which bled like a stuck pig. It hurt like hell, and Jenny wasn’t going to want to go to the movie with him looking like this.

A middle-aged college professor:

The front wheel struck a large rock and the handlebars twisted from his grasp. He plunged over the falling bicycle and slammed into the asphalt road. Like sandpaper, the black, gritty surface tore open his jeans and scraped skin from his kneecap. It bled furiously and he cursed the rock, hoping he hadn’t fractured the knee.

I’ve read that a number of agents profess that voice is the thing they respond to most in a submission. Literary agent Andrea Somberg says this:

Every manuscript I take on is distinctive in its own right, but each of them has one thing in common: an engaging narrative voice. By this I mean a writing style that pulls me in and makes me feel like I’m a part of the story and the characters’ lives.

Voice is the one thing that can suck you into a story even without initial tension and story questions (though those requirements cannot be avoided for long).

Perhaps it’s easier to think about what voice does rather than what it is. Here are some characteristics of a voice that will lead a reader on:

• Freshness. It “sounds” fresh in the reader’s mind. The language is not mundane, but flavored. The ideas evoked are out of the ordinary. The way things are put is uncommon. Words that create a distinct sense of “personality” is another way to think of this aspect of voice.
• Confidence. A strong voice immediately says to a reader, “You can trust me. I know a terrific story, and you can relax and enjoy because I know how to tell it so well that it becomes an experience in your mind.” John Irving’s voice has that confidence.
• Lucidity. A clear voice that slips scenes and sights and sounds easily into your mind, with no struggle to comprehend or follow, can sweep you swiftly into the current of a story.
  

By the way, as an editor, I work hard to respect and preserve a writer’s voice. It would be too easy to rewrite so that it “sounds” better to me. As a result, you may see examples in this book where you don’t care for the voice all that much. Me neither, but the writer has to have a chance to try it out.

Clarity

Maybe the need for this story element on your first page seems obvious, but it can be harder to achieve than you think. Take this opening sentence from one of my workshoppers:

Mark Johnson’s daughter had disappeared, and that was all that mattered to him.

What could have been an intriguing opening was, for me, diminished by what it fails to make clear: What is the relationship between the missing girl and the point-of-view character, the “him?” Is she Mark Johnson’s daughter? Because the pronoun “him” in first sentence is unclear as to whom it refers, the disappearing daughter could be an as-yet-unnamed protagonist’s, that of a friend, or boss, or a crime victim. Yes, we know that the girl matters to “him,” and we might assume that she’s his daughter, but it isn’t clear.

Even if you simply reverse the positions of the pronoun and the name, it works better for me.

His daughter had disappeared, and that was all that mattered to Mark Johnson.

Here’s another example; this description is from the point of view of someone inside an airplane.

In the distance, the ice-capped peaks of the Rockies rose intermittently among the clouds. Far above the peaks, the roar of the airplane pierced the shrieking winds of the atmosphere.

The dissonance here, for me, was that in the first sentence the peaks are in the distance and in the second, the airplane is above them. Isn’t the following more clear?

The ice-capped peaks of the Rockies rose intermittently among the clouds. High above them, the roar of the airplane pierced the shrieking winds of the atmosphere.

Scene-setting

One of the most damaging flaws I see in manuscripts is failure to set the scene effectively—or at all. Some are more like radio scripts than novels. Others are simply underdone, probably because the writer puts down a sparse description that evokes the whole picture in his mind but fails to get it in on paper.

Why is that a problem? Primarily because, although readers bring their imaginations to your novel and willingly take part in fleshing out the vision, they need to experience characters and action in context. It helps a reader to slip into the shoes of a character if she knows whether the shoes are walking along a snow-covered sidewalk or wading a stream. I’ll illustrate. First, a snippet of dialogue.

Roger said, “Don’t you think that’s a bit skimpy?”

Maggie twirled. “You don’t like it?”

Context can give meaning. I’ll put these players into two different contexts to show how the meaning of their dialogue is affected.

Roger opened the dressing room door and found Maggie admiring herself in a full-length mirror. He stepped inside and shut the door on the caterwauling of the woman currently on stage. Even though Maggie was the next to perform, she didn’t seem nervous at all. Roger said, “Don’t you think that’s a bit skimpy?”

Maggie twirled. “You don’t like it?”

Okay, same dialogue, different context.

The window rattled with the impact of the Arctic Express that had struck the city that morning. Roger pulled on his parka and then scraped frost off the glass to peer into the swirling snow outside. He turned to find Maggie waiting at the front door. Roger said, “Don’t you think that’s a bit skimpy?”

Maggie twirled. “You don’t like it?”

We don’t yet know what Maggie is wearing, but we do know that in the first situation Roger doesn’t think she should go out in front of an audience with that little on. In this context, the subtext is that Roger is possessive and jealous, and his concern is about losing Maggie because she’s so attractive to others.

In the second example, he doesn’t think she’s sufficiently protected against a dangerous storm. The context leads us to think of Roger as a caring man who is concerned about Maggie’s well-being.

In each case, where the scene is set, and how the environment in which these characters act impacts them, give context to the character’s actions and words. Context can effortlessly give the reader an understanding—even better, a feeling—for what’s happening. And in these examples, context tells us that that conflict is just about to blossom. Ahhh, tension.

Please, set the scene early on, within the context of action, so that when you get to who the reader knows what and where.

Character

While plot is a tool to engage and entertain a reader, it is character that makes them come to care about what happens, and it is character that invests meaning into what happens. Take every chance you have to add to the characterization of your protagonist—or antagonist—to more deeply engage your reader. And that requires action.

You know the old saw, “Do as I say, not as I do.” The truth in this cliché is that character derives from action, not words. If a politician says he wants an honorable campaign that focuses on issues, but his campaign spews slur after slur at his opponent, then which is the true reflection of the politician’s character?

Words can lie. Fiction sometimes uses the literary device of an “unreliable narrator” in which the credibility of the teller of the story is compromised. The character of an unreliable narrator comes from both what he does and the contrast with what he says. Behavior (action) is character.

More than that, the events of a story—plot—should spring from character, not simply be things that happen to him. It is what a character decides to do that should create events. For a simple example, let’s consider a boy on his first day at a new school.

Ron strolled past the gym at recess. It was his first day in seventh grade, and he didn’t know anyone at this school. He hated moving.

But there had been a nice moment in English class. The teacher had just started when a girl rushed in right after the bell. She looked for a place to sit, but all the desks were taken.

He didn’t know why, but he had stood, picked up his books, and gestured her to his seat.

The smile she had given him—and she was a very pretty girl—had just about wiped out what the teacher had said for the rest of the class.

A deep voice came from his left. “Hey, goody two-shoes.”

Three boys lounged on a porch at the side of the gym. The big one looked like a man. He even had a mustache. That one said, “Why’d you give Carol your seat?” The “goody two-shoes” had come from him.

Ron shrugged.

The big kid swaggered over to Ron and scowled down. “We don’t do that chickenshit stuff here.”

Ron had to look up; God, the boy was big. Fighting words. Coming from a monster.

Ron’s first choice of action, in the classroom, revealed a facet of character, and has led to conflict with a really big, nasty guy. Ron’s next action will reveal character at a deep level. If he keeps his mouth shut, or maybe even runs, he’s a coward. In this case, here’s what Ron did:

Ron gazed straight into the boy/man’s eyes and said, “Well, where I come from, it’s what a gentleman does.” Then he had to look away. He stepped around the big guy and walked, every muscle in his back tensed.

The 7th vital element: craft

When you’re submitting your novel to an agent or an editor, there’s one other element you absolutely must have: professional-level craft. Their minds are honed to sharply critical instruments that are on the lookout for soft spots in your narrative, and every little glitch or weakness counts against you.

After reading hundreds of submissions to my editing service and blog, I’ve come to react very quickly to signs of less-than-professional writing craft, and they are a major turn-off. Things that LEAP out at me:

• Overuse of adverbs and adjectives
• Weak verbs
• Comma faults (usually missing commas)
  

In addition to the six elements I’ve talked about, you need to have:

• Correct grammar and spelling—if you’re not good at this, pay a copy editor to go through your manuscript
• Crisp, tight, lean writing
• No clichés
  

The professional audience you’ll face is the reason that this book not only coaches you on story, but on craft as well.

For what it’s worth

RR

© 2010 Ray Rhamey

Comments

[Jamie]

Great advice -- thank you. I'm a recovering adverb-a-holic and need the reminder to keep excising.

[Jami Gold]

Great advice! I've been an a scene-setting kick on my blog and think your examples are great for illustrating how to make descriptions work for you.

[Kelley]

Is it ever acceptable to use a cliche? What if it's a thought in a character's head (i.e. a character who isn't very "deep")? What about in dialogue?

[Greg]

Good question, Kelley; one that also crossed my mind. I recently used the line (in dialogue), “Do you have eyes in the back of your head?” on a first page. As soon as I wrote it I thought, someone is going to object. Yet, in the context of the conversation, it strikes me as a perfectly natural --- even expected --- response.

If one is attempting to write natural, free-flowing (read: believable) dialogue, going out of your way to avoid clichés, idioms, and figures of speech often seems to result in stilted, unnatural conversation which, personally, I find annoying.

[Ray Rhamey]

Kelley, cliches can serve two valuable purposes in fiction. One is where a character uses a cliche, which is perfectly acceptable, and it could even characterize him/her in some way.

The other is when you're writing a first draft and a cliched description or phrase is used. Use it as a placeholder. When you go through to rewrite and polish, 'translate' the cliche into something fresh that delivers the same condensed information.

[Greg]

Thanks, Ray. That helps a lot. Clears things up.

[Darcy]

Enormously helpful explanations of writing terms I hear often, but am not totally clear on. Thanks, Ray. This sample is why I'm going to buy the book. :)