Number 21 — February 18, 2005
To Create A Story — Part 1

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Those of you playing by my rules have produced a story through freewriting. In so doing, you wrote you know. Now, we move on to a more important rule; write what you can imagine. In the next few articles, I will explain my technique for bridging between the two.
     Suppose my freewriting has produced the story of Jack and Jill, an illogical tale making no sense. Why did they go up the hill to fetch water? Everybody knows—surely Jack did too—water flows downhill. So why didn't they go to the river to fetch water? We don't know, which is to say in my freewriting I omitted the reason they looked for water in the first place. So story creation starts by defining the problem. I must first decide what will be at stake in this story, which brings my imagination into play.
     Is it possible they went up the hill because there's no water in the river? How could that be? Maybe there's a drought. That thought spawns several ideas. First, the location. This story must take place in an area where normal rainfall is low. The western slope in Colorado, for instance; an area that experiences annual rainfall of seven to nine inches. I could choose any arid region. Wherever it is, suppose I set the rainfall at less than one inch for five consecutive years? To make the conditions more severe, I might say global warming decreases the mountain snow pack and minimizes spring runoff. The reservoirs are low; the rivers run dry. Now, we may surmise that Jack and Jill are being good citizens who go up the hill in the hopes they may find a spring. Looking back at my original freewriting, I know they will fall down and hurt themselves. Let's leave that idea for the moment; we'll pick it up later. Meanwhile, I'll attack the drought problem through characterization.
     You will recall the protagonist is the character whose role is to solve the story problem. During a drought, who would have a serious problem? My first thought is a rancher; Farmer Brown, for instance. He has a 3,000 acre spread, 5,000 steers and no water. Without water, his crops fail, so he has to import both feed and water at enormous cost. Brown has a huge problem he must solve, or lose everything. I'll make him the protagonist. Everything he's worked for all his life is at stake, not the least of which is the welfare of his family.
     What will it take for Brown to solve the problem? Money! His choices are to drill wells, build pipelines, or give up in despair. To compound his problem, he doesn't have much time. The first year of the drought, the water holes drop twenty-five percent, but he thinks it will be different next year and doesn't take action. The second year, he imports water. The third year, his capital is inadequate to meet the expense. He must borrow money. Suddenly, my imagination produces an antagonist. Who is it? Why Malicious Melvin, of course, the town banker who holds a large mortgage on Brown's property. Up pops another complication for Brown; he's out of collateral to secure more loans. He can't sell; nobody buys arid land and parched animals? That seems like a pretty good start piling problems on poor old Brown.
     Note what's happened. Introducing the first character to populate my story automatically lead to a second character. It is an impossibility to place characters in a story and not think about more characters and their circumstances.

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Number 22 — February 25, 2005
To Create A Story — Part 2

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Last week, I set up Brown as the protagonist in my Jack and Jill story. I gave him a bunch of problems to solve. I identified the antagonist as Malicious Melvin, the town banker. You will also remember from an earlier article—Number 10—the role of the antagonist is to oppose the protagonist in every way. I must give him a well-founded reason for his actions.
     I suggest the usual banker's philosophy of lending his umbrella when the sun shines and wanting it back when the storm clouds appear is a weak story justification, at best. After all, foreclosure will not do Melvin any good. His takeover of arid land and dead steers simply transfers the problem from Brown to Melvin. So I need a compelling motivation for Melvin to refuse to increase Brown's line of credit. Why does he tell Brown the decreasing value of the land and the dying herd justifies his denial? I must invent the reason.
     Could Melvin know something about Brown's property nobody else knows? Suppose he has reason to believe an oil field underlies the property. This thought immediately dates the story—and also probably negates any thoughts of using global warming as a possible cause of the drought. The story might best be set about the time of, or just preceding, the discovery of the Texas oil fields before wildcatters came on the scene. I don't know when that was, but it's an easy research problem. A further result of this idea is to introduce another character. Somebody has to reveal the secret to Melvin, who, as a greedy miser, immediately sees the value in foreclosing. Intrigue enters because Melvin must not allow the information to become public knowledge.
     As I create characters, not only does the story line begin to appear, but I also produce ideas of character attributes. I see Brown as a hardworking, second or third generation rancher; likable, honest, weather-beaten. Melvin is a deceiver who displays a good-friend persona; respected in the community, Rotary member, church elder, wealthy, and as sneaky and deceitful as they come. The guy who drops the hint about the possibility of oil is a young aviator touring the country in an early barnstorming aircraft. He comes to town to speak at the Rotary Club where Melvin heads the program committee. His topic is aircraft. When Melvin meets him at the airport on the morning of his speech, the young man mentions the odd formation of the land. This sparks Melvin's interest who researches and discovers the oil possibility.
     The young aviator is always broke, buying fuel and repairs, but he's not a crook. He's happy to accept a few hundred dollars from Melvin to keep his mouth shut about oil underlying Brown's ranch. It doesn't make any difference to the aviator, he's leaving town anyway. The flyer is a minor character whose sole purpose is to cause the Antagonist to covet the land. After the set-up when Melvin learns about the oil, I'll probably dispose of the aviator in one sentence.
     "Melvin drove Jimmy to the airport, gave him two hundred dollars and warned him never to come back."
     It is important to record your story ideas as you create them. Each new character comes with new ideas some of which will cause changes to the principal role players. For instance, maybe the aviator could reappear later with a guilty conscience; he drops the clue that exposes Melvin. Always keep your options open.

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Number 23 — March 4, 2005
To Create A Story — Part 3

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In Articles 9 through 17, I offered extensive comments about the Main and Obstacle characters, including a discussion of subjectivity. This article, while reiterating some of the same information, considers these two important characters from the slightly different angle of narrator.
     The next question in planning my Jack and Jill story is: Who will tell the story? I have several choices based on the following general rule: A reader must experience the story through a lead character.
     Notice I did not say the reader must experience the story through the character who faces the problem—the protagonist. That is one choice, but not the only one. The antagonist is an equally workable choice, but is less often selected by authors. Selecting either as storyteller reduces the other story characters to victims of, or accessories to, the story problem, in which case they will not likely receive in-depth analysis because the author concentrates on the battle between the principals. This is often the case in crime stories. I call this technique one-dimensional. That is not to say it is wrong; it is simply narrow.
     To broaden the story, consider the community where the characters live. The story problem effects all of them. Is one character more suited to the role of storyteller than any other? If so, the one to designate will be the Main Character and his opponent will be the Obstacle Character.
     Here is a reminder of the definitions:

1. The Main Character is the central figure through whose eyes readers experience the story.
2. The Obstacle Character forces the Main Character to evaluate his or her beliefs, to face personal problems and to reconsider objectives.

     When either the Protagonist or the Antagonist fills the role of storyteller, they automatically have dual roles. This means as well as their base roles, they also fulfill the Main and Obstacle character roles, too. As individuals, they cannot be simultaneously objective and subjective. Going back to the story of the consultant and the welder discussed in Article 11, the consultant cannot objectively solve the company (story) problem and subjectively feel the impact of his decisions on the welder.
     In the Jack and Jill story, I set up a drought as the story problem, which means everybody in the community suffers; each has a concern about the problem. All of them hope it will end. Some will behave passively and some actively. When I select one of them to tell the story of the community drought, that character becomes the Main Character. I choose Jack; an arbitrary selection ungoverned by any rule. I picture him as a high school senior.
     The first obvious choice of Obstacle Character is Jill. But I thought I may be able to strengthen the story if Jack and Jill were not opponents. (This decision actually came about after extensive consideration of all the character roles.) Somehow, the image created in my mind by them going up the hill together precluded thinking of them as anything except sweethearts. Therefore, I discarded Jill as Obstacle Character and selected somebody else. My choice was Joe, another local teenager, probably a classmate of Jack.

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Number 24 — March 11 2005
To Create A Story — Part 4

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I intend to have at least ten characters in my story, each with a name, a role to fill and four character attributes. I placed Jack in the role of Main Character because I intend readers to see the story through his eyes. He is a local teenager, high school senior, clever, with a swaggering manner and his flaw is a tendency to be irresponsible. He dreams of attending university and a professional career. He has a summer job on Brown's drought-stricken ranch.
     Joe, the Obstacle Character, a schoolmate of Jack's; likes flashy cars, uses drugs (or smokes and drinks), and dreams of being a big shot making easy money in sharp or illegal businesses like prostitution and gambling.
     Here's Jack:

     Here's Joe:

     In the following discussion, by way of example, instead of using Dramatica’s standard names for archetypal characters, I have substituted my own role names.
     Next, I need somebody I’ll dub Pro-second (Protagonist’s second, to use boxing terminology) on the Protagonist’s (Farmer Brown) side. I select the mayor whose concerns about the drought involve not only Farmer Brown, but the welfare of the entire community.
     To balance the mayor, I need a character I’ll call Ant-second who will be the antagonist’s (Malicious Melvin) cohort. The sheriff will play this role; a mean and nasty guy who is a double-dealer, portraying himself as everybody’s friend, but who is secretly in cahoots with Melvin.
     Moving on, I come to Love-interest 1 and Love-interest 2. Jill is number one. She is a studious plain-Jane with straight auburn hair in grade school who blossoms into a handsome woman as she matures. She has been in love with Jack since childhood. Mabel is number two; a curvaceous, curly haired, blond, blue-eyed beauty. She works for Brown as a milkmaid. The conflict between Jill and Mabel arises because they are both in love with Jack. In this case, I made the characters physically and psychologically different, but they have the same goal that results in them opposing each other.
     I come to a protagonist supporter and an antagonist supporter. The former is a preacher; an activist who does more than pray for rain. He howls about the mayor’s dilly-dallying, demanding fund-raising action to build a pipeline from the next county. Note that while he is a supporter of the protagonist—wants the drought problem solved—he directs his efforts against the mayor, another protagonist supporter. By extension, his attitude towards the antagonist is fervent because Melvin has the political connections to fund a new waterline. In this manner, I give my characters multiple motivations.
     Jill's widowed mother is a character unintentionally on the Antagonist's side. She frets and fusses about everything, especially her daughter's reticence. She sees moving away as the only recourse, but she can't do it for financial reasons. She fusses with everybody about everything. She'll be a comic character who discovers the link to the oil by accident, but she doesn't recognize its significance. By holding her tongue, she helps the Antagonist. When she finally tells her daughter about her discovery, Jill relays it to Jack and the game is over for Melvin. Jack recognizes Jill's competence and we have a happy ending, or he fails to and we have a tragic outcome.
     Note that I have created seven supporting characters—in addition to the aviator—making a total of twelve all together. Should this become a full-length novel, the likelihood is I'll have even more characters.
     The number of characters to create depends on the length of the story. In a short story—up to about 2,500 words—two or three are enough, four is maximum. In a novella—10,000 words—perhaps six would do. In longer works, the author has more space to develop the relationships and can include more characters. Having identified the characters I propose to include, then I develop each character's attributes and put them in a table like the ones shown previously for Jack and Joe.
     Note how story ideas continue to evolve simply through imaging characters who might fit into to the tale. As I conjecture on their relationships, I automatically think about the conflicts that will develop in their struggle to solve the story problem. With some idea of the characters interaction, I can now begin to think about story events, turning points and signposts. This is the beginning of creating story structure.

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Number 25 — March 18, 2005
To Create A Story — Part 5

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The next task is creating story events. This is the test to determine when to begin writing your story. Creating story events does not involve tricks other than letting your imagination run free. When you get the hang of it, you'll think of many more events than you will ever use. Begin with simple ones like these:

• Jack worries about the seriousness of the drought. Joe sees it as an opportunity to buy water out-of-state and sell it at extreme prices.
• Joe gets a job at the bank and becomes Melvin's foot soldier, working to destroy Brown and concealing his affiliation from Jack.
• Jack has a personal conflict. Joe entices him, against his better judgment, to be one of the gang, hip, on the scene, with it. Jack's true nature will challenge Joe's ethics, making him appreciate his own morality.

     Let your imagination soar. What happens in the event of an earthquake; a forest fire; civil war; a terrorist attack; a fire on Brown's property; a bank robbery? Continue generating ideas until the search reveals a crucial event that excites you. If you fail to find it, set the story aside and let it mature. Sometimes it takes months, but whatever else you do, don't throw anything away. What is not used this year may prove invaluable next year.
     What does a crucial event look like? Returning to Jack and Jill, here is my idea of a possible scenario.
     Mabel lures Jack into an evening stroll up the mountain to a popular promontory overlooking the valley. They linger too long in the moonlight before starting back to town; a love scene could be one reason. Mabel falls in the dark and breaks her ankle. Jack goes for help. Alone on the mountain, Mabel's fears grow; she goes in and out of consciousness suffering from shock. She feels a hot breath on her face; an animal of some sort. A snake crawls over her. Rain comes. She drags herself into a cave for protection. The effort is too much; she passes out. When Jack returns with rescuers, they can't find her, resulting in panic. Mabel awakes in the hospital where she remembers the experience as a dream in which she hears water running. Jack returns to the mountain to explore the cave—another chance for an exciting event—and discovers an underground river.
     Jill, jealous of Mabel's affair with Jack, swallows her pride and becomes more aggressive in her pursuit. She volunteers to go with Jack up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Gosh! Maybe that's the title of the story.
     Jill learns about the oil from her goofy mother. She convinces Jack to expose Joe, Melvin and the sheriff trying to foreclose for their own unscrupulous benefit. He takes the information to Farmer Brown who hires drillers and finds the oil. Jack studies petroleum engineering, marries Jill and becomes wealthy, while old Farmer Brown leaves a huge legacy to the town; a water system that relieves the drought problem forever.
     "Whoopee! it'll fly." Why do I think so? Because I feel the excitement and tension of the crucial event. It is within the realm of my writing capability; the destination of my story trip. Would you go on a trip without first knowing your destination? Never mind getting there, you wouldn't even know whether to turn left or right coming out of your driveway if you didn't know where you were going.
     Story creation is akin to looking through a slow dissipating fog until the object of the search—the crucial event—comes into view. Now that I know my destination, from the beginning of the story each successive scene will be an increasing suspenseful prelude to that single pre-climactic event. I'm ready to begin writing.
     Note the word pre-climatic in the previous sentence and recognize in my system, the crucial event is not the climax. I treat it as a prelude to the climax; the moment when the main character (or protagonist) sees a way to solve the problem. The climax is the next scene; the direct confrontation between the adversaries, resulting in the story resolution.
     The term crucial event described above is my own terminology. I am not aware of any instructor who uses the term in the same sense I do.

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Number 26 — March 25, 2005
Rambling and Defining Creative Writing

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Well, here we are starting a new topic. This is a moment to reflect on where we've been and where we're going. I started this series six months ago without any preconceived notion of my destination, an admission you now know I consider sinful. I floundered around a bit at the beginning, looking for direction, made a few false starts and eventually discovered my purpose and target. Meanwhile, my creative writing workshops at public libraries continued until November when I usually quit because I don't like winter travel. Next April 16, however, I'm back on the road with a session at the newly renovated library in Webb City, Missouri. I have sifted and strained everything I've written in this series and worked the results into my lectures. So, it's been a great learning experience for me, as I hope it has for you.
     Once started into the Jack and Jill story, I zeroed in on goals and obstacles, encouraging writers to think through their story to find the destination first before starting to write. Okay; so that's where we've been. Now, where are we going?
     Over the course of the coming weeks, we're going to explore techniques of writing I believe merit more study than given them. I'll start with a few definitions, then I'll verge into the four writing formats and eventually arrive at the fundamental formula that permeates all good writing. Some time in the distant future, I'll end with a look at editing and revising.
     I have one more thought that comes from watching people who signup for my lectures, but soon drop out. I assume this means I have failed them. They believed I would wave my magic wand and they would know how to write the best-seller that's been rumbling around in their minds for years. At a recent class, a women told me she had hundreds of story ideas, but when she put them on paper, they came out all wrong.
     "Yes, I know," I said, "that's what happens to me, too."
     In our society, few people have acuity and spontaneity with words. This is because of our bad speech patterns and poor reading habits. We don't use words well when we speak and when we stumble over new or unusual words in our reading, we do not stop to learn the word; what does it mean? How is it used? Thus, we don't expand our vocabulary, which means we don't write easily or well because our word use stays mired down at its present level. If that is your problem, no writing instructor can help you; you have to help yourself. There is no other way.
     I promised a new start and here I've digressed from my job. So, I'll give you something to think about; my definition of creative writing:

     Articulating words that create mental Images.

     Think about it; I'll comment on it next week.

     One more challenge to help you pass your idle hours this week; study the following sentence and answer the questions after it.

     The sunlight through the stained glass windows revealed motes of dust rising heavenward as if uplifted by the aroma of burning incense.

1. Where am I?
2. What is the weather outside?
3. What is or has been going on inside?

     Now, figure out what characteristics of the sentence led to your answers.

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Number 27 — April 1, 2005
Introducing Four Writing Formats

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Comments on defining creative writing. First, a reminder of my definition:

Articulating words that create mental Images.

     The word articulating has two meanings: a condition of uniting parts—in this case words—and to give voice to something. I suggested the following sentence to show how I create mental Images.

The sunlight through the stained glass windows revealed motes of dust rising heavenward as if uplifted by the aroma of burning incense.

     Here are the answers to the questions I posed.

1. Where am I? In a church or cathedral.
2. What is the weather outside? It's a sunny day.
3. What is or has been going on inside? A religious ritual, current or recent.

     The sentence does not state where I am, does not mention weather, and does not identify any activity, but everyone answers the questions with similar responses.
     Why do these particular words create a common mental image? The answer is because they reference human senses we use every day. In our imagination, we see the motes of dust in the sunbeams and we smell the aroma of the incense. In real life, we always react to our senses in every environment. To drive home the mental image of bringing the reader into the church or cathedral, I selected words with a religious flavor: specifically rising heavenward and uplifted. I wanted the reader to sense the mental image. That is the objective of creative writing.
     One mistake made by many writers is not having the characters use their senses. You may remember, I gave an example from my own writing in Article 3. If you haven't looked at it for a while, it might be a good idea to refresh your understanding by reading through that article again.
     Royce, walking through Taipei, used the human senses of sight, smell and hearing to describe his experience. Make your characters act as humans act.
     Creating Images in writing is important. Imagine your story bounded by frames like comic book panels, then describe everything in those frames for the benefit of the blind listening to an audiotape. The author has four writing formats to perform this task.

1. Authorial comment;
2. Internalization;
3. Action;
4. Dialogue.

     Authorial Comment exposes facts. This means description of the surroundings, or details the reader may need to visual the story. In the preceding paragraph, before I could write about Royce meeting a witness by the river who will later testify against him, I had to get him from his hotel to the river. Having never been to Taipei, I downloaded a map and some pictures from the Internet. This information allowed me to describe Royce's walk through the marketplace. Here are the questions I asked myself:

What would he see? What would he smell? What would he hear? What would he taste? What would he feel?

     The first three questions satisfied my needs. I thought he might stop to buy and eat betel nuts, but I didn't know the taste let alone how to describe them. Seeing, smelling and hearing were enough; I chose to omit the last two.
     Authorial comments usually lack conflict. Since we want to maximize conflict, we should minimize comments. When we do write them, we must create Images for the benefit of our blind friend.
     I will have more to say about authorial comment when I come to dialogue.

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Number 28 — April 8, 2005
Internalization

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Creative writing enjoys a unique feature not shared by any other arts medium; the ability to know a character's thoughts called internalization and referred to as "going inside a character's head."
     In using this technique, the author needs to be aware of which character will do the thinking. Consider the following scene populated by Harry and Suzanne. He is the narrator. [Parenthetic comments refer to the text they precede.]

     [Action begins.] On the Saturday following New Year celebrations of 1922, Suzanne and I went to her office after lunch. I recalled [A memory occurs inside Harry's mind.] Aristide Bruant's bold intrusion into her life, a moment that would live in my memory for years. [Action resumes.] We stopped before the closed door to her office [Harry thinks again] where Aristide stepped across the threshold of destiny into her world of wealth. [Action resumes] Holding hands, we admired the gold leaf letters on the new door.
     "Beautiful, isn't it?"
     "Gorgeous," I replied, [Harry thinks again] curious about the cost.

     [Action again] She unlocked the door and the fragrance of a florist's shop assailed my nose. [Harry thinks again] The sole purpose of our meeting could not be to admire the office décor.

     All the underlined statements are Harry's thoughts of which Suzanne has no knowledge. Harry knows, the reader knows, but she doesn't. Now, consider what might be going on inside her mind. She is trying to impress him. Let's give her a few thoughts.

1. I hope he likes the décor.
2. I hope the flowers haven't lost their fragrance.
3. Maybe he won't like the decor.

     Now, try to rewrite the skit to include Suzanne's thoughts without changing the action lines, or Harry's thoughts. It's impossible without creating confusion. So, we come to the I-character. Before you begin to write a scene, ask yourself, who is the I-character. After making your selection, that character is the only one in the scene who internalizes, even if you write in the third person. Here is the same scene in third person, with Harry as the I-character and one of Suzanne's thoughts inserted.

     On the Saturday following New Year celebrations of 1922, Suzanne and Harry went to her office after lunch. He recalled Aristide Bruant's bold intrusion into her life, a moment that would live in his memory for years. They stopped before the closed door to her office where Aristide stepped across the threshold of destiny into her world of wealth. Holding hands, they admired the gold leaf letters on the new door.
     "Beautiful, isn't it?"
     "Gorgeous," he replied, curious about the cost.
     She unlocked the door and the fragrance of a florist's shop assailed his nose. I hope he likes the décor. The sole purpose of their meeting could not be to admire the office décor.

     Suzanne's thought (underlined) is out of context because the narrator (I-character), Harry, cannot know what is going on inside her head. Therefore, the statement of Suzanne's thought is the author inserting a comment, shifting from showing to telling. This is the omniscient point of view, which allows the author to enter any character's head at any time for any purpose; in my view, an old style of writing, pretty much out of fashion these days.
     How to change? Restrict your internalization to the point-of-view character (i.e. I-character); make all the others say their thoughts aloud. In the example, make the following change:

     She unlocked the door and the fragrance of a florist's shop assailed his nose.
     "Do you like the décor?"

     Now he knows what she's thinking.

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Number 29 — April 15, 2005
Writing Dialogue

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Dialogue may be the most difficult part of writing for several reasons that can be ascertained by listening to any group engaged in a free-flowing exchange. The first particularity to note is every one of the participants speaks differently. That fact alone creates problems when translating the conversation to paper. To compound the problem, they speak with varying degrees of grammatical accuracy. Regional dialects enter the equation, as do education levels, age, gender, and a host of other individualistic qualities. The most difficult characteristic of dialogue to capture occurs in heated discussions when the participants are so anxious to present their own arguments, they do not hear the statements of others. So what is the author to do?
     Usually, authors compose dialogue in accord with their own idiosyncrasy. As an English speaking Canadian raised by parents with college educations, most characters in my stories will speak like English speaking Canadians raised by parents with college educations. Alas, my foreign-born characters have much the same pattern. Whether Irish from Dublin's slums, or Hindus from Pakistan, they build sentences with Canadian overtones sprinkled with a few punctuation gimmicks inserted to simulate dialect, and use double negatives, or other spelling aberrations intended to suggest dialect, most of which fail.
     In Mark Twain's era, writers commonly used dialect, some to the point where reading became a guessing game. That has largely fallen out of favor in modern writing. Most editors dislike deliberate misspellings in dialogue, I suppose because few writers can do justice to the technique with any degree of skill. Well, if we are not to imply dialect by spelling distortions, what do we do?
     The answer is to write naturally, using authorial comments to show the character class level and educational status, which means place the emphasis on character action though mannerisms and gestures. We have all seen enough movies of ranch hand diners as opposed to royal dinner parties to know the difference. In my view, it is acceptable to play with syntax and punctuation up to the point of not deliberately misspelling or omitting letters with the one exception of slang. For instance, the word ain't has reached such everyday use, it has entered the language as a common word defined in most college dictionaries.
     Apart from word use, design of dialogue is important. Ask yourself, "Why are these people having this conversation?" In real life, people talk to be respectful, polite, to pass the time, or various other reasons without any consideration as to why. In writing, the author should always use dialogue for a purpose. The purposes can be many and varied.
     Here are some rules to keep in mind.

COMPARE: "I ain't giving you no share, Buster," and "I'm sorry, sir, but you are not entitled to a share." Two different, easily identifiable, character types in widely different circumstances, but both in the same situation; sharing bribery money, for instance.

RULE: Make the words and sentence structure suit the character image.

COMPARE: "I came here on the train last Tuesday," and "I arrived by train on Tuesday."

RULE: Use the fewest words possible when writing dialogue.

COMPARE: "Boy, it's some hot out," and; He mopped his brow with a red bandanna, squinted at the sun and spat. "Some hot, huh?"

RULE: Augment dialogue with authorial comment to show action that often leads to shortened dialogue.

CONSIDER: When writing dialogue, apply the basic writing formula:

1. Which character has a goal and how will the goal be shown?
2. Which character puts up the obstacle and how will it be shown?
3. How much conflict will be presented in the dialogue?
4. How much action must be interspersed with the dialogue for good imagery?
5. How and when will the conflict be resolved?

RULE: Always know the reason or intent of the words you write.

     GOLDEN RULE: Do not write words just to fill space; always write for a purpose and take the time to select words suitable to the occasion, the character, the conflict, and the image you are trying to instill in the readers' minds.

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Number 30 — April 22, 2005
The Writing Formula

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I continue my discussion of internalization from Article 28. I recommended writing a scene with only one point-of-view character and limiting internalization to that character. Now, I want to show how to do this using my basic writing formula.

GOAL opposed by OBSTACLE creates CONFLICT
that breeds ACTION and results in RESOLUTION.

     Here is an example of this formula at work. I condensed the following extract from a scene in my novel The Naked Jaybird.

     Royce eats breakfast with his boss in a Taipei hotel. The previous night, someone ransacked his room. He tries to discover what Mr. Stanley knows about the event.[GOAL] His boss evades the questions, [OBSTACLE] resulting in a verbal battle.[CONFLICT breeds ACTION] We pick up the scene partway through.

     [Stanley] "You don't seem to be able to put two and two together this morning. If a photograph of the Prime Minister of Canada appeared in a foreign newspaper inadvertently in the company of the wrong people, it could prove embarrassing."
     [Royce] "And who, may I ask, are the wrong people." [INTERNALIZATION begins] His bluff did not fool me. That couldn't possibly be the real reason for all this fussing. [GOAL] The only people on the aircraft were Chinese authorities and his employees. Did he fear his photograph [OBSTACLE] appearing in the company of Harold Young who had no qualms about derogatory public pronouncements of Stanley's involvement in transnational corporations? No other explanation made sense, but that seemed rather weak. As my mind thrashed with the problem, I realized he had not answered my question. Perhaps, if he thought me contrite, [RESOLUTION OF INTERNAL CONFLICT=DECISION] he might go on. I bowed my head and ate.

     This passage reveals an internal conflict in Royce's mind.

GOAL: What does he want?
     ANSWER: To find the real reason for all the fussing.
OBSTACLE: What is the obstacle to finding it?
     ANSWER: He guesses the photograph.
RESOLUTION: What is the resolution?
     ANSWER: He resolves his mental conflict by deciding to act contrite.

     During this exchange, goal and obstacle are at work. Together they create conflict that leads to action (a verbal battle in this case) and ends with resolution. This formula repeats endlessly in successful creative writing. As the scene continues, Royce baits his boss until Stanley blurts out a statement in anger that reveals his complicity and the scene ends.
     A resolution is not necessarily final or conclusive. It may be a stepping stone to the continuing action, or it may become the problem in a later scene.
     The important point in this technique is to note all the thinking relates to Royce, the point of view character. The reader becomes aware of Stanley's involvement through his actions, authorial comments and dialogue, but not through his thinking. I reserve internalization only for the point-of-view character; the person called the "I-character" in Article 28.

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