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Become a Manuscript Whisperer
You’ve seen those strange shows. Reality tv aimed at getting your pet/horse/strange Japanese youtube character to follow some unspoken direction. Creating a cohesive whole – otherwise known as story design – is a lot like getting some animal to animate in convincingly human terms.
‘Writing’ is ‘what I did on my summer vacation/personal fantasy on the train’ – but ‘Story Design’ is laying the bricks of a very rugged and methodical oven. It’s so unlike initial creative instincts to ‘just write’ – because it’s practically antimatter by comparison. It’s supposed to invisibly hold everything together, creating a speed and direction that seems like magic to the outside observer.
Writer’s Myth # 1:
Writers come up with a what-if and that becomes the premise of the story, right?
You’d think, but not from what I’ve seen. New writers get zapped with what-ifs meant to drive the dialog, but they usually end up being the arc of a specific scene, which will echo by and then be recorded. The larger story design has yet to materialize.
Which brings us to the tools of Manuscript Whispering…
Manuscript Whispering Step 1: The Notebook that Never Was
Keep the smallest moleskin possible on your body at all times. You are diabetic, and that notebook is the antidote. Be subtle if you need to, make it an address book, etc. but you need that notebook more than your laptop, keys or the litany of other usual suspects in distracting devices.
When some what-if story idea appears, one you really feel strongly would be a good story, write it down. You’ll know when it’s the right kind of thought bubble. It will demand your pen immediately. But before you set your pen down afterwards, write down whatever the characters would do or say in that situation in order to…
A. PHYSICALLY and EMOTIONALLY *GET* to that scene…
B. REACT after it happens… (and with who?)
You will naturally come to the end of the scene using these before/after prompts, and what’s more, you’re creating cohesive, self-contained units of story building blocks that don’t depend on you knowing the end of the entire story arc to constructively develop on their own.
Other uses for your Whisperings:
a. character names
b. ironically juxtaposed character profiles
c. titles and unusual little symbolisms
b. your theme/pitch/unique gimmick.
This is your primordial goo of evolving ideas. No one should see it but you. Moleskins come with convenient elastic straps for this purpose. You’ll be surprised how many people feel better once their loved ones have their votes reneged.
Manuscript Whispering Step 2: The Gimmick that’s Not
Give up on the idea that you would never use a ‘gimmick’ and understand your ideas will need to be looked at with a critical marketing perspective. Something unique or starkly differentiating your story from all the others like it – that is a gimmick. That’s all it is. You can have a pure art. Finding a playful way to make it worth reading to someone other than you is unavoidable. Also, it’s easier to agree with yourself on that gimmick from the beginning. Back-peddling on this is a bear.
Writer’s Myth #2
Pitch-writing is hard and takes a certain extroversion writers don’t have.
I will challenge you to a duel on this one. Writers are excellent communicators. Most writers who find they can’t pitch will discover the problem is with their ‘gimmick’ or uniquely differentiating idea. It’s not there. Ideas which are cliche are going to sound lame because they are. A little secret? Your gimmick is your story arc. They’re like mirror twins. Don’t look!
Manuscript Whispering Step 3: The Character in the Negative
A lot of a writer’s time is spent on defining what a character IS. This isn’t bad. But what if you read the blocks of story dialog you’ve collected over, say, a six month period, realize what kinds of characteristics are being projected in these discrete expressions of your growing story DNA, and then reversed them?
Balance in a story is what conflict is made – and resolved – from. If you have a lot of blocks that are red (heated dialog) – what is their common subject? If not a subject, a motivation. Once you’ve defined the similarities, next come up with characters to defy the one’s you’ve already created on these common themes. If you already have too many characters, as many detail-oriented writers tend to create, begin to consciously ’shadow’ the negative characteristic in another character. Likewise, a villain can only be so ‘bad’ before he or she is totally inaccessible, and therefore unrealistic, un-scary, and even worse, un-problematic. People cause us problems because we care about them. Dabbing similar shades of kindness and cruelty from your villains to your catalyst gatekeeper-types and vice-versa will give you the bridge conversations to ultimately net your story blocks together.
Even with the extraordinary adventures of every-day life, I’ve slowly built up an armory of these personal blocks. Writing software brags about them, but to DIY makes you a writer and gives you a chance to come up with the illusive, so-called “unique” idea that every writer is after.
You’ll dog-ear and number those blocks – it even helps to keep different color pens to separate them, or quickly color-code the mood or character of your off-hand writing in your notes. And in a about a week of on-the-side typing, you’ll have something you’ll actually like. It will stand on its own legs and look finished, even without the sheen of buffing and editing that will finally send it out of the plant.
Now does it sell? That’s a post for another weekend. But if you’re tired of manuscripts taking forever, and shouting the story out as a one-block continual narrative doesn’t work, try a little whispering.
Somewhere around your 30th complete analysis of what you’ve written, as compared to the dozen or so outlines you’ve drawn out while feeling reasonable, you hit that nice sweet point where it’s all in your head. Even the new stuff. Even the old stuff. Even the stuff you’ve dreamed about and woken up and forgotten about, and remembered in the shower days later. You find it was there all along in your best laid plans. You just didn’t listen, busy off exploring other possibilities.
Going back and finally adding the spackle is really the payoff all on its own. It’s one of those sweet desserts you pine for and fantasize about while you’re reading your brains out for inconsistencies, and tone or plot problems. It’s one of those things that’s so delectable, once you finally get to that point where you physically cannot help yourself, you turn into the fat kid who likes cake. I say that because this afternoon, lunch was fantastic. I sat, I typed, it was done. Story wobble now completely vanished. It’s like those OxyClean commercials. I just need that guy with the big hands and rat tail jumping up and down beside me going “Now only $49.99!! Fixes old drapes FAST!”
If you want to know how to get to that point, it comes down to one principle. Luckily it is an easy principle to obtain, though actually following it can be hard. You have to want it. You have to be the fat kid, and your story has to be that big fluffy cake that’s gleaming to your eye, laser protected under a field of infra-red spectrum alarm beams.
You have to be a crafty, undeniably determined little kid. Work your sneakers. Go for walks. Go for mental walks. Remember at every reading, even if you’ve got them memorized, that if you skip even two lines they’re dead boring. No matter what mood you were in when you wrote them, you have to let the rotten stuff go. They may in fact be the two lines at the top of the page that your perfect reader sees and remembers forever more as associated with what YOU try to con people into picking up at the bookstore.
Of course you’ve heard that advice. What’s new?
To give you a real-life shoestring method to actually keep your promise, try formatting. I know. It sounds like it won’t make a single difference in the world.
Still, it works.
Open Word. Give your chapters descriptive titles that encapsulate what happens. These descriptions should be a synopsis of what happens to you the writer. Don’t go for the mysterious, catchy one-liners you will use later to lure picky readers into the first chapter. For now just make them their own style.
If you’re a genuine new writer, you probably have MS Word. If you don’t that’s fine, but there are a few very useful tools (very few) that Word provides to help you along as your manuscript grows.
If you are indeed a writer, you know what I’m talking about here. The death by scrolling. No need.
Go to “Insert” -> “Indexes and Tables.”
Put a table at the front of your manuscript. Set the chapter title style. Insert act markers to note where the action is on the main arch. That’s your blueprint mnemonic device. Look at it each time you re-read your manuscript. You can use it to link to your chapter headers as well. Not exactly high tech, but a good start, as most people have word, or can get ahold of it at the library. A democratic approach to advice anyone can use. (If you’re on linux use the command line. You know you would much rather brag to your buddies that you wrote an entire ascii-art illuminated manuscript with your schwarz and a continuous stream of thought using metaphors entirely from XKCD. Anyway, back at that ranch.)
Next, open another blank document alongside your manuscript on the right-hand side. Stretch it out so that each document gets half the screen. Hide all other applications. No distractions. If your desk is messy, clear it off.
Second, you don’t need some expensive writing application. No, you don’t. You don’t because you haven’t trained yourself to use toys. No, writing toys. Stay with me.
If this simple idea on editing above is in any way news to you, you’re still at the stage of just learning to crate your construct. It’s the drywall and studs of your process. Find text pad. It’s the dippiest, no frills app on your system.
Why? A good reason, really.
This forces you to make notes in stream of consciousness reaction to what you’ve written, instead of trying to make it look or become in any way formal. If it looks like a mess, you can say what you like about your own work, which is the dearest skill you will ever have. Eventually printing “first drafts” gets anti-climactic, not to mention time-consuming.
To get you started on your self-musings, my first on a manuscript is a synopsis outline in the briefest possible terms outlining what my character is doing. Not in the second-by-second stenography, but in a larger sense. Character A goes to dinner with Character B. Jan slaps Stan. Steve realizes Lola is cheating on him with Mitch. etc.
These aren’t necessarily faithful renditions of every single event. They are purely mental markers to give you the overall shape of the chapter. Your brain begins to fill in the gaps as you become more familiar in the actual editing process. You’re just nailing up the drywall.
For the next full read, and this is the reason you’re using the most low-key tech possible, put on an old shirt and some jeans, grab a coffee and just read the thing, no faithful rendition of who does what. Since you’ve already read for comprehension, you know vaguely what needs to happen. That means you can now assign personal judgement to the situations you have created. Is it valid? Does it sound like these are characters you would bother to watch storm at each other across from you at dinner?
If you have never seen Mystery Science Theater, go to RiffTrax.com and shell out the measly $3 on your most beloved movie, you most hated movie, and any movie that was ever possibly an inspiration to what you are doing now. Watch their reactions to your dreamboats for a solid month. Lock yourself away and do it. If you watch TV at all, cancel it. You might actually have a hope of finishing draft one if you let the creeping boredom make you more self-amused. Of course, if life without TV horrifies you, go back to your little extreme basket weaving episodes and leave my poor blog alone. Even people who write for TV should give it up long enough to pursue their goals, even if it does ironically end up being television. The truth is, most TV writers have no time to watch all the shows the general public consumes. it takes much more time to write. A lot of them probably have happier relationships with their TVs.
…so hypothetically you’ve canceled your cable. Remember it’s only temporary. I’ve only been without mine for about five years. Sneak one or two of the better shows on iTunes if you’re curious about the outside world. Really though, you should be reading. News blogs and writing blogs and books and scripts and plays.
After you are done with your first week of RiffTrax boot camp training, you will be somewhat capable of properly analyzing your own manuscript using the deceptively simple pre-audience test screening process.
Some people even edit with little cutout rows of hypothetical movie watchers taped to the bottom of their screens, just to remind them who’s really the boss. Yes, that’s RiffTrax.com
Come back when you are toned and trained, soldier.
…Ok?
So hypothetically you now love MST3K, and you have formatted your beloved manuscript in the format mentioned above.
You have opened textpad, or wordpad or whichever. A blank fresh text document sits waiting on the right hand side of the screen (unless you read right to left, in which case, er, nevermind.)
Now get prepared to dance on a grave. Like all writers who have to drop their egos off at school for the first time, and in many ways professionally editing your own work can absolutely feel like a total separation from everything you pride and hold sacred (at the moment anyway) your first honest reactions to your own work, if you can swing it, will be a little uncomfortable. You’re turning your back to the way you came so you can walk some place better.
Begin reading from page one. Group your comments by chapter. Attempt to identify each important interaction first. What you think needs to happen in noun verb noun format is actually your scene. Imagine that. Great how these things work out.
If you’re bright, you’re beginning to see where I’m going with this. I’m telling you to discover and quantify your scenes into a notation you can visualize and keep straight.
In simple terms all of this is a device you can use to wrap your head around an infinitely rich and complex alter-place only you have created, and for which only you have the key.
Spontaneous additions to the scratch pile are OK. Blatant realizations that something you did failed are ok, too. In fact, at the end of the day it’s good to own up when you’ve got your first real, legitimate seeming manuscript in front of you, that you are indeed leaning back on your training wheels rather than running a race. The goal is good form and experience, and above all, a humbling sense of impartiality.
Your friends will inevitably be cowards about fessing up on what’s wrong with your story, or else they won’t have the training to know how to explain it, or else they love you too much to see it the way a real audience would. A sense of humor and a little self-satire are generally the easiest way to get through the process of your own story analysis, and you will know if your reader cracks a joke about something, what they’re really doing, perhaps in a non-committal way, is trying to help tell you something about how your ideas have been received. If someone can’t take the work seriously, they are saying in a roundabout way that they saw your inconsistencies, and likely, that there were too many to count.
By becoming your own first reader, interjecting honest opinions into your scene outlines, rereading, and then doing it again, you will form an interaction with your story line that is realistic and grounded in the rest of the work as a whole. You will begin to attack your work like a reader, and enjoy the unusual and otherwise overwhelming power you have to change and improve your work.
Like I said, you’ll be a fat kid with cake.
That’s right… put the remote down… mmm… cake…
There are people who tell you to do outlines, and there are people who tell you to free flow. There aren’t many other pointers out there on how to go from one to the other. Now you know. Even if you’ve got a million words, you can always go back and build a sturdy frame for it on the inside. It’s really never too late. Sometimes it’s the only way to save a story line and get to the end of a dragging dead end in the process. Best of all, it helps you learn to do it the right way, which makes the next project that much easier. Suddenly you begin to see intuitively what is considered by many a highly sought-after analytical process.
It’s a good feeling. It’s worth missing a few sitcoms. Really.
“Do not touch anything unnecessarily. Beware of pretty girls in dance halls and parks who may be spies, as well as bicycles, revolvers, uniforms, arms, dead horses, and men lying on roads — they are not there accidentally.” – Soviet infantry manual, issued in the 1930’s
