August 13, 2007
Learning
I’ve done a lot of writing in the last couple of decades. Some of it has been good. Some not so. I learn more all the time about what makes a story work, what makes language work - and believe me, those are two different—but essential—things.
I’m busy writing something now, a fun fantasy with my brilliant daughter, so I don’t have much time to dedicate to this column at the moment. But I wanted to make a couple of points here:
Two core questions:
1) What does your protagonist want?
Before you answer, understand that the word “want” doesn’t just mean “hanker for” or “desire” or “covet” or “hunger after.” An older meaning, and perhaps the root one, is “need.” As in—that which we lack, the thing that, missing, keeps us from finding the true meaning and function of our lives.
People who are in want—who want food—they’re starving. People who are in want—who want an understanding that it’s not about them, it’s about the people around them—they’re also starving.
So stands the question in all its levels:
What does your hero/heroine want?
2) Why should (would, might) the reader care?
Stories are told all the time - have been from the very beginning of time. But not all stories are listened to. What makes the diff? Sometimes we love a story because it seems to be about us—it takes us from where we are to a place we want to be. If the writer is honest and intelligent, we might even learn something along the way to help us make our own journeys.
Sometimes the story is about somebody who is not like us at all—somebody we wish we could be, or hope to become (by some miracle) some day. Not all of these stories are necessarily good for us, but we listen anyway.
Some stories are so full of tension and adventure, we don’t even require much from the language; we suspend our disbelief for the sake of finding out what happens next. Chances are, though, these stories—even when the syntax reeks —have characters that fit the above two descriptions.
In the end, I wish all stories did readers some good - stories that tell people the truth (which requires a pretty mature, honest author), make them face things about themselves, or be grateful for what they have—stories that open the readers’ eyes so that they can see the glory around them, the wonder of life—and also the impact they have on other people for good or for pain and misery.
The question then remains - you have a story in your head - why should anybody read it? What do you have to offer in the great conversation that, more now than ever, covers the entire earth?
I mean this question to be daunting, but I will add this: every life is new. Even when we fall into stereotypical patterns, there is always going to be something peculiar about the way your life falls out. You may have something to say that has never been said quite the same way, in quite the same words, to quite the same audience.
But you have a responsibility to make sure, if you are going to tell that story, to learn to be as skillful with language as you can be, to take responsibility for the emotion you raise, to be honest (which may mean doing research into other people’s lives - just to make sure you are seeing things clearly, yourself - none of us see all the truth of the world from our own seat).
Write your story. Don’t be too eager to share it. It can take years for a story to ripen to the point where it’s worthy of readership. Ask the questions before you start. Ask them after you think you are finished.
And listen to the answers.
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