IF YOU WANT to WRITE by Brenda Ueland: Book Review

By Chris Mathews

Brenda Ueland in If You Want to Write, A Book About Art, Independence, and Spirit, copyrighted first in 1938, inspires the reader not only to be a better writer, but also a more complete person. She makes the bold claim that the best writers are good people, and then convincingly makes her case, quoting from writers who have inspired her, some famous like Blake, Tolstoy, and Chekhov, some not so famous but every bit as truthful (her students among them). Ueland believes there is ‘genius’ in us all — “everybody is talented, original, and has something important to say.”

After a long career as a writer, Ueland taught writing at the Minneapolis YWCA to a class of all ages and backgrounds. There she was able to help writers find the truth in their own writing. When students showed admiration for showy writing, she helped them see through it, encouraging them instead to write from a deep, heartfelt place. If one lives by the motto “be Bold, be Free, and be Truthful,” Ueland believes that anyone can write. Truthfulness, she says, will save the writer from “flamboyance and pretentiousness.”

If she weren’t able to write with such passion and tell such poignant stories of great artists and writers, you might brand her advice dreamy and impractical. But listen to her thoughts on Van Gogh from his letters on what his creative impulse was: “It was just this: he loved something —the sky, say. He loved human beings. He wanted to show human beings how beautiful the sky was. So he painted it for them.”

“… I hope to prove to you the importance of your working at writing, at some creative thing that you care about…only if I can make you feel that, will you do and persist in it… not only for the next few weeks! I want you to do it for years to come, all your life!”

Ueland writes these words in the chapter “Imagination is the Divine Body in Every Man,” a quote from William Blake, the poet and artist. She revels in the joy with which Blake wrote and lived his life. He called his “Imagination” God. Only by doing what you love can you hope to experience this spirit (“the rest of us is legs and stomach, materialistic cravings and fears.”). I will not soon forget Blake’s way of discerning what is good or bad: “Sooner strangle an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.” A shocking thought, but she and Blake agree that we too often listen to the critics and the nay-sayers instead of our own authentic voices.

Unlike Ueland’s book, most books on writing give what I call ‘write-by-the-numbers’ advice. They offer step-by-step procedures that call like sirens to the aspiring writer. If you follow the advice, you might well create a well-structured, readable book, but the chances are you will leave out the most important element of good writing: you.

Flashing Back to Go Forward

By Chris Mathews

One of the most important but overused tools in the writer’s pouch is the flashback. Although flashbacks dig up the past, they should always move the storyline forward. Too often, they do not really advance the plot or the characterization.

Another challenge with using flashbacks is integrating them into the story. Too often they stick out, sidetracking the reader and giving her an instant case of ADHD. Given the challenges of this technique, I believe flashbacks can still be used to good effect.

In my short story, “Funerals in Small Southern Towns,” a beloved mother, Mary Elizabeth Jardin, has suddenly died. Driving the story are the family conflicts that take place over the three days leading up to the funeral between the Stuckeys, Mrs. Jardin’s inlaws, and the Jardin children, notably Ashby Jardin, Mary Elizabeth’s son.

Charlotte, Mary Elizabeth’s youngest daughter, is married to Roy Stuckey.  They live in a nearby town and Ashby lives three hours away.  In the opening passage of the story, I set up the difference in the backgrounds of the Stuckeys and Mrs. Jardin. Only Mary Elizabeth's social skills have enabled the two families with differing backgrounds to coexist.

Although an omniscient narrator tells the story, Ashby’s point-of-view is primary. The reader hears his inner thoughts, mostly in flashbacks.  Here is a flashback of Ashby’s that takes place during the phone call from his sister Charlotte informing him of his mother’s death.

“Ash, I have some bad news,” Charlotte began.

“What?”

“Mom…didn’t make it.” Charlotte’s voice sounded unnaturally deep.

“What are you saying?”

Ashby’s relationship with his mother had not always been good … Close in age, Ashby and his younger brother Jackson fought constantly. One particularly contentious fight took place in the basement one school night when Jackson would not relinquish the telephone so Ashby could call his girlfriend. Mary Elizabeth unfortunately interceded just as Ashby had thrown a punch at Jackson. When times got tense between her and Ashby, she was not above reminding him that he had once broken his mother’s nose. All Ashby could think of at this moment was her broken nose, even though she had long since forgiven him.

“She didn’t make it out of anesthesia,” Charlotte continued, “her heart stopped.”

“Oh, my God!” Ashby let loose a torrent of sobs and wailings.

I deliberately chose to interrupt the conversation to show Ashby’s first thoughts about her death to build suspense and to provide some background about their relationship, emphasizing Ashby’s sense of guilt surrounding his mother. The flashback carries the story forward by putting Ashby’s reaction to his mother’s death on hold while it develops Ashby’s sometimes complex past relationship with his mother.  The attempt was to allow the past to enrich the story in an unobtrusive way. I believe the flashback works.

Book Review, Part IV: STORY ENGINEERING by Larry Brooks - Practical Principles for Writing

By Chris Mathews

Story engineering, Larry Brooks contends in his book by the same name, must contain milestones, which he defines as the points in the story where new information changes the direction, tension, and stakes of the story(the first plot point, midpoint, and second plot point, he calls “major milestones”).  Here are the milestones he outlines, along with my illustrations of his points using the Little Red Riding Hood story:

1)       The opening scene of the story—the set-up scene(the mother in Little Red Riding Hood, for example, carefully instructing her daughter to stay on the path and not to talk to strangers as she goes to take goodies to her sick grandmother)

2)       A hook (first 20 pages in novel, first 10 pages in screenplay)—the reader is grabbed by a question he/she must know the answer to(Why does the Wolf want to know where Little Red is going?)

3)      First plot point (occurs about ¼ of way into story)—the hero suddenly has a quest and a mission as the antagonist emerges(Little Red meets the manipulative BB Wolf and we see he may have bigger plans in mind—or else why wouldn’t he just eat her?—he could.) Conflict, without which there can be no story, comes into sharp focus here. (This wolf is big and bad and conniving and he is going to get in Red’s way.)

4)      The midpoint (at the exact middle of the story) which shifts the story’s context--probably occurs in Little Red when she gets to her grandma’s and starts to realize there is something a little wrong with this picture.

5)      The second plot point (3/4 of the way through the story)—in Little Red, when Red learns that the wolf is playing the part of Granny(“the better to eat you with”). At this point, the true power of the antagonist is revealed.

6)       The final resolution scene (In Red Riding Hood, this scene occurs when the hunter bursts in and kills the wolf.)

I find Brooks’ outline of structure useful, but too programmed.  Fortunately, he realizes that while screenplays must adhere closely to this structure, these points might be better thought of as principles for the novelist, rather than hard-and-fast rules.

Scene execution and writing voice comprise his final core competencies for the aspiring writer. The most important point he makes about scenes, I believe, is that each scene must move the story forward. All scenes must have a mission. He suggests writing scenes that propel the story forward, ending a scene with a question that drives the reader’s interest on. Brooks spends even less time on writing voice, feeling this competency is way overrated, especially at writing conferences. His watchwords are: keep it simple, and less is more. He favors “essence” over “eloquence.” While he acknowledges the importance of dialogue and feels you can develop an ear for dialogue, writers fail, he maintains, when they don’t get outside themselves in their dialogue.

In Story Engineering Larry Brooks has put together good benchmarks to help writers stand a better chance of being published. His contention is that knowing where you are going as you write is a good thing. Outlining can help strengthen and hold your story together. Intuition can be cultivated. Little Red Riding Hood may not be much of a heroine, by Brooks’ definition, but the story is compelling because the construction of the story holds. Theme is intertwined with character and conflict: listen to your mother, don’t be too naive, there are bad creatures out there. The storytelling of Little Red Riding Hood is tight. Every part fits together and has a purpose that leads forward.

Book Review, Part III: STORY ENGINEERING by Larry Brooks

By Chris Mathews

I have been looking at the usefulness of Larry Brooks’ Story Engineering to the aspiring writer. We have looked at three of what he deems the six core competencies of storytelling: concept, character, and theme. Although I believe concept and theme could be combined into one category, I did find his breakdown of character very useful in identifying it as having three dimensions (surface, backstory, and character growth, or character arc). However, Brooks, I believe, takes too long to get to the most important aspect of writing from which the title comes, not beginning his explanation of structure in good storytelling until Chapter 22, almost halfway through Story Engineering. I have been using the story of Little Red Riding Hood to test out his advice(my choice, not his).

He breaks storytelling into “four boxes.” The first box is subtitled “The Setup.” In this section of the story, we learn what the stakes are for the main character(what he or she has to lose). There should also be some foreshadowing of the antagonist in this section. And empathy for the main character or hero needs to be created. In the case of Little Red Riding Hood, box one would include her backstory that her mother told her not to leave the path, and her encounter with the wolf. Here we see how naïve she is when the conniving wolf wheedles information about the grandmother out of her and tells her to pick flowers thereby leaving the path and we glimpse the wolf’s duplicitous nature. Box One ends with the first plot point when we sense what conflict is going to take place—in this case Innocent Red versus scheming wolf. According to 

Brooks this is where the story really begins.

The protagonist’s quest begins the second box, which should show the hero studying the problem faced. In Little Red, this section would include Little Red’s questioning of the wolf(“My, grandma, what big eyes you have”), culminating in the Wolf’s “…the better to eat you with.” Brooks calls this moment the midpoint of the story. For Little Red, her purpose is clear: the wolf is out to get her.

This third box, the attack, occurs in stories when the protagonist becomes proactive. At this point, the protagonist usually mounts his or her strongest attack against the antagonist or dies trying. In most versions of Little Red, it is the later. The hunter’s entrance on the scene would mark the second plot point. The final struggle now takes place in this box.

The fourth box is the resolution. In the Grimms’ Brothers version, the hunter cuts the wolf open and Little Red and Grandma are both freed, and after he replaces rocks for humans and sews him up the wolf meets his demise. According to Brooks, Little Red would fall into the category of “lame part 4 hero status” because she is not the primary catalyst in the story’s resolution, the hunter is.

In a final blog on this book, I will examine Brooks’ remaining structural component of structure, milestones. In addition, I will comment on his final two competencies, scene execution and writing voice.

Book Review Part II: Story Engineering, Mastering the Six Core Competencies of Successful Writing

By Chris Mathews

For those writers looking for a sure-fire way to create a powerful story, Story Engineering, Mastering the Six Core Competencies of Successful Writing by Larry Brooks illuminates some of the shadowy precepts of structure, while at the same time acknowledging that good storytelling can never just be a paint-by-the-numbers process. With a working knowledge of the tools and process which Brooks calls the six competencies of storytelling--concept, character, theme, structure, scene execution, and voice--, the writer can discover how to create a great story. Without these craft secrets, Brooks contends, great storytelling is just not possible.

As I stated before, I was very dubious of concept as a core competency apart from theme. However, Brooks does a credible job of making the case that the writer should write with an intention of theme, and not just let it emerge mystically. Theme is, of course, what a story is about, but Brooks expands the definition adroitly. Theme must be “relevant” to life itself; in a real sense, Brooks believes that theme is the launching pad for story in that it is what “makes us think and feel” about the plot.

As far as implementation of theme, he believes what the story means can be linked like the double-helix with character arc, the character’s growth.  It’s why the critics panned The DaVinci Code, he maintains. The main character’s growth was secondary to plot and therefore Robert Langdon appeared an empty suit. The character has to conquer both inner and outer forces to make a theme viable. Like the main character in Dan Brown’s novel, Little Red in Little Red Riding Hood does not change very much, remaining naïve until the wolf makes his “all-the-better-to-eat-you” speech. Little Red’s rose-colored world comes crashing down as she fails to grasp the wolf’s trick until it is too late…unless you buy the dues ex machina of the hunter. The theme could be: You have to see things for what they are or you’re going down. The wolf’s cross-dressing makes his character development much more intriguing than Red’s, but the story’s theme emerges. In defense of Dan Brown’s writing and in most best-selling novels, plot takes precedence over character.  

After spending half the book on other core competences, Brooks finally devotes the second half of his book to what he clearly believes should be the mantra for aspiring writers—structure.

To be sure, he qualifies his advice, constantly reminding the writer, that all of the other core elements need to be intertwined into the story to make it truly riveting. The hopeful note for the writer here, as Brooks points out, is that structure can be learned.

In a final blog, I will examine in more detail Brooks’ concept of structure, the pith of Story Engineering.

Structure in Storytelling

Structure in Storytelling

By Chris Mathews

For some of us, writing good sentences is not a challenge. We can do that. We write with flair (we like to think). We know how to color our words with strong nouns and verbs, with sensory details, and with vivid metaphors and similes. The real challenge is to structure our writing so that the reader wants to keep reading our story and not lose his or her way in ornate sentences that meander.

Writers wonder what they can do when they come to a dead-end in their writing, when the muse whispers no more. The answer according to Larry Brooks in Story Engineering is that “…successful stories are as dependent upon good engineering as they are artistry.” For me, this book provided just the recipe I was looking for, especially since my method for writing had always fallen into what Brooks calls pantsing, writing from the seat of your pants without a plan.

When I didn’t know where to go next with a story, my writing would stall out or I would write passages that filled up the pages but did not advance the story. What Brooks recommends is applying screenwriting techniques to build a scaffold for any story, making the story work by blending what he calls the six core competencies: concept, character, theme, structure, scene execution, and writing voice.

He defines concept as the idea that is the springboard for the story, best defined by answering the question “what if?” The answer leads to further “what if?” questions, and the answers become the story. Although concept seems very close to theme to me, it is clearly set apart by Brooks. For Little Red Riding Hood, the concept could have developed by asking, “what if a wolf meets a little girl in the woods who tells him she’s going to her grandmother’s? What if the wolf races ahead to kill the grandmother so he can have a second course—Little Red?.” You can see how concepts for screenplays can be “pitched” to movie studios.

Character is broken down into three dimensions, the first, second, and third. The first dimension of a character is what the reader sees on the surface (he has a hairy face, for the wolf). The second dimension provides the backstory or meaning behind the surface (the wolf is hairy because he is an alcoholic and has let himself go to pot). The third dimension reveals the true nature of the character and includes the character arc, the means of showing character growth (Little Red is naïve in telling a stranger too much, but finally puts two and two together).  Brooks is adamant in claiming that the reader must be able to empathize with or root for the main character in the story. He also claims that the protagonist must face conflict if the story is to advance, and he or she must learn something or at least die trying. The structure of the story should change at crucial times as the hero changes from orphan-to-wanderer-to-warrior-to-martyr (here he makes reference to Carol S. Pearson’s The Hero Within: Six Archetypes We Live By).  In an upcoming blog, I will discuss Brooks’ other core competencies of story-telling, and complete an analysis of his techniques in Story Engineering.

           

Exploiting Conflict in your Writing

By Chris Mathews

Conflict is the ticking time bomb in riveting writing.  We may not all be writers, but we are all amateur psychologists.  We understand and are entranced by people at odds with each other.  Moreover, it is when people are pitted against each other, each striving to get what he or she wants that character emerges and plot develops.  In the words of Uta Hagen, renowned actor/teacher, “If I know what I want and can achieve my objectives readily without any problem there is no drama.”  As writers, we must look for opportunities to exploit conflict in our writing.  I use the word “exploit” here to mean “take advantage of” or to “grasp the opportunity” not “to manipulate.”

In my play GARGOYLES, some high school students in a mountain community are acting in a dress rehearsal for a Halloween play, “Raising Spirits,” when the director receives a note from the principal of the school board’s decision to halt the production.   I chose not to have the cast all agree about fighting to present the play. By creating a different point of view for Bet who plays Sister Sabrina in “Raising Spirits,” I was able to develop her character and increase the tension of the scene.  Here is the scene:

CHRIS.    But it doesn’t make sense!  “Raising Spirits” is no ode

to Satan.  It’s a harmless, little Halloween comedy.  Haven’t they

ever seen reruns of Bewitched?

SHANNON.   Chris is right, Ms. Williams.  How do they even

know what it’s about?  They haven’t seen it yet.  Nobody dies.  The

warlock gets his just desserts.   He overdoses on candy corn, and

he’s banished to grade B horror flicks forever.

MS. WILLIAMS.   Shannon, remember where we live.     

MARC.     But they can’t control us, can they?  We’ve worked for

almost two months on this play.  Hey, it may not be Shakespeare,

but it’s got some good laughs.

            KARA.    Yeah, like when Chris sings.

CHRIS.   Hey, watch it.  I don’t sound that bad.

BET.   Well, I’m sick of this play.  It’s stupid and I’m glad we

don’t have to do it tomorrow in front of all the English classes.

JAMIE.    Oh, come on, Bet.  Just because you didn’t get to be

Sally.

BET.   Yeah, well being an airhead in “Raising Spirits” is not my

idea of a juicy part.

SHANNON.    It’s a play, okay.  At least I’m an airhead and

not a pothead, like some people I know…in real life.

BET.  Aren’t we cute?  Little Miss Sunshine, spreading your warmth wherever you go.  Listen sister, just remember you don’t know me.  You didn’t grow up here, Miss Suburbia.  

JAMIE.    Just because she’s type cast.  The lady-in-black.  Ms.

Death Rock…  

            KARA.     …Leave her alone

MS. WILLIAMS.    Okay, that’s enough!   We’re all a little

uptight.  There’s no sense in going on now.  Sorry, guys.  Looks

like “Raising Spirits” has landed us in the pits(she starts to exit).

Come to a dead-end in your writing?  Look for opportunities to inject conflict in your work.

Writing Non-fiction with Panache

By Chris Mathews

Writing non-fiction does not have to be a dry, pedestrian venture. In fact, in today’s internet world, original ways of approaching real-life events can make the difference between prose that touches people and prose that bores.

In the piece that follows, I tried to inject the simple act of doing a project with my grandchild into a piece that captured the frustration and joy of the experience.

Excavating the Triceratops with Poppy and Granddaughter Sidney Grace

 On Saturday, August 18th, in Ridgeland, South Carolina, Poppy and his granddaughter Sidney Grace Mathews unearthed and reconstructed a triceratops, defined by Wikipedia as a genus of herbivorous ceratopsid dinosaurs which lived during the late Mesozoic period. Forget that scientists now think that this famous, fearsome three-horned triceratops was actually a younger version of the torosaurus. Forget that Ridgeland, South Carolina has never been known for its tarpits (in fact, it barely has a ridge). Forget that this monumental achievement will never be displayed in the Smithsonian.

Poppy and Gracie dug out a triceratops together, using only a small blue, plastic spade and brush. Gracie did most of the brushing, Poppy scraped with the spade. This joint expedition took place in the Mathews’ den atop a glass coffee table.

The team of Poppy and Gracie unearthed this find by extricating a clay egg enclosed in vacuum-sealed plastic labeled Dino World Fossil Kit. Excavating instructions were listed on the back in both English and Spanish:

1. While over an easily cleanable surface or newspaper, remove the dino egg from its wrapper. MarMar, grandma, suggested the kitchen table as the perfect location for this expedition but Poppy wanted a challenge, so he placed a poster sized “No Diving” sign on the clear glass wood-rimmed table.

2. Make sure that the egg is firmly held in place. Carefully, remove dirt using the excavating tools provided (the previously mentioned spade and brush) Wanting results, Poppy left out the “carefully”. After shaving slivers for a short time, he squeezed the clay to smithereens. Gracie reveled in the clay, fragments cascading off the table and onto the carpet, leaving her looking like a street urchin. Feeling the exhilaration of risk-takers, the two opted not to “WEAR EYE PROTECTION” as posted at the bottom of this step.

3. When done removing dirt, clean fossils using the brush. It is very important to remove all dirt from holes that are used to connect pieces to allow a more secure fit. Poppy discovered this important fact as Gracie brushed off the pieces and he tried to force the tiny nubs into the dinosaur’s torso. 

4. Never force the pieces together. If they are not fitting, check for dirt in the holes. Poppy jammed the nubs of the legs into the tiny holes, but only managed to reconstruct a three-legged Triceratops with tail and horned head. Each time Poppy wedged the last leg in its hole, another leg fell off. The plastic legs matched the light tan carpet exactly so finding one that dropped was not easy. After twenty minutes of dropping, picking-up, and twisting legs, Poppy had taken on the demeanor of a mad scientist. Sidney Grace, however, did not lose confidence in Poppy. She just kept playing with the clay, spilling a few crumbs on the carpet as MarMar gleamed with pride at the two with a look of “I knew it wouldn’t stay on the table”.

Finally, after blowing profusely in the holes and delicately washing and blow-drying these tiny orifices, Poppy assembled the Triceratops on four legs. Sidney Grace was impressed, even though Poppy failed to mount the two back legs in the two holes provided on the plastic stand shown in the illustration, deeming the stand “for nincompoops”. After the two proudly gazed at their tiny monstrosity, Marc, Sidney Grace’s dad and Poppy’s son, proclaimed “naptime” for the smudged-face waif.

Put More Drama Into Your Writing—Creating Conflict in Your Dialogue

By Chris Mathews


Dialogue in writing can set mood and establish character, but without one essential quality dialogue can also derail any story.  Good dialogue must contain conflict.  Conflict drives drama and conflict drives all good storytelling.  Where conflict is lacking, usually, so is drama.   In the play GARGOYLES, a one-act I published, I mentioned the importance of the two gargoyles using ornate Latin-derived words to establish a medieval quality to their dialogue.  But the characters would have been little more than intrusive onlookers if I had not been able to define a clear relationship between them.  Notice where the first conflict between the two helps to define their relationships, provide humor, and bring the gargoyles into the modern story they are observing:

FIRST GARGOYLE.   Stone silence…

SECOND GARGOYLE.   Mocks mankind’s folly.

FIRST GARGOYLE.   Demons dwell in eaves…

SECOND GARGOYLE.   Caught in granite guffaws…

FIRST GARGOYLE.   We outlast your short time…

SECOND GARGOYLE.   Withstand your orangutan rantings…

FIRST GARGOYLE.   Your humanegomania…

SECOND GARGOYLE.   Your acid haze…

FIRST GARGOYLE.   Corrodes our veins…

SECOND GARGOYLE.   So permit us…

FIRST GARGOYLE.   From our lofty perches…

SECOND GARGOYLE.   To comment…

FIRST GARGOYLE.   To criticize…

SECOND GARGOYLE.   To cajole…

FIRST GARGOYLE.   To view from afar…

SECOND GARGOYLE.   To scrutinize with a looking-glass…

FIRST GARGOYLE.   To provide comic relief…

SECOND GARGOYLE.   Though these humans provide their own quite well.

FIRST GARGOYLE.    We will be their funhouse mirror…

            SECOND GARGOYLE.   Grotesques.

FIRST GARGOYLE.    It takes a grotesque to know a grotesque.

SECOND GARGOYLE.   In bas-relief.

FIRST GARGOYLE.    We entreat you to observe…

SECOND GARGOYLE.    The intolerance…

FIRST GARGOYLE.    The hypocrisy…

SECOND GARGOYLE.    The passion…

FIRST GARGOYLE.    The insidiousness…

SECOND GARGOYLE.    The vainglory…

FIRST GARGOYLE.    The truth-tellers…

SECOND GARGOYLE.   And the liars…

FIRST GARGOYLE.     The dreamers…

SECOND GARGOYLE.    And the quashers of dreams…

FIRST GARGOYLE.    The religious zealots…

SECOND GARGOYLE.    And, of course…

FIRST GARGOYLE.    Of course, what?

SECOND GARGOYLE.    Of course, what what?

FIRST GARGOYLE.    Don’t mimic me!

SECOND GARGOYLE.    You mimicked me!

FIRST GARGOYLE.    Mimicked me, you?

SECOND GARGOYLE.     You me mimicked!

FIRST GARGOYLE.    Enough!

SECOND GARGOYLE.    Of course, what we are about…

FIRST GARGOYLE.    Which is?

SECOND GARGOYLE.    Demons.

FIRST GARGOYLE.    Real?

SECOND GARGOYLE.   Or imagined.

FIRST GARGOYLE.    Either way.

SECOND GARGOYLE.    Shhh!  They’re scheming.

FIRST GARGOYLE.    Dreaming dreams no mortal ever

dared to dream before…

How is the conflict created between the two gargoyles?  I believe it occurs when the Second Gargoyle rants pretentiously, “Of course, what...” [bold italics]. With this hint, she (the Gargoyles in the original production were played by two female actors) may know more than the First Gargoyle sets the two in a tizzy, characterizing the relationship throughout the play and creatings a lot of fun for the audience as they watch their elaborate attempts at one-upmanship.  They pave the way for future conflicts at this moment when they clash, but they also assure the audience that they will entertain. Conflict drives dialogue.  It is immediate. The characters listen intently to each other so they get what they want from each other--an advantage.

               

Put Some Drama in your Writing

By Chris Mathews

As a drama teacher and part-time playwright for thirty-two years, I believe dramatic concepts can be applied to other genres. You can put more drama in your writing by understanding dramatic writing.

The Greek word for drama, translated, means to do. In good drama, action grabs the viewer’s attention, for, at the least, all good writing is interesting.

So what is dramatic action and how can it be applied to other types of writing? First, consider what action in theater is not. Dramatic action is not to be confused with action-packed, the sometimes mindless, extravagant thrills of the movies. Dramatic action has purpose. Characters want something, usually from another character.

A director, in analyzing a script, must analyze all of the characters. Director’s define the action of the play, as well as help each actor find what his or her character wants in the play. Actors choose the most active, transitive verb they can find. For example, Cyrano in Cyrano de Bergerac doesn’t just feel unrequited love, he wants to ravish Roxanne with his poetry (Roxanne is the object of Cyrano’s affections). If a character is not fully realized in your writing, try filling in this statement for him or her:

He/she wants + to + strong, transitive verb + object.
Cyrano wants + to + ravish+ Roxanne

Actors and directors look for strong actions because actions are playable; feelings are not. Even in short scenes of dialogue, check to see that each character has a strong, clear action. Actors are often told: you cannot play a quality, avoid the verb to be, acting is doing not being.

Show the character’s driving force through what they do, not just what they say, and the writing will engage the reader. If your writing lacks punch, it probably lacks dramatic action. If your story line is faltering, it may be because your characters are not committed to strong action. Make sure your character is doing and not just being or feeling.

In an even broader sense, conflict drives drama. If there are no opposing forces, there is probably not much drama. If your writing lacks punch, make sure there are forces pushing against each other. In theatre jargon, create obstacles, people or forces that thwart a character from getting what he or she wants.

Shakespeare mastered dramatic action. See how Iago plants the seeds for Othello’s destruction, tricking him with reverse psychology into believing his wife is unfaithful in the following passage:

Cassio, my lord! No, sure, I cannot think it,
That he would steal away so guilty-like, Seeing you coming.

Sometimes, writing can be drama-less because the stakes are too low. A teacher teaching a class could be quite boring, but a teacher teaching students who cannot learn because their home lives are in shatters has the seeds for drama (Freedom Writers). Make sure conflict thrives. To summarize, make sure your characters are doing not just saying, and that conflict drives your work.

The Latest Addition

Meet a New Columbia II Blogger

CHRIS MATHEWS

The son of a war historian turned college professor, Chris Mathews, born in 1949, grew up in Arlington, Virginia, his family moving to Asheville, North Carolina when he was a senior in high school. Chris attended the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, majoring in English. While at North Carolina he took an introductory course in drama taught by Tom Parker, the man who helped get Andy Griffith his start on Broadway in No Time for Sergeants. He pursued his new-found interest in theatre at Wake Forest Unversity, receiving his Master’s degree.

After graduate school, Chris taught drama for over 30 years in Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina. He was awarded the secondary schools Teacher-of-the-Year for North Carolina by the North Carolina School of the Arts (1999). His drama program at Asheville High School was the N.C. representative to the American High Theatre Festival in Edinburgh, Scotland (1997), performing Look Homeward, Angel. He collaborated with students at AHS to produce Endangered Species, a play about the challenges facing African-American males which featured a multi-racial cast, toured local schools and churches, and was performed at the International Thespian Festival in Muncie, Indiana.

His one-act play Gargoyles was published by Baker’s Plays in 2005. His favorite moment in theatre: with his wife Mary Anne watching his former student Chris Chalk (Cory) perform on Broadway in Fences with Denzel Washington (Troy) the summer before last.

Chris has three children (Marc, Erin, and Jenny) and one grandchild, Sidney Grace. Currently, he is the executive director of Turning Pages, the greater Columbia Literacy Council. He hopes to continue his love for writing with the help of the South Carolina Writers' Workshop Columbia II Chapter.

Chris's first post follows.

Vanquishing the Gila Monsters of Writing: Reflections on Staying in the Moment as I Walk My Dog

By Chris Mathews

What advice on writing can I add to the nebulas already out there. I am just now beginning my own journey as a writer (although I have published a one-act play Gargoyles) and continue on the more important quest to become a better person. What is a writer but a person who has trained himself to be more aware of the world? By learning to live more in the moment, I hope to make my two journeys as a writer and a person coalesce. Maybe my words will help you in some way vanquish that writer’s fear of fears, that Gila Monster of self-doubt-- the blank page.

Staying in the moment, a concept so crucial to theatre is also a technique that any writer must practice. I believe all human beings should learn to live in the moment. For me walking my rat-terrier Little Bro allows me to do this. In fact, I have begun to practice this concept by writing what I call Broems, poems about my moment-to-moment journey with Bro.

I believe all of us in this increasingly complex, technological whirl of a world need to soak up the moment—not allow all our free time to be taken up with thoughts of work. Electronic devices and multi-tasking have only left us with tunnel vision—the inability to see what is really all around us. Tunnel vision is the enemy of good writing and good living because we are locking out our senses—the vital organs of all good writing. I am not proposing that writers don’t need focus, just that they need to be able to take in the present with their senses so that they can keep the reader alive in the moment and not sidetracked outside the world they are creating. Writers and all people should spend time living in the moment.

I manage to do this with varying degrees of success when I take Little Bro for walks. These little jaunts have become for me a time of great discovery and pleasure. In a real sense, I am practicing a skill that I can apply to my writing, which I want to resonate with readers. First, however, I must relearn those ways of perceiving we all had as children.

Here is a “Broem” where I have tried to practice staying in the moment.

Night Clouds

Night clouds envelop the moon
Its swift passing upwards
Dizzying--
Not to my dog
Little Bro.
He doesn’t know,
As he tests the blades of grass
Each one
For forgotten whiffs.
This one smells like chickweed.
This one sassafras
No, maybe not.
He doesn’t know those words
Only the smells which
Circulate through
Celestial chambers
Layers piled upon layers
Of ripeness and rightness.
He pees.
The moon rises
Time goes on.