Week Twelve: DAYS 78–84
QUICK STARTS, GRAND FINALES, AND UNIVERSAL MESSAGES
Less than two weeks remain of your ninety-day novel challenge. Don’t fall short of the finish line. Although it may feel like you have a working draft of your novel, we still have just shy of two weeks remaining to tweak, adjust, trim, and polish your novel. And since you signed a contract with yourself two and a half months ago, you’re obligated (to yourself) to see this project through. By this point, you might be excited to even have a draft at all. Let’s admit it: Writing a novel is something you’ve wanted to do for as long as you remember. And now that you’ve got all these pages before you, you just want to get the thing out in the world, show your friends and family the reasons why you’ve been so reclusive lately, tucked away in the lonely corner of your writing nook.
Even the greatest writers spend tedious hours, days, months, and even years revising their work. F. Scott Fitzgerald, for example, is notorious for his revision tactics, revising The Great Gatsby up until the very last minute, even as it was lying in galleys at the publisher ready to be printed. Can you imagine what details might have been included or taken away in those final moments? Perhaps Fitzgerald revised Gatsby’s familiar “old sport” from “old bud” or “old fart,” and this was a detail that could have made all the difference. I’m just guessing, of course. You’ll have to visit his collection of papers at Princeton University to be sure.
Hollywood is no stranger to the revision process either. David Milch, producer and writer for HBO’s award-winning series Deadwood, is known as a perfectionist in his industry, editing, cutting, and revising the actors’ lines right up until the moment he yells “Action!” Though it might be a struggle, as an actor, to learn all your lines under such conditions, the final product was authentic, polished, and compelling. David Simon, too, most famous for his work on the highly acclaimed series The Wire, similarly reworks his scripts during the shooting process, focusing more on the writer’s craft than the craft of acting. (As well he should — without good writing, there would be no good acting.)
The main point is simple: You can’t expect to get Everything right on your first go around. This week, we’ll be taking a closer look at some strategies for rethinking and reworking some of the crucial scenes of your novel.
WEEK 12, ASSIGNMENT 1: In the Beginning (Again)
Let’s go back to the beginning. Your novel’s beginning, that is. It’s been some weeks since you’ve written this scene, and, hopefully, that time has given you some necessary practice and, in addition, clear perspective on why you made the decision to begin your novel where you did. Many people will tell you that the first scene of your novel is the most important, and I agree with this, up to a point. The first scene, even the first paragraph and the first line, will determine whether or not your reader, faced with thousands of books on the shelves of the bookstore, will buy your book. And why should they? You’ve done them no favors. At least not yet. The first line will determine if your reader will read your next line, and your next line, and so on. If you want a stranger to continue reading your book, in fact, to pay to read your book, you absolutely must grab her attention immediately.
Furthermore, the first scene of your novel must be one of your sharpest because this is often the scene agents and editors will look at when deciding whether or not they wish to read the rest of your novel. If your end goal is to ultimately publish your novel, this first scene is often the only chance you’ve got to convince an agent or editor that the rest of your novel is even worth a look. Editors and agents, after all, aren’t the mythical creatures we Sometimes imagine them to be. They’ve got stacks and stacks of manuscripts on their desks that they must get through before they can go home to their families and friends. Trust me, they’ll read quickly, and you have only a few moments to engage their interest.
Before you continue, I want you to go to your bookshelf and select a novel, perhaps your favorite, though any novel will do. I simply want you to read the first two to three paragraphs. Don’t skim; read closely. Now, what did you notice? How did that author immediately catch your attention? We’ve already talked in a previous lesson about what your first lines and first scene should try to accomplish. It’s likely that the novel you selected started with a strong first line, followed by some descriptive sentences that piqued your interest. Or maybe the situation itself was compelling.
Together let’s take a look at this excerpt from the first pages of the bestseller Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden:
Suppose that you and I were sitting in a quiet room over-looking a garden, chatting and sipping at our cups of green tea while we talked about something that had happened a long while ago, and I said to you, “That afternoon when I met so-and-so … was the very best afternoon of my life, and also the very worst afternoon.” I expect you might put down your teacup and say, “Well, now, which was it? Was it the best or the worst? Because it can’t possibly be both!” Ordinarily I’d have to laugh at myself and agree with you. But the truth is that the afternoon when I met Mr. Tanaka Ichiro really was the best and the worst of my life. He seemed so fascinating to me, even the fish smell on his hands was a kind of perfume. If I had never known him, I’m sure I would not have become a geisha.
How does this short paragraph engage your interest? Does it? It must engage somebody’s interest, because it sold millions of copies in the United States alone. Yes, plural. Millions. How’s that for encouragement to write the best opening you can?
There is no right or wrong answer, of course, and different readers will likely have various reasons as to why they felt their interest was captured in these first lines. Here are mine: First, the opening is very conversational. The narrator is speaking directly to me, it seems: “Suppose you and I,” the narrator says, which makes me think: Are you talking to me? You must be! Nobody here but the page and me. I’m so flattered you feel such levels of familiarity with me after only a few short sentences. Why, yes, I would love some green tea. Now go on….
But beyond the feeling of familiarity, this paragraph also brings up several thought-provoking and contradictory statements. I want to ask: Just how can a single afternoon be the best and worst day of your life? But I don’t have time to ask this question because before I know it, the author reveals that her meeting with someone named Mr. Tanaka Ichiro had something to do with her being a geisha. (And aren’t geishas, sort of, well, um … there’s no polite way to put this: hookers?) That’s a lot of information in one paragraph, and many readers, such as those millions of people who bought and read the book, agree: That’s quite a hook. The significance of this starting point becomes obvious in the first pages of this novel: We are going to learn how Sayuri Nitta, the narrator, became a geisha and what her life as a geisha was like.
Let’s take a look at one more example from a popular, oft-taught novel. Here are the opening paragraphs of Harper Lee’s iconic To Kill a Mockingbird, a novel assigned in just about half of the high school classrooms across the country. Certainly, we can learn something from these opening paragraphs:
When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and Jem’s fears of never being able to play football were assuaged, he was seldom self-conscious about his injury. His left arm was somewhat shorter than his right; when he stood or walked, the back of his hand was at right angles to his body, his thumb parallel to his thigh. He couldn’t have cared less, so long as he could pass and punt.
When enough years had gone by to enable us to look back on them, we sometimes discussed the events leading to his accident. I maintain that the Ewells started it all, but Jem, who was four years my senior, said it started long before that. He said it began the summer Dill came to us, when Dill first gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out.
Why do you think Lee decided to begin her novel at this particular moment? And, in addition, how do you think these two short paragraphs quickly engage the interest of the reader? Again, there is no right or wrong answer. Think about it for a moment. How can you apply these techniques to your own work?
In this passage, Lee is using a short description of a familiar incident (the broken arm) in order to segue to the “real” starting point of her novel, the summer Dill comes to Maycomb. This is the same summer that Jem and Scout (narrating now several years from the novel’s main events) become obsessed with trying to get Boo Radley to “come out.” What natural questions will arise from these two paragraphs? What kinds of questions might propel the reader, full of curiosity, to read further? Well, for one, who is Dill? And why did he want Boo Radley to come out? And, now that I think about it, why won’t Boo Radley come out? These are natural questions that pique the curiosity in the reader, encouraging him to turn the page.
Ask yourself these questions about the book you selected from your bookshelf:
• What did you learn about the character in this scene?
• How does the author hint (or overtly state) the complications that will arise in this novel?
• What do you know about the plot so far?
• Do you feel drawn into the story? Why?
• What is the significance of the starting point?
And then, of course, you’ll want to apply these questions to your own work. Have you begun your novel in the right place? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read my students’ work that should have really begun several pages into the story. Ask yourself this question: If I had to start my story at a different point in my narrative, where would it be? Is there any way I can begin closer to the conflict? Anton Chekhov famously advised his students to tear their stories in half and begin in the middle. What might be a secondary starting place for you?
Last week you reread your novel and made a reverse out-line, assessing the value and the worth of each individual scene. Hopefully, this exercise helped you figure out what was working and what wasn’t — and in no place is this more important than right out of the gate in your starting scene. Spend some time reworking the first scene of your novel, paying particular attention to grabbing your reader’s attention immediately. Save the flowery prose or long, detailed descriptions of setting for another chapter. Instead get your reader immediately invested in your novel through your characters and the story. In the aggregate, these two elements, character and story, are what make for memorable novels.
WEEK 12, ASSIGNMENT 2: The Riveting Reflective Finale
Because you just spent some time thinking about your beginning, and since endings should in some way connect back to your novel’s opening pages, now would be an excellent time to think about how you decided to end your novel. But first, go back to that book you selected for the last assignment, and read the last few paragraphs. Then ask yourself these questions:
• How is the ending connected to the beginning?
• What has your character seemed to learn?
• What is the tone of the ending?
• What is the “overall” feel of the final paragraphs?
Let’s take another look at Memoirs of a Geisha. Even if you’ve never read the book, you can clearly see how the ending mirrors the beginning:
It’s true that sometimes when I cross Park Avenue, I’m struck with the peculiar sense of how exotic my surroundings are. The yellow taxicabs that go sweeping past, honking their horns; the women with their briefcases, who look so perplexed to see a little old Japanese woman standing on the street corner in kimono. But really, would Yoroido seem any less exotic if I went back there again? As a young girl, I believed my life would never have been a struggle if Mr. Tanaka hadn’t torn me away from my tipsy house. But now I know that our world is no more permanent than a wave rising in the ocean. Whatever our struggles and triumphs, however we may suffer them, all too soon they bleed into a wash, just watery ink on paper.
This ending, like many novel endings, is reflective in tone, which is something you should be mindful of in your own work. Endings should not mimic the finale of a fireworks show or a musical overture, where the most bravado is saved for the final few moments. Instead your readers want a sense of how the world has changed for your protagonist or how your protagonist has been changed by the world. What has been learned? More importantly, what has been the point of his journey — and your novel, by extension? While you want to avoid being overtly didactic by force-feeding your readers a universal message, you do want to hint at what has been learned and what the themes of your novel might be. The narrator above has learned of the impermanence of the world, and this has been a cathartic release for her. Struggles, pain, and even triumphs all fade away, and so one must not wallow in the past.
Also notable: This ending mirrors the first paragraphs in content and tone. The narrator remains, as in the opening paragraph, casually conversational. Additionally, the novel begins with a reference to Mr. Tanaka and ends — as you might have guessed — with a reference to Mr. Tanaka. This repetition gives a feeling of closure to the novel, a feeling of coming full circle.
To Kill a Mockingbird also connects back to the intro-ductory paragraphs with its final words.
“An’ they chased him ‘n’ never could catch him ’cause they didn’t know what he looked like, an’ Atticus, when they finally saw him, why he hadn’t done any of those things … Atticus, he was real nice….”
His hands were under my chin, pulling up the cover, tucking it around me.
“Most people are, Scout, when you finally see them.”
He turned out the light and went to Jem’s room. He would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning.
In this final brief exchange between Atticus and Scout, the reader understands what Scout, whose words initially beckon us into this novel on those first pages, has learned. The message is simple, though timeless: People aren’t always what they appear. This message, clearly one aimed at Boo Radley himself, connects us back to the first pages when we learned about this same character who wouldn’t come out of his self-imposed reclusion.
Some people say that if your first scene sells your first novel, your final scene sells your next one. While I certainly don’t advise you to begin thinking about selling a second novel before you’ve even finished the current project, I do think these words can help you weigh the importance of your novel’s ending. The final pages will help your characters live on, even after the reader has closed the book. How do you want them to be remembered?
Read your conclusion side by side with your introduction and ask yourself the following questions:
• Is my conclusion reflective in tone?
• Does my conclusion reveal what my character has learned or how he has changed?
• Does my conclusion make a clear link or reference back to the introduction in order to give the novel a feeling of cohesiveness?
• Does my concluding scene imply what my character wants for the future?
Spend some time revising your final scene, paying attention to crafting a concluding scene that connects with your opening scene. The last scene of your novel will linger in your readers’ minds.
WEEK 12, ASSIGNMENT 3: Theme Me Up, Scotty
As you know by now, not just anybody can write. Or, rather, not just anybody can write well. Think about your friends and family. Who are the best storytellers or joke tellers? Who knows how to keep an audience listening? Who tells stories that drag on and on and on, and you want to scream, Get to the point, Grandma! But you know you can’t because Grandma’s jaw would drop to the floor, along with her dentures. My own granny, on the other hand, used to spin a tale that would keep everyone leaning toward her, as though just by getting closer, we’d hear the next part faster. She was always pausing dramatically for effect, to heighten our anticipation, and she’d make wild facial expressions that would serve as quasi illustrations. Granny had yards of yarn to spin about her life and adventures.
But writing a novel is a bit different than just telling a story. It’s about making connections; it’s about developing characters and deepening conflicts. It’s about providing miniature snapshots that add up to a fully realized collage. But, as you know by now, too, your novel’s got to have heart in order to connect with your readers.
Fitzgerald once wrote in a letter to a friend, “That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.” Anyone who has been an avid lifelong reader understands this notion. As a child, some of my greatest friends seemed to be characters in the books I’d read, and these characters were kind enough to let me tag along on their adventures with them (even when my older siblings would not). This is the real appeal of reading novels — to lose ourselves in a world that is totally different from our own, yet one that provides us a universal understanding of how our world works. What we’re really talking about now is yet another literary device: theme.
The theme of your novel is the fundamental, universal message you want your reader to take away from your story. It’s the big-picture idea, the beach that your novel’s grain of sand represents. Those who claim that the theme of a novel is whatever a reader takes away from it are, in my opinion, full of hooey. (How’s that for a grandmotherly expression?) Certain themes are clearly supported by a close reading of a novel in a way that other themes aren’t. The Great Gatsby doesn’t contain the theme that love conquers all, for instance. No reading of the characters, their intentions, dialogue, or plot possibly indicates this. No, instead all authors, including Fitzgerald, clearly intend for certain themes to come across in their books through their use of character development, imagery, symbols or symbolic moments, or poignant, poetic lines of prose and dialogue. Generations of readers remember that green light at the end of Daisy’s dock across the water from Gatsby’s mansion. And it’s this same water that separates East from West Egg that prompts Nick Carraway to ruminate in the final lines of the book, “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” (Did you answer the pop quiz correctly from two weeks ago?) The green light, the poetry, the water, the theme — it’s all connected.
Now that you’ve written a working draft of your novel, it’s important for you to clarify and reveal your intended themes in the novel. The climax should dramatize the themes of your work, but several of your other scenes should deepen the themes in more subtle ways, such as through a character description, the use of a minor character, a particularly illuminating image, a clearly rendered setting, or a pertinent symbol.
Pretend you are a reader of your novel. First, write a short essay (no more than five hundred words) that explores the theme(s) of your novel-in-progress. Where do you see evidence of this theme? Be specific. There won’t be extra credit.
Now revise a minimum of three scenes — your novel’s climax and two others of your choosing — with a specific and critical eye toward further developing your themes. What do you want your readers to take away from your work? What are the universal messages that will speak to your readers and make them feel as though they belong? After all, that’s the beauty of a novel — making a solitary reader feel as if she’s among friends.