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Crafting Your Work

So far we have been exploring right-brain techniques mainly for the purpose of generating ideas and material. In the process, we have studied some aspects of crafting, mainly through drawing on internalised knowledge (e.g. using ‘inner wisdom’ and games of chance to construct plots in Chapter 3, focusing attention on the mechanics of speech production in Chapter 4, and studying our reactions to other writers and other genres in Chapters 4 and 5).

This chapter deals specifically with crafting. In keeping with the approach of this book, it offers a right-brain perspective on the subject – perspective being the operative word. The right brain puts things together in a non-linear way. Activities such as completing jig-saw puzzles, recognising faces and ‘chunking’ ideas are what it does best. Unfortunately, story-making is ultimately a linear process and this is where strongly right-brain oriented writers can come unstuck. Analysing, sorting, sequencing – the processes involved in shaping and styling a finished piece, are mainly left-brain activities. All writers, regardless of their hemisphere preference, need to master these in order to communicate effectively with their readers. Of course, it is in the processes involved in editing that the left-brain really comes into its own, and this is the subject of the next chapter.

There are many excellent books which approach the craft of writing in a practical left-brain way (see the reading list for recommended examples). Their advice can be invaluable, particularly for genre writers who need to master the fine points of particular formats.

A very good way of encouraging a happy partnership between right and left brain functions is to use the approaches suggested in this chapter, alongside those found in books with a more technical orientation. Eventually the two strands can be woven together – which brings us to the next section.

WEAVING YOUR MATERIAL

By the time you come to craft your finished piece, you will have assembled relevant material from a number of sources: writer’s notebook, dream journal, timed writing, guided visualisation, tarot spreads to mention but a few. Some of this material will relate to characters, some to places, some to particular objects and some to feelings, mood and atmosphere. Having selected and sorted what you need, the task of weaving it all together begins.

As you weave character, place and mood together, tune in constantly to see how these various elements are responding to each other. How does the character feel about that place? How does the setting respond to the presence of the character? Which of them is responsible for the mood – or is it reciprocal? What situation might arise from bringing this person to this place?

If the piece you are developing is part of a longer work, use the same interactive approach when weaving it into the main fabric. Dialogue with all the elements concerned. Treat the new piece as you would any newcomer to a group. Introduce it with tact and awareness.

SHAPING YOUR PLOT

With certain genres, for example standard screen-plays, sit-coms and twist-in-the-tale short stories, the basic shape is set and the task is to write to it (some authors may disagree). Adopting this approach is rather like being given a recipe and assembling the ingredients accordingly. When not writing within a specific genre, we have choices about the form our work will finally take. To pursue the cooking metaphor; we look at the ingredients we have, and find or create a recipe which will make the best use of them. Many strongly right-brained writers are happier with this method. However, just as a hastily improvised recipe can let you down, stories that are insufficiently planned can end up going nowhere. Without a well-designed structure, all projects are destined to collapse.

Inner workings

‘Begin at the beginning,’ the King said, very gravely, ‘and go on till you come to the end: then, stop.’

(Lewis Carroll: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland)

The way in which you structure your narrative affects the way in which your reader receives it, and is therefore of vital importance. Within the basic structure of the plot there are, of course, many ways of telling the story, e.g. flash-back, implication, reported incident, symbolic representation, dream sequences, letters. In How to Write a Million, Ansen Dibell says ‘All this structural hanky-panky isn’t something to engage in just for the fun of it. Any departure from linear, sequential storytelling is going to make the story harder to read and call attention to the container rather than the content, the technique rather than the story those techniques should be serving.’ She also advises, ‘Make sure the running plot in your story’s present is strong, clear and well established before splitting off to do anything else.’

When working out the structure of your story, constantly question your motives for choosing to tell it that way. If the answer is because it is ‘original’ or ‘clever’, you need to think very carefully about whether that is the only reason. If it is, you may be sacrificing other qualities – such as clarity – which are more important and might be better served by a more straightforward approach. However, even straight narrative is fraught with dilemmas of choice. Should I use past, present or future tense, first, second or third person – whose viewpoint? These are often difficult decisions to make. Try an inner dialogue with the elements in question. Study the effects achieved by other writers. Keep the following guidelines in mind:

Many creative people struggle with the idea of structure. It can conjure images of algebra, AGMs, tax forms and a thousand other things which render the muse dry-mouthed and dysfunctional. Novelist Alison Harding prefers to view structure as organic – an integral part of story-making, just as sentence construction is an integral part of meaning-making. As with the weaving process above, this shifts emphasis away from ‘should’ and ‘ought’, towards a more muser-friendly consideration of how the story wants and needs to be told. With this approach, the story is acknowledged as a living entity. The structure evolves as a result of inner dialogue with characters, setting and plot. Details are checked out as if compiling a biography. ‘Is this how it was? Have I emphasised that strongly enough? Is this the best way to tell it?’

Trying out different designs

Organising your notes

A planning strategy used by a number of writers is that of putting ideas, scenes, descriptive passages, etc. on separate sheets of paper and shuffling them around until a workable pattern emerges. Some writers blu-tack these notes to the wall, some pin them to a board or lay them out on the floor. Index cards are a more manageable option. Their size also encourages concise note-making. Several well-organised writer friends plan their work on index cards and file them, initially under topics and later under chapter headings. (Index trays long enough to accommodate a full-length play or novel are quite expensive. Shoe boxes are a viable alternative and cost nothing.) Other planning systems – some of which may be used in conjunction with index cards – are suggested below.

Story boards

These are often used in planning screen plays. The sheet or board is divided into squares, one for each scene. In each square, everything the director or continuity person needs to know about that scene is noted in words or sketches. The end result is like an expanded version of the narrative steps described in the last chapter, and provides a valuable overview which enables any repetitions or omissions to be corrected. The method is equally useful to writers, both at the initial planning stage and as a means of keeping track of changes as the work progresses. Notes (on index cards or post-it notes) can be grouped on or around the appropriate squares.

If we take Little Red Riding Hood as an example again, at the initial planning stage a story board for that tale might look something like Figure 7.

Pictorial score

Musician Penny Gordon plans her compositions by drawing a linear picture that outlines the moods she wishes to evoke in the piece. She uses colour, pattern, and a mixture of abstract and pictorial representation. Underneath each sector she sketches her ideas in words and music. The pattern of moods in such a picture could be inspired by a painting, a piece of music, a poem, a specific event – anything which affects feeling and mood.

For an example of how this mood-led strategy could be applied to story-making, see Figure 8 (and imagine the colours). This particular example shows how a story such as Red Riding Hood might have evolved from the ideas generated by such a mood-picture.

Like the story board, it provides a valuable overview of work in progress – as do the next three approaches:

Route map

Map the route of your story as if it were the Central Line on the underground, each stop representing a narrative step in the main plot. Show any sub-plots as auxiliary lines. Group idea sheets or index cards around the appropriate stops.

Topographical map

This type of map shows the location of key events in a story. Tolkein’s maps of Middle Earth, and A.A. Milne/E.H.Shephard’s map of Christopher Robin’s world are well-known examples.

Some other layouts on which a story could be based are: a meal set out on a table, the plans of a house or garden, a musical score, a seating plan, a photograph, a game board or games pitch.

Family tree

The longer the work, the more comprehensive the drawing up of family trees needs to be in order to prevent chronological errors. A family tree can also be the starting point around which the story is structured.

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Fig. 7. A story board for Little Red Riding Hood.

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Fig. 8. Pictorial score adapted to story-making.

Flow chart

Often used in computing, a flow chart shows possible paths through a programme or task. The Yes/No choices which have to be negotiated in using a cashpoint machine could be plotted as a simple flow chart.

The choices involved in self-assessment income tax forms would provide a far more elaborate example. A flow chart can be used to chart a character’s progress. Unlike narrative trees, which give two choices at each juncture, flow charts operate on an ‘if this happens, do this’ basis. Also unlike narrative trees, they can jump several steps forwards or backwards, return the user to the beginning or eject them from the system entirely. See Red Riding Hood Flow Chart (Figure 9).

Instructions, directions and other sources of information

Stories have been based on recipes, menus, knitting patterns, the weather forecast, the ten commandments and train timetables to give but a few examples.

Storage bases

Anything in which items are gathered together and viewed as a collection can be used as the basis of a story. A chest of drawers, a china cabinet, a library, a fridge, a shed, a sewing box, all have their story to tell. Personal memories associated with the contents can be evoked through guided visualisation (as with the toy box and wardrobe in Chapter 6). Or the story of the objects and the events which brought them together can be told.

Tarot spread

There are many tarot spreads, both simple and complex, around which a story can be structured. Each position in the spread represents the answer to a question, so that the spread can be used as a plan with or without the accompanying cards. (See Chapter 3, Figure 5 for an example.)

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Fig. 9. Red Riding Hood flow chart.

Writing backwards

This is an approach used particularly when writing twist-in-the-tale stories and comedy sketches. In both cases the writer needs to set up certain expectations in the mind of the reader, viewer or listener in order to create the maximum surprise at the end. For this reason the ending is often worked out first and the rest of the story then ‘written backwards’ to a pre-determined structure. The techniques used in both genres are very specific and require separate study if this is an avenue you wish to pursue (see reading list for further information).

However, the idea of beginning with an ending and writing backwards from it can be applied to other types of story – as it was in Chapter 5. In that instance we brainstormed penultimate sentences, chose one, then created a new story by writing towards the new two-sentence ending.

This time we will work backwards step by step, first choosing a final sentence, then brainstorming scenarios which might have preceded it.

For example, some scenarios which might have preceded Ray Bradbury’s final sentence ‘Then … some idiot turned on the lights’ are:

  1. The boy opened the headmaster’s drawer to return money stolen by his friend (then some idiot turned on the lights).
  2. The men were standing naked in the middle of the women’s changing room (then some idiot … ).
  3. A film containing vital photographic evidence had just been removed from the camera (then … )
  4. The car’s lights were wired to a bomb (etc.).
  5. The woman thought the man in bed with her was her husband.
  6. The funeral cortege was proceeding with dignity along the front at Blackpool.

Choose one brainstormed scenario, then one or more scenarios which could have preceded it. A scenario is then chosen to precede that and so on until the beginning of the story is reached.

Checklist

When crafting your work:

Also, if you want to write twist-in-the-tale stories or comedy sketches, you need to study the finer points involved in writing backwards.

FINE-TUNING YOUR CHARACTERS

NB If there are tarot cards you particularly enjoy working with, have them copied A4 size and laminated. This can be done quite cheaply at most large office supplies stores.

FINE-TUNING YOUR DIALOGUE

Check that every piece of dialogue you have written performs at least one of the following functions:

  1. Conveys essential information.
  2. Moves the story forward.
  3. Reveals the character and mood of the person who is speaking.
  4. Establishes the relationship between characters.

Although the mode of speech provides clues to a character’s era, geographical origins, and social class, dialogue should not be used to convey these alone. Dialogue that does not perform any of the above four functions should be cut. Skilfully handled dialogue can perform several of these functions at once. Work at making yours more economical in this respect. Check also that the dialogue is distinctive – that only the person in question could have said those words. If any section still sounds like dummy dialogue – i.e. anyone could have said it – it needs fine-tuning. This is very important to remember as the ‘anyone could have said it’ fault is an extremely common one with novice writers and is one of the most frequent reasons for having work rejected.

INVENTING A PURPOSE

If you have no specific purpose for the telling of your tale, invent one. Do you want to make a specific point, raise awareness, entertain, shock?

Which particular sector of the population would you like to influence or affect? Having a specific purpose and a specific target audience in mind will help to focus your thoughts.

FOCUSING ON STYLE AND CLARITY

Does your work sometimes suffer from ‘stylism’? Do verbosity, minimalism and originality lure you like sirens onto the rocks of mumbo-jumbo? Does your internal critic then sail past with a loud hailer, shouting comments about ‘trying to be clever’ – and does your novel subsequently end up at the back of a drawer for another few months? Head for the calmer waters of Chapter 2 and Tune in. Inside is where your true writer’s voice is to be found. Like structure, it is organic and cannot be bolted on.

– EXERCISES –

Paring down

Imagine you have received details of a competition. The story you are in the process of finishing is just right for it – except that it is 500 words too long. Weed out the non-essentials until your story fits the required length.

Paring down again

Now write it again as a 1,000-word story – another very useful exercise in crafting. This time you may lose some elements which deserve to be kept, but you will probably have made a number of unexpected improvements as well.

Selecting the best

Select the best elements of your two shortened stories and combine them to produce a final prizeworthy draft.

Practising brevity

Make writing a story in 100 words or fewer a part of your daily writing practice for a while (see Chapter 1). Many writers find this particularly useful when they are engaged in the editing process.

Checklist