Category: Pacing (Page 1 of 2)

Pacing, Part 16: Wrapping up!

I’m working on a series on pacing.  You can see other posts in the series here.

There’s still a lot more to cover on pacing, but now you’ve been introduced to the idea that pacing can work on pretty much every level (even high levels, as in the beginnings examples), so I’ll wrap things up here.

Pacing is about connecting form to content.  Any element of form or content can have a corresponding element on the other side of the equation.

When you find a short story idea that’s turning into a novel, it’s because your subconscious is trying to match the content of your idea (too complex to be a short story) with its proper form.  And vice versa.

When you struggle to make your characters do what you want them to do, it may be that the pacing of the characters is such that they want to act sooner, or later, or completely differently, than you want them to.

When you find yourself locked in the grip of writer’s block, it may be that you’re trying to fight a struggle between an outline that you’ve written, and the combination of form and content that you’ve set out on the page.

When you write a scene whose paragraphs and low-level pacing don’t resemble the content that you think you’re writing, don’t be surprised if a plot twist appears out of nowhere:  sometimes writing a discrepancy between form and content is the subconscious’s way of telling you that all is not what it seems.

I won’t get into it much here, but:

You don’t need to plan this all out, when it comes to pacing.

In fact, avoid planning as much as possible.  Give your subconscious as little as possible, and get out of the way.

Your subconscious is a drama queen, and it will handle the logistics of pacing for you, if you trust it.  Just step back, admire the work, and resist the urge to rewrite.  Fix the commas and let your subconscious get on with it 🙂

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Pacing, Part 15: Prologues (with Agatha Christie)

I’m working on a series on pacing.  You can see other posts in the series here.

Do you need a prologue?  Are you allowed to have one?

Beginning writers are often advised to avoid prologues.  In fact, they’re often advised to avoid a lot of things that annoy editors and agents when handled badly.

But if you’re studying pacing…you’re probably no longer a beginner.  You can throw that advice out.  More on that later.

So can you get away with a prologue or not?

Two issues here:

  • Prologues slow down pacing, a lot more than it might seem at first glance.
  • Prologues require their own internal structure.

A story with a prologue implies that there is going to be a lot more plot than a story without a prologue.  This will be no straightforward story in which the protagonist encounters a problem, comes up with the perfect plan to solve the problem, makes one big push to resolve the problem, and voila! Problem solved.

If there is a prologue, this implies that there are at least two plots–the plot the main character thinks they’re addressing, and something else (a murder, a crime, a twist).

The Cask of Amontillado can’t have a prologue.  The structure of the story is just too simple to support it.

Pride and Prejudice doesn’t need a prologue.  The story starts with the rich dude moving into the neighborhood.  No further past details need to be explained in order for the reader to be entertained.  And no other plot is needed, either.

PROLOGUE

IT was 2 p.m. on the afternoon of May 7, 1915. The Lusitania had been struck by two torpedoes in succession and was sinking rapidly, while the boats were being launched with all possible speed. The women and children were being lined up awaiting their turn. Some still clung desperately to husbands and fathers; others clutched their children closely to their breasts. One girl stood alone, slightly apart from the rest. She was quite young, not more than eighteen. She did not seem afraid, and her grave, steadfast eyes looked straight ahead.

“I beg your pardon.”

A man’s voice beside her made her start and turn. She had noticed the speaker more than once amongst the first-class passengers. There had been a hint of mystery about him which had appealed to her imagination. He spoke to no one. If anyone spoke to him he was quick to rebuff the overture. Also he had a nervous way of looking over his shoulder with a swift, suspicious glance.

She noticed now that he was greatly agitated. There were beads of perspiration on his brow. He was evidently in a state of overmastering fear. And yet he did not strike her as the kind of man who would be afraid to meet death!

“Yes?” Her grave eyes met his inquiringly.

He stood looking at her with a kind of desperate irresolution.

“It must be!” he muttered to himself. “Yes—it is the only way.” Then aloud he said abruptly: “You are an American?”

“Yes.”

“A patriotic one?”

The girl flushed.

“I guess you’ve no right to ask such a thing! Of course I am!”

“Don’t be offended. You wouldn’t be if you knew how much there was at stake. But I’ve got to trust some one—and it must be a woman.”

“Why?”

“Because of ‘women and children first.’” He looked round and lowered his voice. “I’m carrying papers—vitally important papers. They may make all the difference to the Allies in the war. You understand? These papers have got to be saved! They’ve more chance with you than with me. Will you take them?”

The girl held out her hand.

“Wait—I must warn you. There may be a risk—if I’ve been followed. I don’t think I have, but one never knows. If so, there will be danger. Have you the nerve to go through with it?”

The girl smiled.

“I’ll go through with it all right. And I’m real proud to be chosen! What am I to do with them afterwards?”

“Watch the newspapers! I’ll advertise in the personal column of the Times, beginning ‘Shipmate.’ At the end of three days if there’s nothing—well, you’ll know I’m down and out. Then take the packet to the American Embassy, and deliver it into the Ambassador’s own hands. Is that clear?”

“Quite clear.”

“Then be ready—I’m going to say good-bye.” He took her hand in his. “Good-bye. Good luck to you,” he said in a louder tone.

Her hand closed on the oilskin packet that had lain in his palm.

The Lusitania settled with a more decided list to starboard. In answer to a quick command, the girl went forward to take her place in the boat.

This is the prologue to Agatha Christie’s The Secret Adversary.  Chapter 1 starts with two completely different characters, in a different time frame, with a completely different tone.

“Aha,” we say, “eventually the events in the prologue will become relevant.”  There is an open browser tab of the mind, as it were, that is continuously watching for the main plot to catch up to the prologue.

The prologue has a beginning, a demonstration that emphasizes the beginning (as in “The Cask of Amontillado”), a climax, and an ending/wrapup that points its way out of the prologue and toward the main body of the book.  It makes us care enough to keep reading…but not enough to throw the book against the wall, in knowing that one of the characters, at least, is about to die.

If your prologue exists mere to tell the reader that the bad guys are going to do something nasty, well, you’ve wasted the reader’s time.  That’s what bad guys do.  You have to imply something unexpected will happen, and it must happen.  It’s kind of like a prophecy in a high fantasy novel.  It has to happen, it can’t be something that you already expected to happen, and it has to happen in a way you didn’t expect (but still in line with expectations).

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Pacing, Part 14: Beginnings (with Oscar Wilde)

I’m working on a series on pacing.  You can see other posts in the series here.

Beginnings don’t have to start with summary; they can start with demonstration.  The demonstration should involve the setting more than it does anything else.  You might pull off extremely minor actions or dialogue, but try just using setting first.  It’s easier.

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

This is the opening of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray.  It’s rich with detail, but doesn’t have as much of an attitude as Pride & Prejudice.  This isn’t a book about gently laughing at one’s neighbors and one’s self, but a book about image versus reality, and the contusions that living a false image can force upon oneself.

Note the longer sentences, longer paragraphs, more complex sentence structure, and the veneer of polysyllabic words.

This is going to be an involved kind of story with a lot of atmosphere, ripe with self-destruction.  Just look at the words:

  • smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes
  • hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs
  • sullen murmur of bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass
  • circling with monotonous insistence
  • the stillness more oppressive

One of the tricks of pacing is that you can, by matching up form and content, foreshadow the events to come.  If you lay down the same pattern in the beginning that you do in the end, the reader will get a hint of the structure to come–even if you use elements with a different content.  The ostensible content of this beginning is about a garden, but the pacing shows a pattern of decay and oppression.

The content and form at the end are openly about decay and oppression, and the reader feels like it “must” be that way, because they have been observing the same pattern throughout the work.

Not every work uses foreshadowing, but a lot of masterpieces do.  Go back to the Pride and Prejudice example.  In the end, the main character gets married to a wealthy single man.  The pattern of the ending is set up in the beginning, in an even more obvious fashion than it is here.

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Pacing, Part 13: Beginnings (with Jane Austen)

I’m working on a series on pacing.  You can see other posts in the series here.

In the beginning of every story is a beginning.

This seems obvious, but it’s one of the hallmarks of an early writer to leave it off entirely and to start in what the writer thinks is in media res, or “in the middle.”

Without a proper beginning, the reader doesn’t have a chance to care about the story.  It’s still possible that they’ll enjoy and read the story–but only if the cover and plot description promise exactly what they want, or because they owe the writer a favor that makes them read past the beginning.

A beginning gives the reader whatever information they need in order to care about the story.

The most usual type of beginning involves a character in a setting with a situation they must deal with.  These three elements must be either summarized in an interesting fashion, or demonstrated in an interesting fashion.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

This is the opening of Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen.  It begins with a short summary, well pervaded with snark.

Change the attitude even slightly, and the opening becomes that of a completely different book:

Everyone knows that rich single men are prey.  Too bad for them.  Every rich man has a woman’s name all over him, but hidden, as if it were under the silver scratch-off paint on a lottery ticket.

Please note the way the change in attitude (similar but not identical) is reflected in the change in pacing, on the paragraph, sentence, and word levels.

More on how to demonstrate, rather than summarize, in a bit.

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Pacing, Part 12: If not the Hero’s Journey, Then What?

I’m working on a series on pacing.  You can see other posts in the series here.

I just spent the previous post in the series ripping apart the Hero’s Journey, or at least the fact that it’s not the end-all, be-all that some writers make it out to be.

But if you’ve spent the last umpteen years memorizing and internalizing the Hero’s Journey and it’s not all that’s out there, what is?

I’m going to skip over the content of various plots so we can focus on just the form for now.

We touched on this in the Amontadillo posts: you can add different elements to a plot in order to fill it out or strip it down, as the story demands.

What are these elements, if they’re not things like “the mentor” or “moment of death”?

  • Beginning/Setup.
  • Setting.
  • Character/Character arcs.
  • Try/fail cycles.
  • Backstory.
  • Demonstration.
  • Summary.
  • Reversals/plot twists.
  • Subplots.
  • Spinning wheels.
  • Climaxes.
  • Endings/Wrapups.

A lot of these are somewhat arbitrary; you can always rename them, remove them, or add more.  You get to build the structure that you want to build–and you can build new tools, consciously or otherwise, in order to get that done.

Which ones do you use for any given plot, though?

This is something that goes beyond the scope of the series.  I will talk a little bit about beginnings, so you can see an example.  And then I’m going to need to start wrapping up.

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Pacing, Part 11: The Hero’s Journey.

I’m working on a series on pacing.  You can see other posts in the series here.

Here are the stages of the Hero’s Journey:

  •  Departure.
    • Call to Adventure.
    • Refusal of the Call.
    • Supernatural Aid.
    • Crossing the First Threshold.
    • Belly of the Whale.
  • Initiation.
    • The Road of Trials.
    • The Meeting with the Goddess.
    • The Woman as Temptress.
    • Atonement with the Father.
    • Apotheosis.
    • The Ultimate Boon.
  • Return.
    • Refusal of the Return.
    • The Magic Flight.
    • Rescue from Without.
    • The Crossing of the Return Threshold.
    • Master of Two Worlds
    • Freedom to Live

Wait…aren’t those the stages you’re familiar with?  That’s because what’s being taught as “The Hero’s Journey” or the monomyth currently…isn’t.

The Hero’s Journey doesn’t apply to every story; it doesn’t really even apply to the ones that people say it’s being used on–a bajillion Hollywood movies, for example. What most people use is an adaptation by Christopher Vogler, in The Writer’s Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers.  His structure in its earliest format became commonish knowledge in 1992.

The point being here is that the plot events impose a certain pacing on a story.  The same number of events, in the same order (more or less), the same trials, the same resolutions.

Whether that’s the most appropriate pacing or not.

You can struggle to push that template onto “The Cask of Amontillado,” but it would screw up the story if you tried to write the same revenge story using the Hero’s Journey plot.

I’m making a big deal of this because continuously using the Hero’s Journey is something that will leave you blind to pacing at the plot level.

Stories shouldn’t be built the same way, even at the plot level.  Every story has an appropriate plot that fits it.

And that plot is not consistently the Hero’s Journey.

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Pacing, Part 8: The Cask of Amontillado

I’m working on a series on pacing.  You can see other posts in the series here.

It’s a big jump, going from “The Quick Brown Fox” to Edgar Allen Poe, but I think we’re ready.

Take a moment to look at the story, here.  Whatever you do, don’t stop to read it.  Bah!  Just skim through it.  We’re just going to look at form and not content for now.

Take a look at:

  • How long the story is (you can always copy/paste the story into a word processor document and count the words, if you like).
  • How long the paragraphs are (ditto).
  • The pattern of long vs. short paragraphs (long-short-long-short, or long-long-long-short-short short, etc.).
  • Where the long paragraphs are (in the beginning? in the middle? in several places?) vs. where the short paragraphs are.
  • What are the paragraph patterns at the beginning and the end of the story.
  • Do long paragraphs contain long sentences, short sentences, or a mix?
  • Are the dialogue sentences longer or shorter than the descriptive ones, in general?
  • Of the two characters, who has the longer dialogue sentences?
  • Of the two characters, who has the more complex sentences (that is, the sentences with the more phrases in them)?
  • Who has the longer words?

As a rule of thumb:

  • The average length of a word in English is 5 letters.
  • The average length of a sentence in English is 15-20 words.
  • A line of printed text is about 10-15 words in a book.
  • A medium sort of paragraph in fiction is about 3-5 lines, or 30 to 75 words.
  • A medium-length short story is about 3,000 to 6,000 words.

Imagine that very short paragraphs of 10 words or less are yellow, short pararaphs of less than 3 full lines are green, medium paragraphs of 3-5 full lines are blue, longish paragraphs of 5-7 full lines are purple, and very long paragraphs are red.

What are the main colors used in this story?  Would the pattern be mixed or consistent?  What is the longest stretch of one single color?

If you’d like, now you can stop to read the story.

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Pacing, Part 7: The Quick Brown Fox

I’m working on a series on pacing.  You can see other posts in the series here.

We’ve just looked at words.  Now let’s look at phrases.

The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.

Our phrases here are:

  • The quick brown fox
  • jumped
  • over
  • the lazy dog

or however you want to slice that.  Up to you.

The speedy umber vixen hurdles the apathetic pooch.

This is a different version of the first sentence, using different words but the same phrases.  The units are the same; they’re attached the same way.  It’s colored a little bit differently than the first sentence, sure, but it means essentially the same thing.

The speedy umber vixen, the farm’s femme fatale, hurdles the apathetic pooch with a grace that justifies her pillage.

This is a different version of the first sentence, using different words and different phrases.  The units are not the same.

  • The speedy umber vixen
  • the farm’s femme fatale
  • hurdles
  • the apathetic pooch
  • with
  • a grace
  • that
  • justifies
  • her pillage

Again, you can slice this up as you like.  Not only are the words generally longer or more Frenchified, there are more of them in total, in bigger structure.

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.

You can’t communicate the same content–that the fox is the heroine of this story, admired by the narrator, despite the loss of the eggs–with the original words or the original way the phrases were structured within the sentence.  It doesn’t mean the same thing.

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.  She stole a dozen eggs over the last week.  Nobody could catch her.  Nobody bothered to try.

It’s not to say that short words and short, straightforward sentences can’t make for decent writing.  It’s just that the content changes, depending on the materials you choose, and how you choose to stick them together.

The speedy umber vixen, the farm’s femme fatale, leapt her skinny ass over the apathetic dog, praying that this time she wouldn’t get caught, not with four kits back waiting for her at home.

The easiest way to think of pacing at this level is that the form reflects the content; however, it’s not always straightforward.  If that was the only consideration, then the sentence above would have to be short, even shorter than the original sentence–it’s a short, smooth jump that the fox is making.

But there are other considerations.   More on that later.

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Pacing, Part 6: Dog

I’m working on a series on pacing.  You can see other posts in the series here.

All right, let’s get out a thesaurus and look up dog.

pup, puppy, bitch, cur, doggy, hound, mongrel, mutt, pooch, stray, tyke, bowwow, fido, flea bag, man’s best friend, tail-wagger

As well as a list of dog breeds.

Affenpinscher, Afghan hound, Afghan shepherd, Aidi, Airdale terrier, Akbash, Akita…

Each of those words has a character of its own.  It not only denotes something (that is, to serve as the word “for” something) but connotes, or implies, some other things.  A cur is not man’s best friend, for example, even though both denote some king of dog.

In addition, each of these words has, to go back to the woodworking metaphor, a particular sound that it makes, a particular face that it makes you make, when you say it.  A currrrrrrr literally makes you make an angrier, growlier face than straaaaaay, which almost makes your face smile.  (Check a mirror.)

The words also have lengths: cur, stray, man’s best friend.

Your word choice here is the base level of material with which you build your story.  You can treat the word sincerely, ironically, or with other tones–you can call a beautifully groomed Pomeranian a cur, for example.

How do you know what words to choose?  We’ll get to that…

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Pacing, Part 5: Pacing for Engineers

I’m working on a series on pacing.  You can see other posts in the series here.

Dear engineer types,

I am a poet type.  So I’m borrowing the metaphor from my spouse, who works in IT and does woodworking.

Let’s agree to look at pacing as a woodworking project.  We start with our raw materials, which are words.  What kind of words are they?  Words are like the type of wood you’re using.  Short blunt words are like pine, reliable and cheap.  Sesquipedalian verbiage is like a veneer of mahogany, thin and fragile, but it definitely classes up a project.

Let’s say phrase length is like the thickness of the wood, and sentence length is its length and width.  Let’s say punctuation is how you attach your pieces of wood together–commas, periods, semicolons, dashes.  Without punctuation it is impossible to sort out any kind of clarity in a sentence paragraph scene story

Paragraph length is, let’s say, how you put the pattern of joints together.  Are your joints heavy and reinforced, like a set of bunkbeds for a pair of eight-year-old twin boys, or are they delicately balanced, like a Louis XIV table,

with its thin and spindly legs?

Point being, you have to consider both the materials that you’re working with and who is eventually going to be using them and for what, right?  You have to pick the right wood, the right pieces of wood, the right methods of attaching them, the right design, etc.

At every level, your choices must fit the project.

That’s what pacing is.  You learn pacing when you stop banging together whatever wood is cheapest with whatever nails you have on hand and going, “Why is my table so cheap and unprofessional looking?”

Welcome to Intermediate Writing!

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