When Detail Drains

I wrote about action scenes a while ago, but I've considered them even more in the last few days.

How does a writer transfer that amazing action scene from the screen (for real or in his or her mind) to the page? Some of those action scenes in a movie are awesome, and I almost hold my breath while they're taking place. I see every detail and it's all I can do not to call out. Have you experienced those? (I was lazy on Sunday and watched movies most of the day.)

Sadly, with many—if not most—novels that I read, these are one of the parts of the story that bore me. I find myself skipping over them, plucking out a word here and there to make sure there's nothing important happening that might force me to go back and read it carefully later.

What's with that?

As I mentioned in the earlier post, slowing down and developing details are important. But too much of either and you can kill the story. Trying to capture every nuance that is visually available on the screen becomes tedious and draining when you're throwing it out to your audience using only words.

How do you lift that tension-filled cinematic moment to the page?

I knew there had to be an answer.

Behind my back at this very moment is a bookcase with probably over sixty books related to writing. I like to think that somehow the brilliant advice and direction in each of them would somehow drill into the back of my head when I'm goofing around with emails, but alas, they require a more interactive approach.

Donald Maass is my 'go to' guy when it comes to most things writing, and he didn't fail me in The Fire in Fiction. In fact, I had conveniently highlighted it months ago when I first read it:

" . . . action, when related in strictly visual terms, feels flat. Handled objectively, it does not move us. Emotions are needed to give action force." (p. 198)

Yes! Exactly! So what does this mean . . . exactly?

Master Maass continues later:

" . . . tension in action comes not from the action itself but from inside the point-of-view character experiencing it." (p. 200)

(Note: This is also the first time I've seen a 'poor' example spelled out in a craft book. Nope. Not gonna tell you. You'll have to get your hands on a copy for yourself. But it begins on page 196.)

So, the way I interpret this is you reign in your broad cinematic view of the details to the sweat and fear and utter desperation in your POV character.

Slow it down, provide the details, but don't try to be a reporter on the scene. Be the character. This would be a perfect place for deep POV.

If there's something else, please share!




CR: Rain Gods by James Lee Burke. This one has really slowed me down. I'm considering shelving it for a bit because I'm sure it's me and not Mr. Burke. And, to be honest, there's been a lot of life going on at the moment.

It's all better with friends.

Strong Emotions

The very best deep POV experiences are . . . well, deep.

Gene Fowler said, "Writing is easy. All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead."

That blood on the forehead? It's the first step of deep POV. Terrible, but true. Deep POV requires turning yourself inside out, exposing raw nerves and deep wounds. Self-censorship is a killer when the story calls for something emotional.

When I used to write a taut scene, I blocked emotions and whisked through it, laying down the bare bones and calling it done. I trusted that readers would understand, and get what I meant without any superfluous words.

And then, in addition to my critique partners pushing for more, I started studying the writers I love. They don't use flowery, purple prose, but they do take each thought, each emotion, step by step. One word at a time. They draw out and prolong the incredible fear, or the ripping loss.

It's become easier now to fall into deep POV. I've learned I'll survive. But initially, I had to say a prayer and consciously move deeper into my own blocked psyche. I've come to consider it a wonderful kind of therapy—and it's free.

Balance is important. As much as I need fresh, sweet air, so do my readers. But I never let them catch their breaths for long . . .

And since it's the beginning of the year:

Goals can be energizing—when you win. But a vision is more powerful than a goal. A vision is enlivening, it's spirit-giving, it's the guiding force behind all great human endeavors. Vision is about shared energy, a sense of awe, a sense of possibility. ~ Benjamin Zander, Conductor, Boston Philharmonic Orchestra


Currently reading: I think I'll start the new Koontz tonight. I deserve it. Oh yeah, and a nice hot bath. Yeah.

Working On: Learning about this wonderful writing program for Macs . . . Scrivener. I think I could be falling in love.

Deep POV

Writers who are learning craft figure out fairly early the meaning of "POV."

When my friend, Lauren, told me the letters stood for Point of View, my initial reaction was, "Yeah, so? Of course it's all in my point of view. I'm writing the silly thing."

Oy.

For those just beginning to peel the onion, POV represents the eyes through which you're framing your scene, or your entire story. You choose a character (ideally the one who has the most to lose at the moment) and let events unfold through their viewpoint; their emotions; their eyes.

It can be harder than it sounds. Most of us want to turn "omniscient" from time to time.

Then, there's Deep POV.

Deep POV, truth be told, is at once the hardest place for me to get, and the easiest place to write from once I'm there.

Deep POV requires me to gird my psyche. I need to prepare myself for what's to come, because what's to come is likely to blow a few emotional gaskets I may have been subconsciously working on maintaining for quite a while. My protective barriers have to fall open to write in Deep POV. I must be vulnerable. I must cut open an artery and let my blood flow.

From The Art of Fiction, by John Gardner, describing what he calls "psychic distance":

1. It was winter of the year 1853. A large man stepped out of a doorway.
2. Henry J. Warburton had never much cared for snowstorms.
3. Henry hated snowstorms.
4. God, how he hated these damn snowstorms.
5. Snow. Under your collar, down inside your shoes, freezing and plugging up your miserable soul.

Deep POV should be used to intensify and highlight. A story with nothing but this kind of depth would exhaust a reader before it got going. "Moderation in all things." Although attributed (probably correctly) to Andria Terence, a Roman dramatist, my frame of reference says Julia Child. But whoever, it's a truism worth noting.

As much as I love Deep POV, it can leave me drained, for obvious reasons. It's often the best of what I have to offer and because it can be intensely personal, the risk is that much greater. Deep POV means I have to dig into Peg. I have to feel what my character is feeling.

And it has to be real.

Real, fictionally speaking. But guess what? If I try to evade or side-step? To soften the impact or protect my own emotions? It shows. Rather than a natural diamond, it slides straight past Zircon to plastic. An ugly thing no one wants to waste their time reading.

Deep POV connects both me and my reader to our core's. It's a God-thing, a human thing, an In-The-Moment event that is rare and wonderful and powerful. Not something to fear, but to embrace.

Even when it's the scariest (especially when it's the scariest) moment in your character's life.



CR: The Two Minute Rule by Robert Crais.

Working on: Our part in a neighborhood progressive dinner party tomorrow night (we're the appetizers) and finishing up my Christmas shopping. I'm woefully behind.

And, important to me, finishing a new scene in my story.