• I've discovered that I suck at character development.

Naa. It’s not that at all. It’s not a matter of good writing or bad, or even talent.

I looked the opening of, The Job. The problem is that you’re doing exactly what we all do when we start writing. You’re telling the story on an event-by-event basis. Fact about the scene follows fact, alternating with an explanation by the author as to why it happened. So, in the first line a woman we don’t know squeezes her husband’s hand for unknown reasons. We’re then told by the narrator that her voice would “give her away.” Forgetting everything about the story but that short opening. Look at the problems inherent to the structure.

1. The reader doesn’t yet know where we are, who we are, or what’s going on. Not knowing that, we have context for nothing. Ann, the protagonist, could be hiding in the dark forest, as Nazi soldiers (or zombies, or...) search for her. She could be in a doctor’s office awaiting the diagnosis of her son/husband/self. She could be in the reception line of her wedding, or at a funeral. All of those, and many more, fit the opening lines. And while you could say, “Keep reading and you’ll find out, mystery is fun. Confusion and ignorance aren’t, because nothing you might say, later, can retroactively remove it.

2. Look at a simple statement like, “give her away.” To a reader who has read only that she’s holding the husband’s hand this might mean that someone who shouldn’t, will know she’s there. It might mean to show her nervousness to the husband, or, someone else.

3. As presented, it’s a report, told by someone who is informing the reader of what they have just visualized happening. The reader hasn’t been given the situation or the actual image, only notice that the author visualized it. So the POV, if you can be said to have one, is yours, and we don’t know the character, other than as an externally described character. When you read it you already know the situation, and you have the proper image in your mind, just waiting to be evoked. But my head, as so many people are quick to point out, is empty. I don’t have that image so there’s nothing to be called up by knowing it's the proper time for it to appear.

So, while we know a hand was squeezed we don’t understand why. And knowing nothing about why the lady took her husband’s hand, or what she’s concerned about means we-don’t-know-Ann. But whose story is it?

Look at what happens when we change the approach to one in which we’re in the character’s, not the author’s head, and in which we know what’s motivating her to act:
­- - - - - - - - - - -
Ann Conrad closed her eyes for a moment, trying to bring her roiling emotions under control before the doctor came through the door. It didn’t help so she turned to her husband.

“Jason?”

“Hmm?”

“I…” She took a shaky breath, then shook her head. Speech was impossible. Until the doctor said what he had to say everything was impossible.

Without thought her hand went to take his and squeeze, borrowing courage from him, loving the strength that radiated from him and brought stability. Thank God for you, Jason. Thank God. His smile, and the love that shown in his face said he understood.
- - - - - - - - - - -
Your characters and situation? No. It’s just a quick illustration of a more emotion based and character-centric  approach.

Do we know what she’s there for? No. But we know that whatever it is, it has her rattled, and that she, at least thinks it critically important. Her husband may or may not feel as strongly, but he’s at least outwardly calm. We know she loves her husband, that in her perception he loves her, and that whatever the problem, she has his support. We know she doesn’t want to worry him, and that she’s an emotional person. We know what motivated her to speak, and why she didn’t continue. Had I changed her thought, so that she was thanking God for him, as a prayer I’d have just demonstrated that she’s a religious person, ad changed the reader's perception of her.

So, presented from her viewpoint we have context and specific character development. Now, we not only know what she said and did, we know her, and have reason to want to know what has her so rattled.

But, if all we know is factual detail, as mentioned by someone who isn’t on the scene, why do we care?

My point is that it’s not you, or some failure of talent or potential. You can learn how to get into the character’s viewpoint as easily as anyone else, because it’s not the art part of writing. It’s a matter of compositional tricks and technique—cookbook stuff, not magic, or a gift from a passing muse. Creativity—the thing that impels you to use the tools of the trade in interesting ways—is an unknown. You may be swimming in it or be desert dry. So what? There are lots of “no talent hacks” making a living through their writing. But they are making a living by it, while you and I aren’t. So obviously, they know something we don’t. They have skills we may not even know are required.

If you are swimming in talent it’s undirected talent, that hasn’t the tools it needs to turn hack writing into genius.

So either way, you need a more complete knowledge of the tools and techniques that work on the page.

Do you believe that reading, and talking with people like those on the site who also write, has the power to teach you what’s needed? Try this:

All your life you’ve been watching films, in theaters and as TV programs. Has it taught you to be a director or a screenwriter? That’s how well reading fiction prepares us to write it.

So, like all of us you love reading, and creating stories. You have the desire and the perseverance. You have everything you need but the tools that will turn your writing from a report into an explosion. You need to fit your dray horse—the general skill called writing—with wings. You need to be mounted on Pegasus.

Instead of telling your story as an external narrator, which leads to a dispassionate recounting of events, take your reader deep into the mind of the character, to know only what that character is actively focused on; to know only your character’s understanding of their world, filtered through their desires and needs. If we know what’s driving them, and what their moment-to-moment goals are, we know them. And if we know them we care. Why? Because they have character. ;–)

A great place to begin is with some of the basics:

http://www.be-a-better-writer.com/scenes-and-sequels.html
http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/art/scene.php

The library’s fiction writing department can be a great resource. Personally, I’d look for the names, Debra Dixon, Dwight Swain, or Jack Bickham, in that order.

Sorry for the rant. What can I say? It’s how I’m made and I probably have too much time on my hands. Still, I hope this was of some help.

• You tout a tool box of fixes.

I can’t agree. If you try to build your house without tools or knowledge of the tools you do have you’re going to end up with a lean-to when you envision a palace. And no amount of fixes will make one into the other. What I’m saying is that in order for our story to be what we want it to be we have to understand the process we’re attempting to duplicate and the tools that are available. We can’t use the tool we don’t know exists, no matter how heartfelt and sincere our effort is.

It’s tempting to declare writing an art, and believe that it will just come to us because we’re pure of heart, and deserving. But is there any other profession where the practitioners simply feel the urge to produce the product and then do it well enough that others will pay money to buy it? I certainly don’t know any. Are there any, where simply being a consumer makes us equal to the pros at producing the product? Hell, if reading made us writers we should be cranking out successful TV scripts, because we’ve been enjoying that all our lives. An if it was a matter of intent and sincerity the tens of thousands posting their work on the various writing sites would be selling their work.

• What makes your character tick? What does he obsess about at two in the morning when he can't sleep?

Who cares? The reader certainly doesn’t. We can’t give the reader even a fraction of the character’s complexity and the reader isn’t really interested in getting to know them. They want something far simpler: They want someone who seems real as they live the story. And that’s it. They come to us for story, not history. If the story causes the character to show many characteristics, that’s great. But it’s the moment-to-moment reading pleasure that keeps the reader glued to the book. They must be made to want to know what comes next—be saying, “Tell me more,” not “Uh-huh.” Someone has a problem and that problem needs solving immediately, with our help. There’s our focus—the struggle and the objective. The character is driven to succeed and we cheer him/her on. To continue that, the character must be interesting enough to make us create an emotional bond with him/her. Their character needs to be consistent and in most cases admirable enough that we feel we wish we could be like them.

But we don’t care that the character obsesses late at night unless the obsession directly relates to the action in progress.

• I've given myself permission to be outrageous.

I’ve given myself permission to be great. Now if only ability came with permission.

Here’s the problem. If the reader isn’t motivated to turn to page two does it matter how outrageous the story is? Most rejections come on page one, unfortunately, often before the end of the second paragraph. If you can motivate them to read to page three, they’re going to at least ask to see the rest. And how much does the reader know about the character by page four? Damn little. They only know that the character seems interesting, based on what amounts to a snap judgment. And that’s the result of writing skill, not knowing the character to any depth.

• Jay, when you say tools, I hear rules.

Some tools do come with rules. Grammar is one. No one says you have to follow them, but ignoring them through ignorance seems foolish. Many aspects of writing have certain expected structural aspects. Editors will reject anyone who ignores them. Do we write nasty letters to the editor telling them they’re being unfair? Or do we say, “The customer is always right,” and give them what they want?

Your grade teachers graded you based on how well you used the compositional skills you were given. After twelve years of that we forget how hard we worked to learn them and make them part of our normal writing technique. They’re tools. Do you refuse to use them because you think of them as rules? Is it reasonable to expect there to be no additions and modifications to that basic set when we write stories instead of reports? Were those we have adequate, wouldn’t most new writers be high schoolers.

• I don't know what the tools of the professional writer are.

Yet you hope your work will appear professional to readers. You’re using called the “think” method, developed by the famous, Professor Harold Hill.

Here’s the thing. You can use any tool in any way you see fit. Sculptors learn to use the same basic tool set. Yet they create unique art, because creativity is what you do with what you have. And if you have nothing… Can you really think of yourself as a serious writer if you invest less than the cost of a fun weekend, and a bit of study time, in becoming a writer?

• Randy Ingermanson says, Style is a matter of taste.

Absolutely. Style is how you use the tools—assuming you own any. Your statues would be very different from mine. But given what I know of the techniques and available tools of the sculptor, my style would be to make gravel out of a block of marble.

• The thing about Ingermanson's conflict-resolution, struggle-victory, keep-the-story-moving exhortations is, where does that leave room for the frivolous rumination (ultimately useful, but my reader has no way of knowing it)

You forget that the reader will probably forget by that time. Your reader may only pick up the story as they eat lunch, so by the time they get to where the information is necessary it will long be out of their head. And moreover, since they have only twenty minutes in which to read they want it exciting.

People read in the now. They want to know what’s happening, not what happened, or the character’s philosophy. We read for entertainment and release. We want to have reason to worry.

Dwight Swain reports that his editor once said he wanted 25,00 words a month, in one story. According to Swain he said he wanted something like:

 “A group of people are stuck in a hilltop castle with a violent storm raging, the power out, the roof threatening to cave in, and, corpses falling down the stairs and hanging in the attic. Boards are creaking under somebody’s weight in the dark. Can that be the killer? There are flashes of lightening illuminating the face of the murderer—only the son-of-a-bitch is wearing a mask that makes it look even more horrible.

“And finally, the girl has been given into the safekeeping of the only person who is absolutely not the killer—only he turns out to be the killer, or course. But he’s taken the girl somewhere were no one can save her. And you damn well know he’s raping her while everyone stands around helpless.

“Do these stories in the style the old Edgar Rice Burroughs used to use…you know, you take one set of characters and carry them along for a chapter, putting them into a position at the end of the chapter that nothing can save them. Then take another set of characters, rescue them from their dilemma, carry them to a hell of a problem at the end of the chapter. Then switch back to the first set of characters and rescue them from their deadly peril. Carry them along to the end of the chapter, where once again they are seemingly doomed. Then rescue the second set of characters, and so on.

“Don’t give the reader a chance to breathe. Keep him on the edge of his God-damned chair all the way through!

“To hell with clues and smart dialog, and characterization. Don’t worry about corn. Give me pace and bang-bang. Make me breathless.”

Now agreed, he wanted adventure stories. But the approach applies to any kind of story. Readers want excitement not introspection. They respond to deadlines and bodies dropping through the ceiling more then they do angst.

• I have stacks of books waiting to be read. I've sampled them in order to decide what to tackle first. Most of them are closer in spirit to my impulses than to yours. They're my taste in literature, naturally. That's why I bought them.

I bought lots of food home from my favorite restaurants. It’s the kind I like. And I hope by eating, I’ll learn the secrets of the great chef who created them.

You don’t want the books, you want the manuscripts leading up to the final story, so you can see why certain things were done—and of more importance, not done. None of the thongs the author rejected appear, so how does that help you when the thing that author left out look attractive and sound reasonable to you?

Here’s a challenge: In my blog I have a story, deconstructed, with the reasons I did various things—and what I hoped they would accomplish. It’s not great fiction, and could use a bit of editing, but it did get me a contract and it was published, so in the eyes of at least that editor, I accomplished what I set out to do.

I list the reasons why things were done, at the end, keyed to numbers in the text. As you read, will you know why I did each of the things I did? If the answer to any one of them is no, and the section did accomplish its objective, it’s an illustration of what you won’t get by reading your favorite style writing.

• None of them is likely to embody that one-two formula that, thanks to you, I've just read about. If I turn out to be wrong, I'll let you know.

If they don’t, you might compare them against the method used in a pure narration section, that I talk about under the heading, “On Exposition,” here: http://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/2011/03/16/the-beginners-corner/

It’ about half way down

The motivation/response technique will show up in those stories, though, because it’s what drives dialog (or at least dialog that reads as real). Each person’s  dialog is the motivation that drives the other to speak.

And with that I'll bid everyone a five day farewell. Tomorrow I'm off to Daniel Boone Homestead to help with a scout encampment till Sunday. Then on Monday they slash my wrist open to fix my carpel tunnel.

Fun and terror, but I'm not quite certain of which fits which event. Though the water balloon launchers promise to be fun.