writing

“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”   ― Carl Gustav Jung

As promised, after a couple of weeks of mental vacation, I’m back with some lengthy blather on a writing topic. I’m going to talk about character relationships, plot, and conflict, so you can bail out now if that’s not your thing.

If you’re still here…deep breath and –

I follow a good number of bloggers who offer advice on writing craft and I love sharing advice I find interesting or helpful, especially when it feels like a gamechanger. A lot of craft talk focuses on nuts-and-bolts level tools, the kind of shoulder to the wheel advice that will help you get from Point A to Point B without embarrassing yourself. But occasionally, I come across someone that takes it to the next level.

September Fawkes

One such blogger is September Fawkes. Fawkes is a freelance editor, writing instructor, and blogger. Her blog, SeptemberCFawkes.com, has been recognized as a Writer’s Digest 101 Best Websites for Writers. Fawkes takes an holistic, almost meta approach to story, identifying and discussing what she notices from the subconscious experience of reading and writing, so that writers can examine it consciously, learn how it works, and gain mastery of it (freely yoinked from her bio). As a vibe, imagine learning about story from Yung and Campbell, rather than the English teacher who taught you about the inverted triangle and Freitag’s pyramid.

Fawkes’ posts aren’t a breezy read with a few key takeaways, but deep dives into hidden, foundational layers of story that most craft writers either don’t discuss or don’t recognize as distinct tools we can use to strengthen our work.

Recently, she has written a few posts about the various layers of plot. But – again – while other writers discuss plot as the mechanics of getting a character from Point A to Point B, Fawkes goes deeper to find the elements that most of the audience – and most writers – will never see, even if they grasp the concepts subconsciously.

I don’t know if she originated the particular concept I want to share, but she’s the first writing blogger I’ve come across who has analyzed it, and she has returned to it a few times, so I give her credit for putting it out there. Her approach was eye-opening and I’ve already applied it to both the novel I’m writing and the next one I’m outlining. Doing so has helped me add emotional layers to various characters, rely on subtext and nuance in their interactions, and strengthen both my vision and grasp on the story that I’m trying to tell.

The Relationship Plot

The concept is the relationship plot, a third layer of story that resides in between the traditional strata of plot and character arc.

Let’s define terms:

• The external plot is what happens. Ideally, you have a strong cause-and-effect chain so that events feel organic and character-driven, but essentially the external plot is physical, the actions that could be observed by other characters in your story world.
• The character arc is internal. This arc provides the reasons your character takes the actions that drive the external, physical plot. It drives your hero’s goal and determines what he needs. As the term implies, arc involves movement. At the beginning of the novel, the protagonist has a baseline emotional state, and arrives at the end in a different state, changed for the better, but sometimes for worse.

Most writing advice involves layering those two plots – internal and external – to create a cohesive whole. Generally, the internal character arc is why the character engages in the external plot. In turn, the events of the external plot require the character to move along the emotional arc, to learn and grow so that the goal can be obtained.

Now let’s go back to the relationship plot.

Despite what it sounds like, the relationship plot is not limited to the romance story. It can involve romance, but this layer encompasses any relationship your character engages in: parent/child, sibling, friend, mentor/mentee, co-worker or peer, or even hero/villain. Depending on the nature of your story, the this level plot might involve your character’s relationship with their vocation or a hobby, their social environment, with themselves, or the story world itself.

Simply put, this level of story focuses on how your character moves in relation to the other people, the environment, and societal forces in your story. It exists between the internal character arc and the external plot, as it involves both the physical interaction of the protagonist with others, and emotional growth and conflict. It is not as cleanly visible as the external plot, but not as opaque to an outside observer as the character arc. We can view these relationships in action, but we must intuit feeling and thoughts.

I’m going to emphasize this again, because I think it’s important. Fawkes posits the relationship plot as a third layer, not simply an element that is tangential to or affected by the others. While the protagonist’s relationships will be affected by the external and character plots, the relationship plot pushes back and should affect how the protagonist moves through the story physically and emotionally. Like the external plot and the character arc, the relationship plot can have its own normal world, inciting incident, journey, obstacles, and resolution that align (or should align) with the other layers.

Depending on your story, any of these layers can be the primary focus. A spy thriller will be heavy on external plot, and may have character and relationship plots of varying depths. Fantasy novels tend to feature strong character arcs – the quintessential hero’s journey – though external plot is usually primary and relationships are important. In romance fiction, the relationship plot is at the forefront, supported by external action and characterization.

The Relationship Plot in action

In this recent post, Fawkes examines some examples of relationship-focused stories, including most Hallmark movies (duh), Wicked, and, interestingly, The Prestige. I found that intriguing and she’s absolutely correct. Her analysis opened up an entirely different angle on viewing and appreciating the novel and film version, both of which I loved.

In a follow-on post, Fawkes continued her examination of the relationship plot in a way that got me thinking more seriously about the nature of relationships in my work in progress. In this later post, Fawkes examines how the relationship plot can create conflict, particularly in quieter scenes that are focused on aspects of the relationship.

If you’re writing a scene that involves quieter moments – family dinner, a work meeting – you might find it difficult to add tension or conflict, even if the scene is necessary for the external or internal plots. While these scenes can be useful for giving the protagonist a point to rest and reorient – and the reader time to digest pivotal plot moments – they can feel lifeless or inconsequential. Even if the scene ends with an important turning point, the lead-in might feel dull.

This is where viewing the protagonist’s relationships as a distinct level of plot can help.

Closeness and distance

Fawkes notes that the various layers of plot come with their own objectives. The external, physical plot can be described in terms of success v. failure. In each scene, does the hero succeed or fail? We can consider the character arc in terms of growth v. stagnation. Does the hero learn from mistakes or repeat them? Is the hero open to new ideas or stubbornly resisting them?

For scenes in the relationship plot, the equation is emotional closeness v. emotional distance. How does this create conflict? In each scene, your protagonist may desire more emotional closeness with the other element of the relationship – another person, an ideal, or society. Or he may desire distance. Or the hero may be satisfied with the status quo and seek to maintain things as they are. But how does the other side feel? In this case, the force of antagonism – and source of conflict – is the other person in the equation, who wants the opposite of the protagonist’s goal.

What does this look like? A teenage child wants to establish boundaries and independence from a parent, i.e.: distance. The parent, sensing this and perhaps feeling threatened, looks for opportunities to connect, to create emotional closeness. One spouse in a troubled marriage may want to reignite a spark, while the other may be satisfied with the status quo or even looking for a way out. An employee hoping for a promotion may seek an intellectual connection with the boss, but the boss may prefer some distance, because she’s trying to remain objective or has already selected someone else for the job. Character influences the interactions, but the relationship is driving.

Need higher stakes? Consider how Game of Thrones handled a pivotal scene that greatly impacted the plot, but was essentially relationship driven, and packed with tension and high stakes.

You think your family is difficult

Prior to what would become the Red Wedding, the romantic relationship between Robb Stark and Talisa had caused tension between Robb and his mother, who fears the repercussions of Robb’s decision to back out of his promise to marry a daughter of Walder Frey. Robb is frustrated by Catelyn’s warnings – as well as her other actions – and desires emotional distance. Catelyn seeks closeness, so that she can convince Robb of the danger he’s created.

The Starks’ nominal allies, the Freys, welcome them to their castle for a wedding feast, but the tension between the families is palpable, with subtle and not-so-subtle references to the diplomatic offense Robb has caused. Will the Freys accept that the far more powerful Starks broke their promise? Or will the alliance dissolve to the advantage of the Lannisters? The Starks are seeking closeness, to repair the damage done to their relationship with the Freys. The Freys pretend they want the same, but they actually want distance. The permanent kind.

Even before the violent plot twist, the scene is steaming with high stakes. The audience cares about the relationship between Robb and Cat, and about the outcome of the war. We want the Starks to be united and to win the war. If they quarrel, everything is at risk. The war – the external plot – is driving the characters’ arcs and the characters’ choices are affecting the war. And both influence and are affected by the relationship plots.

As we know, the external plot intrudes violently on the scene, as the war comes for the Starks, but Walder Frey’s relationships drove the action. He resented the powerful Starks and felt used. He desired a connection with the Lannisters. He craved the respect of the Seven Kingdoms – a form of emotional closeness – and the place his family name would have. The families were brought to this scene by Robb’s character arc – heir to warrior to arrogant young king. But the relationship plot – characters seeking closeness and distance – provides an electrifying layer of tension and conflict.

How did this help me?

Most scenes in your story will fall somewhere in the middle – higher stakes than everyday relationship conflict, but lower than the possibility of wholesale slaughter – and this is where I found Fawkes’ analysis and advice most helpful.

As I began experimenting with the idea of a relationship plot, I saw how my two current novels in progress relied on the protagonists’ relationships for both plot movement and emotional change. Though I was fairly deep into Novel 1, I went back to the outlining stage, and added a tower for the relationship plot. For each chapter, I identified the protagonist’s relationships with various story elements – other characters, himself, and the story world. Then I examined how each person or element approached the scene with the relationship in mind, and whether they desired more closeness, distance, or the status quo.

That simple exercise revealed multiple opportunities for subtext in the character dynamics, as well as ways each relationship could reinforce the theme of the protagonist’s search for his rightful place in the world.

WIP

In my novel in progress, my protagonist faces multiple opponents, but his chief antagonist is his story world, as he struggles to adapt to his proper place in society. While there are physical manifestations of his struggle – the external plot – a number of scenes find him engaged in varying levels of conflict with his friends, colleagues, romantic interest, and societal betters.

At first glance, the relationship plot isn’t the focal point of the novel, but the protagonist’s failure to find his place is what aligns the forces of antagonism against him, though they come from different angles, depending on whether his opponent is trying to help, use, or squash him. Without realizing it, I’d created a story where everything pivots on the protagonist’s relationships.

While the characters joust over personal matters, beneath the surface each is trying to tug the protagonist towards or away from societal roles he may or may not wish to play.

WIP 2

In the novel I’m outlining, relationships in fact are the central point. The protagonist’s relationships – good, bad, and too-soon-to-tell – and his desire to improve or sever them are what drive his choices, which moves the external plot forward. The relationships also drive his character arc, as he moves from emotional Point A to Point Z through the story.

As I added the relationship dynamics and conflict, it became clear that scene after scene was driven by the protagonist’s desire for closeness or distance, and his subsequent choices were heavily dependent on whether he succeeded or failed. Consciously recognizing and understanding that layer of plot helped me define the protagonist’s motivation and goals for each scene, and set up the forces of antagonism for some juicy interactions that intrude upon both the character arc and the external plot.

When I started each of these stories, the concept of a relationship plot wasn’t on my radar, though the elements were there. Properly assessing, applying, and strengthening this element of story has enriched both novels in progress, adding layers of meaning and increasing the depth of the work.

In theory. The proof will be in the telling. But I do feel good about them. Plot is not my strong suit, so I’m always on the lookout for interesting structural or character tips that contribute to organic plotting.

As always, I hope you find this helpful.

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You may be familiar with the But/Therefore technique popularized by South Park creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone.  When the pair generate scripts for the show, they maintain an organic structure and ever-escalating nonsense by linking each scene the story with the phrase but/therefore. A character wants something but an obstacle appears, and therefore a new action must be taken. While simple, this technique ensures that their stories have constant forward movement that arises from character choices and actions (no matter how ridiculous). Other than in the openings (ie: before the inciting incident), you’ll rarely encounter a scene in which a character takes an action because the next scene requires that action to be taken. Every action is driven by what has already occurred – a desire, an obstacle, a new choice – and the next scene builds upon that.

In a recent post on Writers Helping Writers, Lisa Poisso suggests a few other angles on this technique for creating a strong cause and effect chain in your story.

• Fortunately/Unfortunately. In this technique, a positive development is followed immediately by a negative event. “Fortunately/unfortunately generates a constant stream of opportunities for your characters to make decisions and take actions that move the story along,” Poisso writes. “They’re never stuck waiting for the next thing to happen. Every scene hands them a new snag to deal with.” This technique keeps your hero on her toes, because there is always something to react to.
• Choosing Consequences Over Continuations. This is essentially the but-therefore technique. When your hero takes an action or makes a choice, a consequence is triggered. The action/choice requires your hero to take a logical next step or it may prompt another character to react or create an obstacle. In the next scene, your hero takes action in response to the consequence, creating a strong link between here and there, and avoiding scenes where your protagonist just happens to show up somewhere.
• The “Yes/But” and “No/So” Dynamic. With this technique, your hero’s wins are followed by a caveat: a negative consequence or complication. Their defeats are followed by a new choice and new action. The yes/but scenario attaches strings to the success. The no/so adds reactions or complications to a failure. Whatever happens, your characters can’t sit still and wait for the next scene. They must act.

My readers know I’m always on the hunt for alternative ways to structure stories.

Over the past 12 – 20 months, I’ve gotten much better at plotting out a novel that doesn’t drop to sleep at the midpoint. I won’t say I’ve mastered it, because every story has its own needs. You may master what this novel requires, but what you’ve learned may or may not apply to the next, or in the same way. That’s why finding joy in learning and in the actual writing are both so important, and I think it’s why a lot of writers crap out after two or three books. They hit a wall somewhere and instead of figuring out what new skill to learn, they decide they don’t have what it takes.

But I’ve improved. When I look over the outlines of my two works in progress, the middle parts appear to have forward movement and character agency. I’m not struggling to contrive a situation that helps my protagonist get from Point C to Point M. Plotting has always been my weak suit, which is why short fiction was my preferred poison. I don’t know if something clicked for me with this particular protagonist or if I simply read the right bit of advice for my brain, but it’s working for me. For now.

But, as I said, not every trick works for every book, so I’m continually on the lookout for fresh advice, told in a clever way or approached from a different angle. This week, I came across a new kind of story structure, which is the kind of writing tidbit I hoard. It also has a cool name.

Chiastic structure.

Credit where credit is due: Kay DiBianca shared this story structure in a post on Killzone, a site created by a group of suspense writers and publishing professionals.

In the chiastic structure, the second half of a story parallels the first half, but in reverse. An interesting alternative to the traditional pyramid of rising action, climax, falling action, and resolution. DiBianca illustrates the concept with this image from Wikipedia depicting the biblical story of the flood.

This is similar to the five-act structural pyramid – Introduction, Rising Action, Climax, Falling Action, Denouement – but in a chiastic structure, the falling action closely mirrors the steps in the rising action, and the denouement mirrors the introduction. Rather than an A-B-C-D-E sequence, the story follows an A-B-C-B-A structure.

Journey stories are common examples of chiastic structure. A character leaves for adventure and returns home again. Classic murder mysteries are another good example:

A – The status quo
B – An unknown killer disrupts the story world
C – The investigation
B – The unknown killer is revealed
A – The return to normality

In addition to the story of the flood, a number of other biblical tales come to mind, as the parables frequently relate a character’s journey towards knowledge. The Prodigal Son leaves home with a head full of steam and returns chagrined.

A – The family is together
B – The prodigal leaves
C – The family abides
B – The prodigal returns
A – The family is reunited, but the prodigal is displaced from his role

In the Parable of the Talents, the servants are given money to invest and then return to their master to report their success or failure, and are rewarded accordingly. Even the story of Christ could be viewed as having a chiastic structure: a divine being comes to Earth in human form, he studies with scholars, he becomes a teacher, and finally reattains godhood by suffering a human death. He arrives in blood and leaves in blood, transmogrifying at his entrance and exit.

In other literature, we have The Hobbit. It’s right there in the title of the book. In fact, any story in which a journey is a central element – The Odyssey, Heart of Darkness. From a certain angle, The Handmaid’s Tale fits the structure:

A – Offred is captured and brought to Gilead
B – Offred loses her freedom, independence, and self
C – Offred sees cracks in the Gilead fortress
B – Offred regains her sense of self, plots her escape
A – Offred flees Gilead, regaining her freedom

Contrast this will Emma Donohue’s Room, which I’d describe as an A:A structure. In the (approximately) first half of the book, Ma struggles to create a life for six-year old Jack and maintain her mental freedom, despite being imprisoned in a cramped room for seven years. Once rescued, Ma has physical freedom, but remains mentally shackled, and risks losing her sense of self and will to live. While not following the A-B-C-B-A structure, Room uses thematic mirroring to create dual prisons from which Ma must escape. Physical restraint/mental freedom: Physical freedom/mental constraint.

That’s a great addition to my cache of story structures. I don’t have a story that could use it right now, but maybe you do!

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In a recent post on the Writers in the Storm blog – another highly recommended site for writing advice – Janice Hardy identified five red flags that might indicate your novel is going to be too much work for your reader.

Ever the optimist, my first thought was “I bet I do all of them.” However, rather than hitting morally questionable protagonists, transactional sex, and ambiguous endings, Hardy highlighted more foundational aspects of story.

How did I do? Let’s take a look.

The story requires the reader to do “research”.

Hardy defines this as the author inserting newspaper articles, poems, songs, or other elements that aren’t strictly part of the narrative, but which need to be understood to help the reader fully understand the characters or plot. Lots of writers use tidbits like these as color, either providing a small bit of new information or reiterating something the reader already knows. However, if your reader has to read your articles and poems like tea leaves in order to figure out what’s going on, they might not bother.

Hardy doesn’t mention it, but I’d also include writers who use ten dollar words or reference historical figures or events without any context that would allow the reader to intuit their meaning or importance. I’m a reasonably intelligent fellow, so if I hit an esoteric word or have no clue about the context of some historical event , I have to wonder who the writer’s intended audience is. If I have to go to Wikipedia, there’s a good chance I’m going to get stuck in a research hole, rather than come back to your novel.

Verdict: Not guilty.

The story has too many characters.  

I love big casts and sweeping stories. My weakness is trying to introduce every character early in the story, regardless of whether they all need to arrive yet, which of course is the problem that will cause your readers to give up. I’ve set aside the two or three really ambitious projects to focus on work with a single protagonist and a small group of major supporting players, and this is working out for me.

Verdict: Guilty but on probation.

The narrative has too many points of view.

That said, POV was one of my strong suits. The beta readers of my Big Epic Novel specifically mentioned that each character had a distinctive voice and each chapter had its own tone and atmosphere. The story was a mess, but the characters were strong, even if there were a few too many.

Verdict: Guilty, but when I do it, it’s stylish.

The names are all too similar, or too hard to pronounce.

In my back burner project, I introduced a Ted, Tommy, and Tim without realizing it until the third or fourth draft. I kept Ted and Tommy since they are minor characters and are often mentioned as bookends, so it’s ok if the reader thinks of them as a matched set. Tim had to go, but a year later, I still find myself writing Tim instead of Chip in my notes. I’m certain I’ll find a few dozen Tims when I run a find and replace at the end. Chip suits the vibe of the character, but I like the name Tim better, but I liked Ted and Tommy for the bookends even more. It’s a crap shoot.

It’s also a good idea to vary name length, for visual interest if nothing else. It can also help with the lyricism and variety in your narrative, if you construct your sentences around sounds and rhythms, in addition to meaning.

Hardy also mentions one of my biggest pet peeves: science fiction and fantasy writers who give multiple characters, objects, and locations unpronounceable names. If the back cover blurb introduces characters with multiple apostrophes or six syllables in their names, it goes back on the shelf. When various names are incomprehensible, chances are good they’ll start to blur together in the reader’s mind. Is the Mighty Gorlock a person, a city, a river, a sword? Who knows!

My current WIP stars Jack, Calvin, Pris, Flower, and Young Tom, as well as a few characters with unique, but pronounceable names. Minor characters are generally referred to by their title or role in the story, and the fancy fantasy names are reserved for gods and locations.

Verdict: Not guilty.

There’s not enough backstory or reminders of key details in the later books in a series.

I don’t write series fiction, so this is a moot point, but this does come up often in series I enjoy. Jo Nesbø’s Harry Hole series has swapped out detectives and forensics specialists so often I have a hard time keeping track of who’s who in the later books. Is that blood spatter expert the woman Harry slept with or is she the one who had the baby with the detective who was killed by…

And that’s in a series that is fairly static, compared to fantasy and science fiction series.

Verdict: Not guilty.

One and a half guilty verdicts out of five. Not bad. How did you rate?

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This week, it’s been all about Jane Friedman. After Saturday’s event, I took a deep dive into the revised 2^nd edition of The Business of Being a Writer, Jane’s book on the unseemly but necessary topic of trying to make a living – or at least a side income – from your writing.

From about 2008 until last year, I actually made my living as a writer (and podcaster and webinar presenter), so I know a little bit about developing a niche, presenting myself as an expert, and networking with people in my field. I had the benefit of being a corporate employee rather than a full-time freelancer, but I took plenty of side gigs along the way and maintained contact with former employers, co-workers, and peers to keep track of and generate opportunities.

All that merely to say the concepts in the book are not foreign to me. However, I have found them difficult to translate into something that could support a creative practice. Imposter syndrome plays a role, as does the sheer volume of choices and competition out there. And who needs the hassle of bank accounts, copyright, constant social promotion, and the risk of IP theft or plagiarism, not to mention snide reviews, Goodreads harassment, and cancel culture? Some days, it simply seems easier to write under a bushel. After all, the playground is a lot more fun than the office.

But even a kid on the playground has a better time with friends, and that’s how I approach the business of being a writer. It’s ridiculously unlikely that I will ever move Stephen King numbers, but would I like to sell a few hundred or a thousand copies of a book? Even without relying on my writing for sustenance, would it be nice to bring in enough income to cover the cost of web hosting, cover art, and maybe some conferences? Would I like to have a larger community of peers, simply for the intellectual and creative conversations and sense of belonging? Yes, yes, and yes.

As I wrote Monday, community and identity (authenticity) resonate much more with me than concepts like marketing and branding, though the results are the same. And there’s a lot in The Business of Being a Writer to support any creative writer who wants to expand their reach.

I set aside this week to dig deep into the book and found a lot of great advice I can adapt to my admittedly idiosyncratic approach to my writing.

In Part One, Friedman addresses mindset. Critically, she emphasizes the importance of finding joy in the journey and meeting your artistic or creative goals. If you don’t love what you’re doing, you will stagnate, no matter how successful you are, and eventually, it will show in your work. She also dismisses concerns about age or finding the right time, and urges writers to avoid the temptation of waiting for inspiration to strike. The foundational element of the business of being a writer is that writer’s write.

I was so glad to see this emphasis early in the book. I read a lot of bad advice steering writers away from authentic creative expression in favor of doing whatever puts a dollar on the table, and it’s good to find there are experts who believe we can do both. And that I’m not crazy. I may belong to a minority, but I’m not a special unicorn. You can be yourself and find an audience.

Part Two dives into platform development – what I call building community. Friedman discusses the importance of sharing your work, networking, being a good literary citizen (hint: it’s a two-way street), building a practical website, and choosing your social media. Again, while the end goal is business, the focus is on connection –  where to find it and how to make it.

The rest of the book is focused a bit more on business-business: what you might choose to publish and where, and how you can make a living as a writer (spoiler: it’s not necessarily by selling books…).

I’m going to do what I do, but there is still a lot of good food for thought in these later chapters. I’m not obsessed with making a fulltime living, but as I noted, evolving my creative work into an income-generating side gig is the long game.

At some point, I will need some basic business tools – a bank account, possibly a business name – and the Friedman shares plenty of advice there too, from tax and business formation basics to contract language to legal risks you might encounter.

If you’re interested in building a business around your creative work, or simply want to expand the community around your current writing, The Business of Being a Writer is a great place to start.

_______

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You’ve heard the common writers’ joke – be nice or I’ll kill you in my next book? That’s a thought to keep you warm on a cold night, but it doesn’t always work out.

I’ve never been able to write someone I hate into my stories. I’ve written about painful or confusing situations, I’ve used personality traits of people I’ve known and sometimes portrayed a confrontation or emotional moment that happened in real life. But I’ve never explicitly written about a person who I believe wronged me on some level.

And it’s not that I haven’t tried. Plenty of my stories have involved someone getting a figurative house dropped on him, but I still can’t bring myself to let even a throwaway character serve as a stand-in for some asshole in my life.

I don’t do it for them. In fact, I will freely admit to fantasizing about the untimely demise of former bosses or romantic partners or some sleazy guy at a bar or certain politicians or the jerk who cut me off in traffic or someone who had the audacity to disagree with my comment on a social media post. I’m a vengeful person.

But not in my writing.

My creative time is me time, and even when I’ve considered inserting a real-life nemesis into a story as a corpse or a buffoon, I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want those people in my head and they absolutely aren’t invited into my writing, which is my sacred space, psychologically, if not religiously. I wouldn’t let any of them cross my physical threshold, so why would I want them around when I’m having fun creatively? Talk about sucking the joy out of life.

And my reasons are not entirely altruistic. I enjoy picturing my nemeses as static characters, all black to my white. Fictionalizing them would require me to see the world through their viewpoint, give them a few redeeming qualities. I’d have to – gag! – emphasize with them, even as I planned to drop a stone gargoyle on their heads.

And frankly, they don’t deserve my understanding or my time.

Writer Elissa Altman wrote about revenge writing on a recent article for Lit Hub. In her case, the real-life villain appeared in Altman’s real-world memoir, Poor Man’s Feast, so there was no fictionalizing. The character was not a stand-in, but a depiction of an actual person. Because Altman righteously hated this woman’s guts, the writing was neither fair nor balanced.

Though the depiction of the wrongdoing may have been entirely accurate – particularly from Altman’s POV – it was also one-sided and, in Altman’s terms, “bleating, flailing, and a mass of enraged, disconnected run-on sentences.”

I can relate. I have journaled about exes and bosses and former friends, and rage-filled bleating is a fairly accurate description of the prose. That is why it’s in a journal, not in a story.

To her credit, Altman reached a state I have no interest in pursuing, in which she could write about this person “as the textured, complex character she actually is.”

Aw, hell no. I’m a writer, not a saint.

But I agree with Altman’s point about the writing, and that’s why I don’t use my real-life assholes in my work.

Revenge writing in memoir is never, ever a good, or valid, creative intention…Revenge writing smacks of desperation, of the writer’s back being up against a wall and their coming out swinging. It is a shivering, panting dog that will do anything for a bone; it is out of options.

And like any revenge, the aftermath is a letdown. The boss you kill off in your murder mystery will never read your novel. Nor will the ex who receives a humiliating literary comeuppance. And even if they do, if you’ve done your job well, your enemies will never recognize themselves in your writing at all. Altman suggests that literary revenge might result in repercussions, emotional or legal, but let’s be real – the most likely outcome is that your anger will dissipate into the ether, with your intended target none the wiser, or better.

In the end, all you’ve done is invite the worst people in your life into your head. You – and your writing – deserve better.

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Two recommendations and some hard facts.

Recommendation:

James Clear, author of Atomic Habits, has a weekly newsletter I enjoy. In his “3-2-1 Thursday” email, Clear shares 3 ideas, 2 quotes, and 1 question to consider. Falling somewhere between philosophy and productivity advice, the email blast is short enough to read in about 2 minutes, and almost always includes at least one interesting concept among its six meme-like tidbits. You can find it here.

Hard facts:

In one his recent emails, Clear shared a quote from the semi-anonymous Loopy, a writer and life coach. In one of his short essays, Loopy identified activities that aren’t the same as doing the thing:

• Preparing to do the thing isn’t doing the thing.
• Scheduling time to do the thing isn’t doing the thing.
• Making a to-do list for the thing isn’t doing the thing.
• Telling people you’re going to do the thing isn’t doing the thing.
• Messaging friends who may or may not be doing the thing isn’t doing the thing.
• Writing a banger tweet about how you’re going to do the thing isn’t doing the thing.
• Hating on yourself for not doing the thing isn’t doing the thing. Hating on other people who have done the thing isn’t doing the thing. Hating on the obstacles in the way of doing the thing isn’t doing the thing.
• Fantasizing about all of the adoration you’ll receive once you do the thing isn’t doing the thing.
• Reading about how to do the thing isn’t doing the thing. Reading about how other people did the thing isn’t doing the thing. Reading this essay isn’t doing the thing.
• The only thing that is doing the thing is doing the thing.

I can add a few of my own:

• Worrying about what other people think about the thing isn’t doing the thing.
• Wishing you knew more people doing the thing isn’t doing the thing.
• Berating your skill at the thing isn’t doing the thing.
• Wondering if you’re too old to do the thing isn’t doing the thing.

Recommendation:

You can follow Loopy at Strangest Loop and/or Embracing Uncertainty. He also has X and YouTube accounts.

Bonus Recommendation:

Go do the thing.

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I really wanted to like Netflix’ Ripley. Patricia Highsmith is one of my favorite writers and The Talented Mr. Ripley is by far my favorite of her novels. And I’ve loved Andrew Scott since his turn as Moriarty on Sherlock. What could go wrong?

A lot, actually. And it all started and ended with the trailer. Stick with me. I’ll bring this around to writing in the end.

If it seems harsh to judge an entire series solely by its trailer, be warned that I also judge books by their cover. In fact, I used to make a game of it. As I wandered bookstore aisles, I would pick up a novel at random and make a wild guess at the basic premise and presumed audience based solely on the cover. I played fair – I avoided books by writers I recognized, franchise novelizations like Star Wars or Star Trek novels, and any novel where the cover imagery was directly representational of its contents. It doesn’t take a genius to guess the contents of a novel with a vampire or swastika on the cover.

Honestly, it was easier than you might guess. Quirky single woman with ludicrous hobby needs a boyfriend. Midwestern family is sad but comes together at the end. Unethical lawyer accidentally does something good. Giant corporations make space as shitty as Earth. Woman over 50 perseveres despite the terrible secret in her backstory and/or her husband.

My friends used to laugh and call me judgmental – which I really am – but in this case, I wasn’t relying on my standards, but observation. Publishers buy novels that are similar to books that have already sold well. They design those books to look like the book that sold well. This alleviates the need for readers to do too much thinking at the bookstore. If you want to read a novel about Quirky Single Woman, look for neon colors, fun fonts that look like handwriting, and specific graphic elements, like a lipstick or a sundress. If you’re looking for Slightly Older and Slightly Less Quirky Single Woman Who Has a Job that Exists in the Real World, your color scheme is pastels.

So under certain circumstances, I’m very comfortable judging a television show by its trailer. The whole point of the trailer is to sell the show. The scenes the audience what the show is about and how the story will be told. It’s meant to entice People Who Like This Sort of Thing, and a show like Ripley should have been aimed squarely at my forehead.

My first disappointment was with the characterization of Ripley. The presentation of Andrew Scott in the trailer made it clear that the story would portray Tom Ripley as an intentional serial predator, rather than the emerging, almost accidental, villain of the novel. (Folks who watched the show say my impression was correct.)

If you find it odd that I refer to triple murderer Tom Ripley as the accidental villain, please note that my friends who call me judgmental also comment on my unsettling infatuation with sociopathic protagonists. It’s a thing.

Yes, I know…Ripley does Bad Things: Identity theft, fraud, at least three murders, and general profligacy. But the pleasure of the novel – for me – is his path to villainy. Tom’s choices and mistakes drive the narrative and create the dramatic tension. At the beginning of the novel, Tom’s biggest crime is passing bad checks so that he can pay rent. But from there, he’s presented with opportunities and choices, and because we understand his backstory and motivations, we know why he takes the job from Mr. Greenleaf, why he’s attracted to Dickie and Marge’s lifestyle, why his jealousy turns to craving, why he’s desperate to maintain the fictional life he’s created, and finally, why he’s terrified of capture.

The reader understands Ripley’s motivations and roots for him, even though we know we shouldn’t. In our right minds, we believe he should be caught, but we’re thrilled when he finds yet another way to slip between the cracks. The whole joy of the novel is watching Ripley improvise his escapes and make ever-escalating bad choices.

For my dollar, setting up Ripley as a serial predator undercuts him as the protagonist of his own story and drains that dramatic energy. It also precludes the audience from participating in his villainy. I couldn’t see myself rooting for the version of Ripley in the trailer.

My second disappointment is that they filmed in black and white. I initially thought the trailer was stylized to reflect a noir vibe, but then I realized the entire show itself was going to be B&W. To be fair, the cinematography looked gorgeous. My criticism is not a slight to the talent, but rather a disagreement with the artistic choice. If the series had been called Ridgely, I would have watched it and probably enjoyed it.

But instead, the choice to film in black and white robbed the story of one of its crucial elements – its setting.

In Patricia Highsmith’s novels, the setting is not merely where the action occurs. The location is central to the plot and characterization. There are no incidental settings in a Highsmith novel.

Ripley’s story starts in New York, where a clever young forger realistically could get away with passing bad checks. Highsmith could have chosen another large city, but not a smaller one. However, the choice of New York also puts Tom in proximity to money, in the form of Mr. Greenleaf. Greenleaf is motivated by generational status and wealth, an interest he wants his son to share. He hires Tom – a very slight acquaintance of Dickie’s – to retrieve him from Italy. Could this scenario have taken place anywhere but New York? Greenleaf’s motivation and his access to sufficient wealth to run a business, fund his son’s profligate lifestyle, and rent a boy to fetch him required a major city in the background. A major player like Greenleaf doesn’t live in Baltimore or St. Louis. He lives where the action is.

But the rest of the novel absolutely could not have taken place in New York. Why does Ripley become so attached to Dickie Greenleaf, to the point that he becomes him? Tom enters the story through Dickie’s father and the family’s wealth, both of which he envies, but it’s in the Italian seaside town where he’s enraptured. Initially, Tom’s goal is to earn some easy money by tracking down Dickie in the fictional Mongibello, but when he arrives, he’s enthralled by possibilities. This is the life he could be – should be – living, and he can have it, if he ingratiates himself to Dickie. When the younger Greenleaf starts treating Tom to travel, restaurants, and nightclubs, he’s hooked.

And once Tom’s crimes start mounting up, it’s even more clear why the story could not have been set in New York. For Tom to assume Dickie’s identity, the setting had to be relatively remote, somewhere Dickie Greenleaf wasn’t well known. Tom might have gotten away with some light forgery, but he could not have passed himself off as Dickie Greenleaf in New York without a significant risk of bumping into people who knew him or his father. He certainly would not have had easy access to Dickie’s money.

To evade arrest, Tom also needed a locale where he could play cat and mouse with the local police. A densely populated city would have provided less opportunity for evasion, making it more likely he would have been spotted. In Mongibello, Tom could sail up the coast to another remote town. In New York, he could easily have been spotted by a train porter or subway cop. Let’s also concede that the local constabulary in post-WWII Italy weren’t as sophisticated as the NYPD and did not have access to the same technologies.

Ratcheting up the tension, though, Tom is also at a disadvantage in Italy. When he arrives, he does not speak the language and never picks up more than some rudimentary conversation. He does not know his way around. He also has no money, and must rely on Dickie – pre- and post-death – to pay his way. On the other hand, he is also advantaged, because no one knows him, either. He can claim to be Dickie Greenleaf, confident that only a small handful of people in the area know otherwise.

One of the best elements of Anthony Minghella’s 1999 film version is the glorious views of the Italian coastal town, the colors and people. It’s so beautifully done, you can practically feel the midday sun and the breeze, smell the fishermen’s boats and the salt sea and the suntan oil. The audience understands why Tom falls in love, with Italy and with Dickie.

For my dollar, filming in B&W drains much more than the color from the imagery. It robs the setting of its power and puts the audience at a remove from the characters. Your mileage may vary.

I probably wouldn’t care so much, except that Highsmith does such a brilliant job setting her novels. She did so many things well, but carving her characters out of the wood of her locations is one of her master talents. Need more examples?

In Deep Water, the Little Wesley setting is critical to the plot. Little Wesley is a small New England town, but small as in exclusive, not poor. The upper middle class community is tight-knit and socializes regularly at garden parties and dinners. In a more conventional small town, the serial infidelity of the protagonist’s wife, Melinda, would likely have resulted in her being ostracized, but the more worldly neighbors in Little Wesley take their cues from her husband, Vic, who seems to look the other way. Importantly, Melinda uses social occasions to introduce her boyfriends to everyone they know, humiliating Vic. In a larger city, like Boston or New York, she would have had less opportunity to present her lovers repeatedly to the same audience. Melinda’s ability to flaunt her lovers and pay no social cost required a setting where both could happen.

In The Price of Salt (later Carol), it’s important that Carol Aird lives in a tony suburb with a husband with a successful career. If Carol had been wealthier, perhaps someone else would have done her Christmas shopping, preventing her from meeting Therese. If she’d been lower class, Carol’s relationship with Therese would have presented less risk, as her husband could not have afforded a private investigator or lawyers.

In Strangers on a Train, the train setting is central to the inciting incident, of course, but the location of the train at the moment of the fateful meeting is equally important. The conspirators meet while the train is passing through the fictional Metcalf, TX, on the way from New York to Santa Fe. Guy Haines is far from home, contemplating divorce from his unfaithful wife, and perhaps more intrigued by Charles Bruno’s suggestion that they trade murders than he would have been otherwise.

Encountering Charles was mere happenstance that could have occurred anywhere, but would events have followed in the same way if they’d met nearer to Guy’s New York home, or their mutual destination in Santa Fe? Had the train been more populated, Charles might not have risked raising his macabre plot. Had they been closer to Santa Fe, he might not have had time to cultivate his conversation with Guy and make his proposition before they took their leave of one another. By timing the encounter while the train crossed a lonely prairie, Highsmith gave Charles the opportunity to make his pitch and time for Guy to entertain it.

Like a realtor, Highsmith understood one of the most important elements of fiction: Location, location, location. And though her novels were printed in black and white, her writing brought her settings to life in full color.

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A quote for your weekend.

Make-believe partakes of the nature of a magic ritual. We not only pretend to be what we are not, but by staging our pretense, we strive to conjure and bring into existence a new genuineness. The strange thing is that often this conjuring act succeeds and we become what we pretend to be. – Eric Hoffer

This is the greatest trick of the creative soul. We envision the person we could be, the art we could create, the stories we could write, the roles we might assume, the music we might play, long before we are able to bring them into being. Our early efforts do not reflect the fullness of our vision.

In time, however, the act of make-believe refines and perfects our ability to create. Our work emerges and we become who we are supposed to be.

The quote originally appeared in The True Believer: Thoughts on the Nature of Mass Movements by philosopher Eric Hoffer, in which he examined how mass movements arise to challenge the existing social hierarchy.

The quote appears here via an epigraph in A Time of Youth: San Francisco, 1966-1967, a collection of photography by William Gedney, which was unpublished in his lifetime. Gedney curated the maquette in the late 1960s but was unable to find a publisher before his death from AIDS in 1989. Some fifty years later, the executor of his artistic legacy was finally able to bring the project to life.

None of Gedney’s work was published in his lifetime, but in assembling his collections of photography, he engaged in the kind of make-believe that eventually conjured up something magical – work that came into being and continues to thrive years after his passing.

_______________

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I like stories with ambiguous endings. I also like sad endings, and often the two go hand in hand. Is Deckard a replicant? Which survivor is the Thing? Does Offred escape Gilead?

A lot of readers hate ambiguity. They want the writer to show them an orderly world. They want reassurance and closure. When the status quo is disrupted, they want to follow a hero who creates a better world.

But ambiguity is unnerving. It’s disorderly. The ambiguous ending refuses to answer the story question, forcing the reader to reach their own conclusion. Who was behind the door: the lady or the tiger? Sometimes there is no answer.

Sometimes there are two answers and the reader does not know which would be better or simply less worse. Most often, the very act of pondering raises more questions. With an ambiguous ending, no one tells you what’s right or wrong, or even if anything is either right or wrong.

It’s all so…lifelike.

Ambiguous endings are the opposite of escapism. For me, that’s the appeal. I have questions about life that have no answers, or that may have 100 answers, if only I could choose one. Why are we here? Why are humans cruel to people we love? If you got what you wanted, why are you still sad? I want to hear what others think. I want to ponder these questions.

Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery” is often cited as a classic of ambiguity, but in this case, it’s not the ending that’s vague. Rather, the entire story is opaque. In fact, the ending provides the only clear answer in the story: the reader knows exactly what happens to Tessie Hutchinson.

It’s the rest of the story we don’t know. What is the purpose of the lottery? How did it begin? Whose idea was it? Why is everyone so sanguine about it? Why are other towns stopping the practice? Why are the people in this town continuing it? We are never told.

The true ambiguity is Jackson’s meaning behind the story. Was she critiquing the Holocaust or McCarthyism? Religion? Without an in-story explanation, the reader is not allowed to feel superior or complacent. We can’t say “This can’t happen here” or “We’re not like those people.” Instead, confronted with a story of average smalltown America, the reader is left asking not if, but how this happened. We wonder how or whether we would stand up to our community, if confronted with our own lottery. We may wonder how close our nation is to starting one.

Tana French’s debut novel, In the Woods, also unsettled readers, because a number of in-story questions are never answered. Warning: Spoilers ahead. In the Woods is a fantastic novel, so skip a few paragraphs if you want to read it.

The central mystery of the novel is the murder of a young girl, whose body is found in the woods of a Dublin suburb. The lead detective assigned to the investigation – Adam Ryan – has a shocking connection to the case: when he was a boy, he and two friends went missing in the same woods. Adam was soon found in a catatonic state, slightly injured but covered in blood. Adam has no recollection of what happened in the woods, and his friends are never found.

Fast forward 20 years, and Adam and his partner do solve the murder of the girl, but we never find out what happened to him or his friends. While the reader anticipates a connection between the current murder and Adam’s assault, there is none, other than the location. French laid out this subplot not to resolve the earlier crime, but to explore the longstanding trauma suffered by her protagonist. The incident is what inspired him to become a detective, and the similarities in the cases naturally bring up bad memories. The investigation triggers emotional reactions that lead to multiple bad choices throughout the novel.

The novel was popular, but reader reaction was split. Readers are trained by genre expectations to anticipate a resolution to the protagonist’s mystery. It’s fair to assume many thought the same perpetrator had committed both crimes, and that Adam would receive some closure by finding the person who killed his friends. At a minimum, they may have expected to learn some information about what happened to the boys, such as through recovered memories triggered by proximity to the original scene.

But boldly, French didn’t give readers that closure. I was shocked that she didn’t wrap up Adam’s backstory, but loved that she was ambitious enough to leave that shadow in his past. In addition to subverting the reader’s expectations, she left them with unsettling questions about the lingering effects of trauma, the need for closure, and whether the police can protect us and our children.

I previously wrote about one of my brushes with traditional publishing, when a reputable market for short fiction came close to publishing one of my stories. The story hit a roadblock with the editors in part due to the ambiguous ending.

The story focused on two college friends – one gay, one straight. Both have had long-term relationships that are ending as the story begins. The narrator – the gay guy – reflects on how they’ve changed over the years, how their philosophies have evolved and their passions dimmed, the natural result of maturing past one’s youth.

But as the two reconnect as single adults, the narrator discovers that his friend has not lost his passion for writing and philosophy. He had maintained a piece of his youth, a spark the narrator had allowed to dim as he became involved in a more mundane life. The narrator is confused and hurt that others knew this side of his friend, while he did not. They had lost their connection and he feels left behind. Without the anchors of either his relationship or his longtime friendship, he feels adrift.

The friends sleep together, something the narrator had long desired. After many years, his love is finally requited. But in the end, now that he’s gotten his wish, he finds himself at odds. Who was this person in his bed? Did he know his friend at all anymore? Had they connected in one way only to learn they’d grown too far apart in others?

The story questions reflected what I was thinking about as a younger man – Can we hold on to the passions of our youth? How do we maintain important friendships when everyone is changing? How does it feel to obtain something you’ve desired for a long time, but only after you’ve evolved past the point of wanting or needing it?

Questions without answers. Or rather, a different answer for every person.

That was the story rejected by the people who preferred fiction about guys pooping on each other.

Not that I’m still bitter about it.

Some readers can’t stand ambiguity. Maybe it makes them uncomfortable. Maybe they feel cheated out of a proper ending. Maybe they don’t want to sit with the emotions and questions raised by an ambiguous ending.

In “The Lottery,” we’re left wondering why the townspeople are happy to stone a neighbor to death and if they even know why they’re doing it. We wonder what we or our neighbors would do in a similar situation.

In In the Woods, we are unsettled that a murderer goes free.

At the end of my story, a reader might reminisce about past friendships or the dreams they’ve abandoned. They might consider the difference between what they want and what they need to feel fulfilled.

As a writer, the question of ambiguous endings reaches back to your purpose. Do you write to comfort or entertain? Is your goal to communicate? If so, you probably don’t want to leave your story questions open. If you want to point your reader in a specific direction, you need to make your point.

On the other hand, do you want your reader to come to their own conclusions about your theme? Do you want to leave your reader contemplating an element of the human condition? Do you want to leave them feeling unsettled? Do you want to horrify them?

If it’s the latter, leave them with questions.

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