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New article from ManuscriptRX
From "Write Through It," the monthly newsletter brought to you by www.ManuscriptRx.com
Interrogate your scenes:
4 questions to put to each and every one of your novel's (or short story's) scenes
So you've plumbed the depth of your imagination and your memory. You've interrogated your psyche to come up with metaphoric pieces of yourself you'll use in the work. You've dug and you've scraped and you've sacrificed (all those weekends you wanted to wile away watching Project Runway marathons, and instead you glued yourself to your desk). And you made it to THE END, the sweetest combination of letters you've ever typed. Yes, you have just cause for celebration. But you also have a lot of work ahead. After you've let your manuscript sit for as long as possible (Homer suggested keeping first drafts out of sight for seven years before digging back in and revising; I'm assuming that most of you, like me, don't have that much patience), pull it out and interrogate each scene in a pointed, focused way.
Start by making a scene list.
This might sound like a painfully obvious first step, but you'd be surprised at how many writers insist all their scenes are "in here" (as they tap their foreheads) and therefore why on earth would they need to write them down? You may have one of those envied, steel-trap memories, but -- amazing recall notwithstanding -- you need to get your scenes on paper and see how they work linearly for meaningful assessment to occur. Even those of use who don't use outlines to steer us as we write need to drag the scenes into a lineup after they've been written.
Write a brief description of each scene (yes, each scene). You may be able to encapsulate the scene in a phrase, or it may take you a couple of sentences or more. For novels that have lots of physical movement and varying settings, it's helpful (but not mandatory) to include where the scene takes place. (For example: Scene 1: Dr. Ninefinger's office: Three-year-old Meghan quakes in a dentist's chair.)
And then test each and every scene by using the following questions as a guide:
1) Does it belong in the novel?
This is often one of the hardest questions to get a straight answer on, because writing a novel, no matter what your particular process, requires immersing yourself in scenes and then linking them into the whole. And even though we have one eye on the big picture, no matter how hard we try to keep the grand scheme in mind while we create each micro-unit, to create a believable scene we must lose ourselves in that smaller moment and therefore temporarily lose hold of that big picture. So it's very common to write something you really love, your whole critique group loves, your favorite aunt loves, but that's ultimately adding nothing to the novel as a whole. When that's the case, you must cut it, fellow writer. I know how this hurts, but remember that the question is not 'Do you like it?' but 'Does it belong?'
It's often hard to answer this on your own, so you might need someone else to read the manuscript to spot the scenes that don't belong. But pacing and cohesiveness are crucial, especially considering the modern reader's attention span (made shorter by the Internet), so prioritizing a scene and forsaking the whole work is the wrong approach. If the scene isn't revealing something important about character (something not revealed elsewhere) or advancing plot or addressing the major story question, then (gasp!) cut it out of this novel.
If you answered no to the above question (you determined, even reluctantly, that the scene doesn't belong in the novel), get rid of it. Don't permanently delete it, though, since you may be able to use it someday. Novelist Laurie Halse Anderson places scenes she cuts in a file labeled "Extremely Good Writing in Search of the Right Story." (And she's reported extensive cutting, sometimes as much as one-third of her manuscript!)
If you answered yes (you determined the scene has a home in this manuscript), proceed to the next question.
2) Does it belong where it is?
Okay, so you got past number one. The consensus among interrogators is that the scene is crucial for the novel as a whole; it either illuminates character in an important, fresh way or it advances the plot in a manner that nurtures the story arc. Keep the light shining on it and the tape recorder whirring, though. You're not through with it yet.
You've determined you need it. But does it belong where it is? Should it be moved? Is there a more logical place for it? Should you be introducing Meghan's dental trauma in chapter four, after you learn that her mother assumed a first dental exam would be the perfect way for Meghan to start her third birthday? Or should you introduce it in chapter twelve, after we learn Dr. Ninefinger was recently bitten by a toddler and nearly lost a digit in the process and therefore may be aiming misplaced resentment at this squirmy little girl currently in the chair?
Putting your scenes on index cards and spreading them out on the floor or the dining room table (preferably after dinner's been cleared) is often the most effective way to determine a scene's best location.
3) Is it finished?
Did you end it where you needed to end it (before things got tricky), or did you end it where it needed to end?
The best writing has an organic feel to it, which means the writer let the scene dictate the place to end, rather than vice versa.
Okay, I've said the following a jillion times, but, because it's so true and so validating for writers in the trenches, I hope you'll forgive my repetition: WRITING IS HARD. REALLY HARD. And, since humans pretty much try to avoid pain wherever we can (it's that ole self-preservation thing, I suppose...), it's likely that we left some tough scenes -- the ones that threatened to stir up all sorts of debris in our previously non-stirred gut -- unfinished.
"The rest of that scene would have been too hard to write." I've heard this time and time again (I've said it, too).
However, often the scenes that are the hardest to write are the ones that end up being the most rewarding for the reader. The ones that emotionally drain us and leave us a crumpled, breathless heap under the desk are the same scenes that evoke palpable, authentic emotion in the audience, the ones that compel the readers to turn the page because they're as invested as we are at that point. (It makes sense that if we funnel emotion into our scenes, readers will pick up on it at the other end.) And often those scenes can't be written while the first draft is being constructed. It's only later, with extreme effort, that we are able to fill the gaps.
Go back to every scene and determine if it is truly complete, if all the meat is on the bones. Have you really unfurled all that you meant to, or did you interrupt a vital conversation with a knock at the door because you wanted to get out? Look at each discrete scene and determine whether the best stuff is on the page or whether you went on to the next scene when things felt too prickly.
4) Does it work?
Before you drag another scene into the box, you have one more series of questions to ask this one: Is it earning its keep overall? It may contribute to the novel as a whole, but does it work on its own? Is it trying too hard? Not trying hard enough? Is it too flashy compared to the rest of the manuscript? Or maybe not flashy enough? Is it fun to read? If this were the only scene a reader could see, would they want to read more? Are you proud of it?
Sometimes, despite our best intentions, scenes fall flat. Sure, you need to show a kid swiping eyeliner if it's a story about shoplifting, but maybe this particular scene is missing the mark. Perhaps the idea is right on, but the execution is so-so. It's lifeless, dull, draggy. You might need to tweak spots to bring them to life, you might need to scrap sections (re-file them, that is). Ultimately, you might need to shelve the whole scene and see if a blank screen inspires you.
So there you have it, fellow writers-in-crime, the most important questions to ask your scenes (inspired by The Mind of Your Story by Lisa Lenard-Cook). If you come up with other questions that strike you as relevant, be sure to pose them before you slip out of the interrogatory mindset and back into the softer, gentler writer who unconditionally loves everything that makes it on the page (the healthiest writers manage to balance between the two).
Interrogate your scenes:
4 questions to put to each and every one of your novel's (or short story's) scenes
So you've plumbed the depth of your imagination and your memory. You've interrogated your psyche to come up with metaphoric pieces of yourself you'll use in the work. You've dug and you've scraped and you've sacrificed (all those weekends you wanted to wile away watching Project Runway marathons, and instead you glued yourself to your desk). And you made it to THE END, the sweetest combination of letters you've ever typed. Yes, you have just cause for celebration. But you also have a lot of work ahead. After you've let your manuscript sit for as long as possible (Homer suggested keeping first drafts out of sight for seven years before digging back in and revising; I'm assuming that most of you, like me, don't have that much patience), pull it out and interrogate each scene in a pointed, focused way.
Start by making a scene list.
This might sound like a painfully obvious first step, but you'd be surprised at how many writers insist all their scenes are "in here" (as they tap their foreheads) and therefore why on earth would they need to write them down? You may have one of those envied, steel-trap memories, but -- amazing recall notwithstanding -- you need to get your scenes on paper and see how they work linearly for meaningful assessment to occur. Even those of use who don't use outlines to steer us as we write need to drag the scenes into a lineup after they've been written.
Write a brief description of each scene (yes, each scene). You may be able to encapsulate the scene in a phrase, or it may take you a couple of sentences or more. For novels that have lots of physical movement and varying settings, it's helpful (but not mandatory) to include where the scene takes place. (For example: Scene 1: Dr. Ninefinger's office: Three-year-old Meghan quakes in a dentist's chair.)
And then test each and every scene by using the following questions as a guide:
1) Does it belong in the novel?
This is often one of the hardest questions to get a straight answer on, because writing a novel, no matter what your particular process, requires immersing yourself in scenes and then linking them into the whole. And even though we have one eye on the big picture, no matter how hard we try to keep the grand scheme in mind while we create each micro-unit, to create a believable scene we must lose ourselves in that smaller moment and therefore temporarily lose hold of that big picture. So it's very common to write something you really love, your whole critique group loves, your favorite aunt loves, but that's ultimately adding nothing to the novel as a whole. When that's the case, you must cut it, fellow writer. I know how this hurts, but remember that the question is not 'Do you like it?' but 'Does it belong?'
It's often hard to answer this on your own, so you might need someone else to read the manuscript to spot the scenes that don't belong. But pacing and cohesiveness are crucial, especially considering the modern reader's attention span (made shorter by the Internet), so prioritizing a scene and forsaking the whole work is the wrong approach. If the scene isn't revealing something important about character (something not revealed elsewhere) or advancing plot or addressing the major story question, then (gasp!) cut it out of this novel.
If you answered no to the above question (you determined, even reluctantly, that the scene doesn't belong in the novel), get rid of it. Don't permanently delete it, though, since you may be able to use it someday. Novelist Laurie Halse Anderson places scenes she cuts in a file labeled "Extremely Good Writing in Search of the Right Story." (And she's reported extensive cutting, sometimes as much as one-third of her manuscript!)
If you answered yes (you determined the scene has a home in this manuscript), proceed to the next question.
2) Does it belong where it is?
Okay, so you got past number one. The consensus among interrogators is that the scene is crucial for the novel as a whole; it either illuminates character in an important, fresh way or it advances the plot in a manner that nurtures the story arc. Keep the light shining on it and the tape recorder whirring, though. You're not through with it yet.
You've determined you need it. But does it belong where it is? Should it be moved? Is there a more logical place for it? Should you be introducing Meghan's dental trauma in chapter four, after you learn that her mother assumed a first dental exam would be the perfect way for Meghan to start her third birthday? Or should you introduce it in chapter twelve, after we learn Dr. Ninefinger was recently bitten by a toddler and nearly lost a digit in the process and therefore may be aiming misplaced resentment at this squirmy little girl currently in the chair?
Putting your scenes on index cards and spreading them out on the floor or the dining room table (preferably after dinner's been cleared) is often the most effective way to determine a scene's best location.
3) Is it finished?
Did you end it where you needed to end it (before things got tricky), or did you end it where it needed to end?
The best writing has an organic feel to it, which means the writer let the scene dictate the place to end, rather than vice versa.
Okay, I've said the following a jillion times, but, because it's so true and so validating for writers in the trenches, I hope you'll forgive my repetition: WRITING IS HARD. REALLY HARD. And, since humans pretty much try to avoid pain wherever we can (it's that ole self-preservation thing, I suppose...), it's likely that we left some tough scenes -- the ones that threatened to stir up all sorts of debris in our previously non-stirred gut -- unfinished.
"The rest of that scene would have been too hard to write." I've heard this time and time again (I've said it, too).
However, often the scenes that are the hardest to write are the ones that end up being the most rewarding for the reader. The ones that emotionally drain us and leave us a crumpled, breathless heap under the desk are the same scenes that evoke palpable, authentic emotion in the audience, the ones that compel the readers to turn the page because they're as invested as we are at that point. (It makes sense that if we funnel emotion into our scenes, readers will pick up on it at the other end.) And often those scenes can't be written while the first draft is being constructed. It's only later, with extreme effort, that we are able to fill the gaps.
Go back to every scene and determine if it is truly complete, if all the meat is on the bones. Have you really unfurled all that you meant to, or did you interrupt a vital conversation with a knock at the door because you wanted to get out? Look at each discrete scene and determine whether the best stuff is on the page or whether you went on to the next scene when things felt too prickly.
4) Does it work?
Before you drag another scene into the box, you have one more series of questions to ask this one: Is it earning its keep overall? It may contribute to the novel as a whole, but does it work on its own? Is it trying too hard? Not trying hard enough? Is it too flashy compared to the rest of the manuscript? Or maybe not flashy enough? Is it fun to read? If this were the only scene a reader could see, would they want to read more? Are you proud of it?
Sometimes, despite our best intentions, scenes fall flat. Sure, you need to show a kid swiping eyeliner if it's a story about shoplifting, but maybe this particular scene is missing the mark. Perhaps the idea is right on, but the execution is so-so. It's lifeless, dull, draggy. You might need to tweak spots to bring them to life, you might need to scrap sections (re-file them, that is). Ultimately, you might need to shelve the whole scene and see if a blank screen inspires you.
So there you have it, fellow writers-in-crime, the most important questions to ask your scenes (inspired by The Mind of Your Story by Lisa Lenard-Cook). If you come up with other questions that strike you as relevant, be sure to pose them before you slip out of the interrogatory mindset and back into the softer, gentler writer who unconditionally loves everything that makes it on the page (the healthiest writers manage to balance between the two).