Serendipity and Persistence

This is a story that took about eight years and isn't over yet. This is a story about a young man with dreams, a young man who served his country then--still struggling with his dreams--started serving meals, waiting tables in a Palm Beach, Florida restaurant.

This is also the story of an author who--when she was a struggling writer with dreams--was helped by other authors on the path, and who has a habit of leaving her bookmarks everywhere, such as along with the cash to pay for the meal in a restaurant.

"Hey," says the waiter, returning to the dinner table with the change, "you're an author. I've always wanted to write a book. But I don't know where to start."

"Hey," says the author (who writes much better dialogue than this in her books), "I might be able to help."

They exchange email addressess (under the watchful eye of author's husband who long ago gave up on his wife's tendency to collect strays), they exchange ideas, the author sends suggestions. Read Dwight V Swain's "Techniques of the Selling Writer." Read Browne and King. Read Bickham. URLs are sent, guiding the waiter-writer to sites like Sime-Gen's World Crafter's Guild and the worthy advice on sites run by Orson Scott Card and Holly Lisle.

During the next year (which was 2003)--and many more meals at that restaurant--the waiter-writer actually sends the author a few sample chapters.

"Hey," the author says in a return email, "you have talent. But you've missed a few key points. Reread Swain. Reread Bickham." She makes notes in his chapters, suggests changes.

The author and waiter-writer lose touch for a while. Then every once in a while, another chapter hits the author's email inbox. She sees talent, she sees progress. She crits and sends it back.

Fast forward to 2009. The waiter-writer has moved to Connecticut, finished his first novel, and sends drafts for query letters and synopses to the author. After thwacking the waiter-writer via cyberspace for not listening to her when it comes to queries, the author sends more instructions on crafting queries and by 2010, the waiter-writer gets it right.

Fast foward to March 2010. The author offers to send a letter of introduction on the waiter-writer's behalf to her literary agent. This generates a phenomenom knows as "jumping over the slush pile." Author isn't sure--she's never sure--how the literary agent will feel about waiter-writer's book. It's edgy contemporary fantasy, sharp and gripping but with a very distinct voice. Or as waiter-writer calls it, "It is a blend of the Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter having lunch with Tom Clancy and Dean Koontz."

The manuscript hits the email pathways and within two weeks, the literary agent gives author a heads-up: she loves the book. Loves it. Totally. The agency is going to offer waiter-writer representation.

Waiter-writer has just become an author. His name is Steve Vera. Watch for him as this author has a feeling he will sell and sell quickly.

Corrollary: A couple of things to be learned from this story.

1) Believe in yourself and don't be afraid to ask someone farther along the path than you for help. I try to mentor two to three writers a year (that's honestly the limit I can handle because as Steve can tell you, I do very intense critiquing). Many other authors do the same, but even if you can snag an author as a mentor, authors do blog, do teach classes, do share their tips and tricks on their websites. Utilize that.

And...

2) When authors share, listen. We've arrived where we are by employing certain methods that work. Recently there was a discussion on another blog where a poster decried the "rigid rules of writing," indicating that those kinds of writing rules weren't necessary. Big fat hint: they are. A lot of writers are natural writers; they innately have the cadence and flow of commercial genre fiction. But that's the muse part, the art part. Being an "ar-teest" is not enough. You must, absolutely must understand and employ the craft of writing. That doesn't mean you can't bend the craft rules. But you must be able to employ them well before you can bend them skillfully. Writing only "from the muse" is rather like letting loose inside your house an out-of-control toddler with a tray full of fingerpaints. The muse needs the discipline of craft.

As soon as Steve has a book deal, I'll post. And yes, outside of getting offers on my own books, watching one of my "students" fledge is the best damned wonderful feeling in this galaxy. Which brings me to a final and necessary rule of life called Random Acts of Kindness: Good karma. Pass it on.

Namaste,
~Linnea

REBELS AND LOVERS, March 2010: Book 4 in the Dock Five Universe, from Bantam Books and Linnea Sinclair—www.linneasinclair.com

Kaidee hated when her ship didn’t work. Dead in space was not a place she liked to be. Especially with an unknown bogie on her tail, closing at a disturbingly fast rate of speed that made her heart pound in her chest and her throat go dry.

"You don't understand!" she shouted angrily...

Yeah, I spend a lot of time thinking about silly titles for my blogs...

Be that as it may, I'm again using Jacqueline's blog last week on dialogue as the theme for my blog on dialogue in commercial genre fiction. Fictional dialogue is not a verbatim recording, not a play-by-play or blow-by-blow. Its purpose in a novel is not veracity but excitement. If, as Swain said, readers read to experience tension, there is nothing less tense than actual conversation.

Character dialogue, like every other part of the story, needs to move the plot along and ramp up the emotions. Without sounding silly, false, strained or trite.

Daunting?

Less so than you think, if for no other reason than good dialogue is out there. You're not being asked, in writing dialogue, to do something no writer has ever done. You're being asked to do what's been done and do it as well, if not better. You have role models. You have templates. You have a plethora of writing-how-to books and blogs like this.

The trick is applying what you learn.

Here's my favorite dialogue writing tip: get your characters angry (hence the title of this blog).

I'll explain why this works in a moment. But first, let's revisit what Jacqueline said: fiction is an illusion and fictional dialogue is an illusion of speech. That means word choice is essential. Placement and cadence is a must. Real people ramble on with loads of 'umms' and 'yunnos' and 'dudes' and 'uhs.' Characters should keep those kinds of things to a bare minimum. Good dialogue goes for the vital organs, which in this case should be the reader's heart and brain. In that way, it's not unlike poetry or song writing. Good dialogue has impact

But dialogue is also very often the writer's tool to impart needed information because (good) dialogue moves more quickly than narrative.

So what's the writer to do if she has a good chunk of information that--gasp!--might even have a tinge of backstory, and she needs somehow to get that before the reader without having it seem like an info dump

Get the characters angry. Why

Listen to any angry conversation between friends, lovers, strangers. I know. I said fictional dialogue isn't real dialogue but there are some similarities. The one time it feels "natural" for people to explain something in detail, or for people to recount the past, is when they're having an argument. It's a defensive thing: I'm angry with you because... and then the laundry list of past foibles comes out

Anger is a really good way to sneak some back story in.

In Shades of Dark, tensions are building between Captain Chaz Bergren and her lover, Gabriel "Sully" Sullivan, due in part to a new crewmember on their ship: a Stolorth Ragkiril named Del. Del is self-assured, flirtations, confident, aggressive and sexy as all get out. He's also supremely dangerous--something Chaz senses more than Sully does.

In this little snippet of dialogue, Chaz "dumps" her reasons on Sully in a telepathic conversation. But it also serves to bring the reader up to speed with some of the basics in the conflict and reminds them of things they may have forgotten:

I was standing under the steamy streams of the ship’s recycled water when the lavatory door nudged open. Sully, dressed in his usual black, leaned against the edge of the sink, sipped from the cup in his right hand, and held another for me in his left.

“I told Dorsie they were both for you so she wouldn’t try to poison me.”

“Find Burke’s lab ship, unmask Tage, and she’ll love you again,” I said, tapping off the water and turning on the dryer cycle. I circled slowly, ignoring Sully because nothing could be heard over the noise anyway.

Except this way, he reminded me. Then: Chaz, Del is not the problem you perceive him to be.

Let’s see. He ambushes me on Narfial, blocks you, wanted to neutralize Marsh, and then locks you away from me in some mystical woo-woo place that used to be a shuttle bay. In between all that, he has an annoying habit of calling me “angel” and “lover,” walks a very thin line between harmless flirtation and practiced seduction, and then has the balls to say I’m touchy. I have no idea why I think he’s a problem.

Because the scene is tinged with anger, it's tinged with emotion. And as Swain teaches, it's the author's job to manipulate the emotions of the reader. So it makes sense, then, that dialogue laced with emotions is one of the ways to do that.

When characters are angry, characters--like real people--tend to say things to justify the anger, to bolster their argument. That justification is a sly way of sneaking information in.

So instead of an info dump where Mortimer fumes over the fact that Gladys is late--again--for their lunch date:

Mortimer drummed his fingers on the tabletop, anger rising with each tap. It was twelve-thirty. Gladys should have been here an hour ago. He hated the way she was always late. He wondered if she was playing some kind of control game with him. He'd known her for twelve years--ever since that fateful day in Mrs.
Chelligump's English class at Beachside High School. That's when he first fell in love with her but now that he thought about it, she was late coming to class. So late that he ended up talking to Gertrude instead. Dating Gertrude. And marrying Gertrude. He shuddered...

You can do it in dialogue when Gladys arrives:

The drumming of Mortimer's fingers halted abruptly as Gladys approached.

She smiled as she slid into the empty seat at the table. "Hey, Morty,
I--"

"You're late, Gladys. Late! I've been waiting an hour."

"There was a long line at the grocery store. What did you want, I should leave without paying?" She shrugged. "I'm not a thief like your ex-wife."

Mortimer felt his eyes narrow. Why did she always bring up Gertrude? "Don't start that old argument."

"It's not old! I know you saw her last week and I know you loaned her money again. And yes," she continued, waving one hand to stop whatever was about to come out of his mouth in protest, "I know we're all supposed to be friends now. For the sake of good old Beachside High. But I'm tired of--"

"She helped me out then. I owe her now."

"She wrote your senior year term paper for you, Morty. Twelve years ago. Twelve years! I think you owe her nothing!"

and so on and so forth...

The next time you have backstory or information you need in the novel yet cringe because it feels like an info dump, turn the information into confrontation. Interlace the information with emotions. Have your characters rake up bits and pieces of the past that will, instead of boring the reader, intrigue him.

It's also a handy way of doing a little on-the-fly characterization.

~Linnea

HOPE’S FOLLY, Book 3 in the Gabriel’s Ghost universe, coming Feb. 2009 from RITA award-winning author, Linnea Sinclair, and Bantam Books: http://www.linneasinclair.com/

“Your life is at risk fighting for the Alliance,” he said finally.

“I’m aware of that, sir.”

“We’re underfunded, understaffed. You’ll be serving—quite possibly fighting—under conditions you’ve never faced before. Being a rebel is not the glamour and glory the vids make it out to be.”

“I’m aware of that too, sir.”

“The danger doesn’t concern you?”

“Danger concerns any good officer. But I’m ImpSec, sir. Special Protection Service.”

“Polite, professional, and prepared to kill?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded slowly. “And if I put you in the same room with the man responsible for the death of your father, and handed you a Carver-Twelve, would you be able to press the trigger?”

Did he really doubt that? “Absolutely, sir.”

He pulled his Carver out of the right side of his shoulder holster and held it up toward her. The grip of a second Carver—another 12, she thought—curved out of the left side.

She took it, not understanding. Did he mean for her to carry his weapon? A small thrill raced through her. Okay, it wasn’t that small. A Carver-12, and his as well. It was still warm from the heat of his body.

“Why haven’t you pressed the trigger?” he asked quietly.

Heading into Danger: Choosing Point of View

I’m glad Jacqueline brought up point-of-view. Annually, I judge the Golden Heart—the prestigious contest run by the Romance Writers of America for unpublished writers—and a number of local-to-regional writing contests. I’ve also just returned from the Florida Romance Writers Cruise With Your Muse conference (yes, on a cruise ship) where I sat in on other workshops, taught my own and in general, hobnobbed with authors and writers on various topics, but most often the art and craft of writing.

POV seems to be the proverbial sticky-wicket for a lot of writers. In fact, very often when I teach workshops, there’s more than a handful in the audience who appear surprised that there are rules, there are serious craft considerations relating to POV. The fact that a scene or a chapter—or the fact that even an entire book could be based on the wrong POV hasn’t occurred to a number of writers out there.

It’s not that writers aren’t aware of POV (though not all know the acronym). It’s that many writers don’t seem to be aware of the decisions that need to be made in crafting. Or why these decisions are important.

“But it’s my characters’ story. It’s Bill’s and Ted’s and Mary’s and Alice’s,” the writer explains. And then proceeds to write a scene about what Bill does, then one about Ted, one about Mary and one about Alice. (Or worse—a scene where all are prominent and we’ll get to why that’s problematic in a bit.)

But a novel—the story you’re writing—is not just a recounting of incidents in one or more characters’ lives. It’s not a dayplanner come to life or a diary entry unfolding. A novel, as Jacqueline has taught me, is fiction and fiction is entertainment.

And don’t you forget that for a minute.

Ever see the Rockettes? Or any large choreographed production? Looks easy, seamless, doesn’t it? It takes hours and hours and days of practice, of drilling, of planning, of rehearsing.

Novels are no different. You just have words—not feet—dancing in a deliberate rhythm on the stage.

Reading a commercial genre fiction novel is, for the reader, a vicarious experience. I don’t think that comes as a shock to anyone out there. Readers read to immerse themselves in another’s life, another’s quest, another’s strivings, another’s failures, another’s challenges. Safely. All the adventure, none of the risk.

Readers also read, Dwight V.Swain sagely noted in his Techniques of the Selling Writer, to experience tension. And it’s the author’s job, Swain further noted, to manipulate the emotions of the reader.

Which ostensibly doesn’t sound all that hard—given that readers are already poised and salivating for the vicarious experience. They expect it. They demand it. They’re waiting for the writer to give them that magic carpet ride…waiting so intently, in fact, they’re willing to accept and believe all sorts of nonsense just to get that magic carpet under their readerly patooties. (That willingness to accept is called, in literary terms, the suspension of disbelief. But that’s a topic for another blog.)

So if it’s so damned easy to bring readers in, why is it so damned hard to write the correct POV?

Because fiction is entertainment and because readers do read to experience tension. And the wrong POV choice—or worse, the mixing of too many POVs—makes the piece un-entertaining and without tension.

In her (excellent) World Crafter’s Guild on her Sime~Gen site, Jacqueline often pens, “Whose story is it?” This directly relates to something I learned as a private investigator: “Who’s the best witness?” I can tell you from working oodles of vehicular accident cases that what witness #1 recounts may not at all be what witness #2 saw, or witness #3. Physical presence does not always translate to knowledge, and rarely translates to agreement.

Further, physical presence at an accident scene doesn’t immediately ensure the correct recounting of facts. Distance from the accident as well as location (ie: blocked view) are two factors that affect what a witness can impart. But other factors that come into play can include cultural, educational, and emotional issues. Let’s consider Mrs. Magillicuddy who witnesses Junior Snerd, the driver, clip the curb in front of the Magillicuddy house and plow his car into Mr. Magillicuddy’s brand new Lincoln MKZ parked in the driveway. Mrs. M will have an emotional reaction because it’s her husband’s car. Her view—her point of view—will be different from the UPS delivery driver exiting his brown truck across the street, who doesn’t really know the Magillicuddy’s or Snerd. Like it or not, emotions color memory and there’s a not a private detective, cop, attorney or judge that doesn’t know that. To Mrs. M, the oncoming car will likely—in hindsight—be remembered as larger and faster. More threatening, more menacing.

What does this have to do with writing fiction and POV?

Bear with me. I’ll get to it.

Now, the group of teenagers hanging out at the corner will have a different recounting of what happened when Snerd’s car whizzed by, stereo blaring. They may—because of their age and their teen-culture—be able to identify the song pounding through Snerd’s speakers and as well, might recognize the object in Snerd’s left hand as a cell phone, because those are things important to their world. But if asked whether it appeared Snerd’s car exceeded the posted speed limit, they might not be able to answer because—again, based on their teen-culture—a car with music blaring whose driver is texting on his cell phone is a “cool thing” (or whatever the current jargon is.)

Junior might even be a friend. Conflict of interest, that.

And Snerd, I assure you, has a very different recounting of what happened. (Insurance company files are full of statements from drivers who swear “that tree just jumped out in the road and hit my car.”)

So it’s a detective’s job to gather not only the facts from the witnesses, but ascertain those items which affect the facts, like distance, lighting, obstructions, and subjective factors like education, culture, relationships and so on. A report is then created from all the information culled.

A novel is not a report. A novel, Swain says, is desire plus danger. A novel, Jacqueline Lichtenberg teaches, is entertainment; it is a story whose essence is conflict.

Danger, desire, tension, conflict.

What does this have to do with POV? It teaches you that when you choose POV, you must always work from the character in whose POV the reader will experience the most conflict. Tension. Desire. When you work from the POV of the character whose recounting, whose experience will permit the reader to experience the most conflict, you’re feeding the reader’s desire for vicarious experiences, and you’ll keep the reader turning pages to find out what happens next (“What can I experience next?”).

Now, problems arise when writers get hopped-up on this emotional thing and believe More Is Better. “So,” newbie writer says aloud, “if the emotional experiences of one character in the scene can be gripped, then the emotional experiences of four characters in the scene will be fantastic!” And she writes the next few pages allowing the reader into the heads and hearts of all four characters, so that the readers knows the thoughts and feelings of all four characters at the same time.

Uh, no. It doesn’t work that way.

POV is like being a sports fan. You like the Tampa Bay Bucs (though likely not this year). You like the Tampa Bay Lightning. You root for the Rays, another local team in the Tampa-St Pete area. So when the Lightning play the Philadelphia Flyers, your focus, your interest, your emotion, your dedication is to the Lightning players on the ice.

But what if the sports field contained the Bucs, the Lightning and the Rays? Your loyalties, attention and emotions would be divided.

That’s one of the reasons multiple points-of-view in the same scene or (heaven forefend) paragraph doesn’t work: it splits reader loyalties. Instead of a 100% vested interest in Character A, the reader has a 25% interest in Character A, 25% in Character B, 25% in Character C and 25% in Character D.

Which makes the scene weak and the reader will lose interest.

Remember: readers read to experience tension.
Remember: reading is a vicarious experience.

Let’s go back to tension, which is where head-hopping or multiple POVs in the same scene fails.

If the reader knows what every character is thinking and feeling, then there can be no surprises, no secrets. And if there are no surprises and no secrets, then there is a lot less tension. And if there’s a lot less tension, there are a lot less reasons for the reader (or editor or agent) to keep turning the pages.

If you have a novel in which the newly assigned captain of a military starship believes—no, fears that the admiral of the fleet—who is currently on board— doesn’t trust her, you can ramp up tension by having that fear be all the reader experiences during that chapter. Throw in a few secrets—the new captain has a bit of a shady past that, if the admiral found out, would certain land her in the brig—if she lives that long—and you have more tension. More danger. More desire (to live, to succeed, to not be unmasked and killed for past sins). You can show (because good writers show and don’t tell) the admiral watching her with suspicion (or so she believes). You will then keep the reader turning pages because all the reader know in this chapter is what the captain knows—fear, suspicion, trepidation.

If, in that chapter or scene or (heaven forefend) those very paragraphs, you include the admiral’s thoughts and the reader learns that the admiral is not watching the captain’s every move because he suspects her, but because he’s secretly been in love with her for years…you then weaken the captain’s fears. The reader knows then that the captain really has nothing to worry about. Her fears are invalid. Her suspicions are bogus. It’s all really just a big misunderstanding.

So why keep reading? Where’s the tension the reader wants to experience vicariously? It’s watered down now. Ineffective.

“But, but, Linnea!” you wail. “That’s Games of Command. And we did learn about Kel-Paten’s feelings for Tasha.”

Yes, you did. But not in the same paragraph or scene. I gave you time to get emotionally invested in Tasha’s paranoia before I let you in on Branden Kel-Paten’s little secret. And when in the chapter where you learned about Kel-Paten’s little secret, you also learned about the huge risks and threat to him because of it.

I manipulated your emotions and you loved it.

I also kept you solidly in one point of view until I’d wrung those emotions out of you. Then and only then could I switch you to another character’s point of view, emotions and problems.

Did I do it flawlessly? Hell no. As author Mary Jo Putney so wisely said in a recent radio interview, each novel has limited real estate. You have a finite landscape in which to create your book. There are times you must cut, you must fudge. You have deadlines. You have word count limits. But even given all that, character POV is one of the elements a writer must always keep as a top priority.

Point of View is the tool by which you manipulate the reader because point of view is what places the reader into the character’s heart and mind. It is the means of the vicarious experience. Therefore, the point of view you choose must be the one that is the most impactful, most fraught with emotions, laced with desire, infused with danger. And you stay in that point of view long enough to make sure the reader has become vested in that character. The reader must care deeply and the reader can’t do that in a setting of divided loyalties or a cacophony of thoughts and feelings.

Going back to the accident between Magillicuddy and Snerd, whose story on the witness stand would you think would be the most impactful? The teens on the corner? The UPS driver? Or Snerd’s behind the wheel of the car? Which would have more sensations that were immediate and grabbing? Which would hold your attention longer?

The story you want to listen to is the point of view of that character.

~Linnea

Linnea Sinclair
// Interstellar Adventure Infused with Romance//
Available Now from Bantam: Shades of Dark
2009: Hope's Follyhttp://www.linneasinclair.com/

Plots That Work

Again, riding on Cindy's coat tails here...

There is no one right way to plot a book. Like Cindy, I'm a pantser or rather, I was more of a pantser than I am now. I guess I've morphed, after several mutlibook contracts, into a plot-ser. Half plotter, half pantser. Deadlines can have that effect.

But not everyone starts out a pantser. Last summer, author Stacey "The Silver Spoon" Klemstein and I did a plotting workshop at Archon, the science fiction convention held annually just outside St. Louis. Entitled "Plots That Work" we approached the same subject from two different angles: hers and mine.

Here's the breakdown from Stacey's handout:

Stacey Sez…

*Stephen King says, “…my basic belief about the making of stories is that they pretty much make themselves. The job of the writer is to give them a place to grow (and to transcribe them, of course).”

*Start with a situation: create a truly difficult situation and watch your characters struggle to find a way out of it. Don’t help them and don’t manipulate the situation to get them out—just watch and write it all down. (I’m paraphrasing Stephen King here, again!) Use “what-if” to test your situation’s strength.

*“Through a mirror, darkly”—Sometimes I can’t see much beyond the initial situation. I know someone is on the run, for example, but I don’t know why. That’s where GMC (Goal, Motivation & Conflict) comes in for each of the main characters, including the antagonist. (I don’t use the word villain because every villain is the hero of his or her own story—at least, that’s the way it should be if you want your hero to have a worthy opponent.)

*Imagine your story on a continuum. Your character is a certain way and in a particular situation at the beginning. Events transpire to change both of those elements, resulting in a changed character and situation by the end.

*Christopher Vogler says there are common elements (events, if you prefer) in every hero’s journey. Changes in the hero’s external situation match up with the changes that are happening inside him or her.

Ordinary World
Call to Adventure
Refusal
Meeting w/Mentor
Limited awareness of a problem
Increased awareness
etc etc...
*
Recommended Reading:
The Writer’s Journey, Christopher Vogler
On Writing, Stephen King
Goal, Motivation & Conflict, Debra Dixon
Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott

Linnea Sez…

1 – What is a plot? A plot is a series of events—both internal and external—that comprises the character(s)’s journey through the story.

2 – Plot is the power source that makes the story happen. And conflict is the energy fueling that power source.

3 – James Scott Bell (Plot & Structure) sez Plot answers the questions:
· What’s this story about?
· Is anything happening?
· Why should I keep reading?
· Why should I care?

4 – Your plot is inextricably tied to your characterization. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a plot/problem-oriented writer (let’s write a story about an evil galactic empire challenged by a small band of freedom fighters called Jedi Knights) or a character-oriented writer (let’s write a story about a young orphaned man who wants to be a Jedi Knight and help wrestle his world away from the evil galactic empire). It is the main character(s) that the reader will consciously and subconsciously relate to and identify with. Your characters provide the answer to Why should I keep reading? And Why should I care?

5 – Who, What, When, Where, Why & How:
· Who are your characters?
· What is the inciting incident and/or external conflict that launches the story?
· When does the story take place?
· Where does it take place?
· Why does the external conflict threaten your main characters?
· How will your main characters resolved the conflict?

6 – Utilize the Concept of Rising Action. Make it worse, make it worse, make it worse. “How could things get worse? And when is the worst moment for them to get worse?” –Donald Maass, Writing the Breakout Novel

7 – “Follow no rule off a cliff.” –C.J. Cherryh

*Recommended Reading:

Plot & Structure, James Scott Bell
Techniques of the Selling Writer, Dwight V Swain
Writing the Breakout Novel, Donald Maass
Prescription for Plotting Popular Fiction, Carolyn Greene

Stacey's into Vogler. I follow Swain. That doesn't make Swain right and Vogler wrong. It means I follow the plotting method that sets me all a-flutter. That works for me. If it works for me, it'll work for my muse.

Follow your muse and the plotting method that sets you a-flutter. You'll be the stronger writer for it.

~Linnea
http://www.linneasinclair.com/

First Chapter Foibles

Since Cindy talked about prologues, I'll talk about first chapters. I know we played around with opening lines/scenes a few weeks back. We'll deal less with word choice here and more with content.

One of the biggest problems writers have is where and when to start the story. If you're like me, most of your stories emerge as a serious of scenes or conflicts in your mind--rather like a movie trailer with flashes of action, passion, problems. If you're lucky, the opening scene is in one of those flashes.

I'm rarely lucky. More often, I have to ruminate on the feelings those flashes have given me. I have to let what I see as the conflicts percolate, ferment. I have to get into my characters' skins. Then I have to decide where and when to start the story.

I learned that's easier to decide when I listen to the experts:

"You can start a story in any way and at any point and, regrettably, I've read the manuscripts that prove it," writes Dwight V Swain in his Techniques of a Selling Writer. "But that doesn't mean that some beginnings aren't better (read: 'more effective') than others." To Swain, the more effective technique involves change. "To start a story, a change my prove the trigger for continuing consequences. That is, it must set off a chain reaction. Responding to change, your character must do something that brings unanticipated results. He must light a fire he can't put out."

I love that last line: He must light a fire he can't put out.

"The story starts where the elements that will conflict to generate the plot first come together, eyeball to eyeball," says Jacqueline Lichtenberg on her Sime~Gen writer's school pages. "That contact starts the cause-effect chain which is the plot. The story can't start until that has happened. The story is the sequence of changes inside the character caused by his changing internal conflict. It is SPURRED by confrontation with the external conflict. "

Continuing consequences or cause-and-effect chain... it doesn't matter what you call it. But the impetus is the same. Something significant (to the character) and unexpected happens. This is where you start your story.

"Every good story starts at a moment of threat," writes Jack Bickham in his The 38 Most Common Fiction Writing Mistakes. "Nothing is more threatening than change."

Now, don't be overpowered by the words here: conflict, threat, change. This does not mean you have to start your story with a car going over a cliff. Though that certainly is attention-getting. Threat and change can be small things. They only have to be big to your main character. Whatever the threat or change is must matter deeply to your main character. It can be something as innocuous as a change of schedule. Or a cell-phone mistakenly left at home that day. It can be a decision a character makes, believing it's the right decision. But it turns out to be very, very wrong. (IE: the road to hell is paved with good intentions...)

I like to think of the key ingredient of a first chapter as The Point of No Return. From here, your main character has nowhere to go except into more trouble as he or she tries to deal with the change or threat.

However you do it, what happens in that first chapter forces the rest of the book to unfold. It's critical to remember that because one of the more common errors I see in beginning novelists is to start with a lot of backstory, or a travelogue or paragraphs and paragraphs of setting description. They don't get to the change, the impetus for the conflict, until chapter 3 (and many an agent or editor will tell you that beginning writers' manuscripts can almost all have the first two chapters deleted and be the better for it--for just that reason).

"Fiction looks forward, not backward," Bickham writes. "When you start a story with background information, you point the reader in the wrong direction, and put her off. If she had wanted old news, she would have read yesterday's newspaper."

I've used exactly those techniques in every one of my published novels. In Finders Keepers, Captain Trilby Elliot's routine repairs on her ship are interrupted by the unexpected arrival of an enemy ship...that crashes. And presents her with a wounded survivor. In Gabriel's Ghost, Captain Chaz Bergren's daily fight to survive on a prison planet is interrupted by the unexpected arrival of a former enemy--who she believed to be dead. In An Accidental Goddess, Gillie Davre wakes up in a space station sickbay--three hundred and forty two years later. In Games of Command, Captain Tasha Sebastian learns she's been busted down to the rank of commander and now must work side by side with a former enemy. And in The Down Home Zombie Blues, Commander Jorie Mikkalah arrives on a planet to find her undercover agent is dead and a key piece of equipment is now in the hands of the locals.

Each of my main characters handles the change by starting a fire she can't put out. Every one of these changes put my main characters eye to eye with the cause of the conflict.

Backstory, history and setting are all woven in as the characters act and respond. As they move from one problem to the next. As they take one step forward and two steps back. As conflict builds. Until by the end of the first chapter, the character has nowhere to go but into more trouble.

And the reader has no choice but to turn the page to start Chapter Two.

Take a hard and honest look at the first chapter in your unpublished manuscript or work-in-progress. Have you opened at The Point Of No Return? Or have you started with backstory, or have you left your character too many routes of escape, too many options?

~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com