Max's Blog

2011-12-01T15:01:00.004-06:00

Inside or Outside?

Simple Guidelines for Opening Stories and Scenes
by
Max Griffin

Some of the greatest literature of the nineteenth century used an omniscientnarrator. This technique places the author--and the reader--outside theevents of the story, looking in. There is nothing intrinsically wrongwith this approach. However, modern commercial fiction has almost completelyabandoned the omniscient narrator. Today, about thirty percent of allcommercial fiction uses a first person narrator, while the overwhelmingmajority of the remainder uses third person limited. The purpose of thisshort essay is to discuss the latter approach and its consequences for openinga scene in a short story or novel.

Before starting on our main enterprise, it's worthwhile to have a shortdiscussion of the prevailing theory of fiction today. The guiding conceptis that of the fictional dream. John Gardner conceived this idea and wasits most articulate spokesperson. In his excellent guide for authors, The Art of Fiction, he states

"Inthe writing state—the state of inspiration—the fictive dream springs up fullyalive: the writer forgets the words he has written on the page and sees,instead, his characters moving around their rooms, hunting through cupboards,glancing irritably through their mail, setting mousetraps, loading pistols. Thedream is as alive and compelling as one's dreams at night, and when the writerwrites down on paper what he has imagined, the words, however inadequate, donot distract his mind from the fictive dream but provide him with a fix on it,so that when the dream flags he can reread what he's written and find the dreamstarting up again. This and nothing else is the desperately sought andtragically fragile writer's process: in his imagination, he sees made-up peopledoing things—sees them clearly—and in the act of wondering what they will donext he sees what they will do next, and all this he writes down in the best,most accurate words he can find, understanding even as he writes that he mayhave to find better words later, and that a change in the words may mean asharpening or deepening of the vision, the fictive dream or vision becomingmore and more lucid, until reality, by comparison, seems cold, tedious, anddead."

To be sure, there are other theories of fiction than Gardner's. Manypowerful works of modern literature deliberately use a "distancingeffect" (German: Verfremdungseffekt), promoted by Bertolt Brecht among other masters.  This competing idea purposefully reminds thereaders--or the audience, in the case of theater or cinema--that the fictionalevents are an artifice and thus strives to engage the readers on a morecritical and intellectual level.

However, this essay is about commercial fiction, and in this arena Gardner'sideas have become dominant. One might think of the "fictionaldream" as drawing the reader into the story from the outside world, whilethe "distancing effect" places the reader outside the story, lookingin, hence the title for this essay. Commercial fiction today is firmly onthe side of putting the reader inside the story.

This dichotomy is certainly an over-simplification, but it's a helpful paradigmto keep in mind. If you want to construct a fictional dream, you need todraw the reader into the story and hence into a dream-like state. Youwant to avoid things that pull the reader out of that state. While thereaders are inside the story, you do not want them thinking--you want them believing,imagining, and feeling.

It's not that you don't want your readers to ever think--surely everyauthor has a message they want their readers take away from their story. However, you don't want them puzzling out the details of the fictional world while they are reading the story. Later, as they reflect on the meaning oftale, that's when you want them thinking.

So, the basic idea is to draw the readers into a fictional dream. Thereaders become the author's active partners in imagining the fictional world,in a state of suspended disbelief. In crafting the opening of any fictionalwork, it's the author's primary task to launch this dream. Each change inscene runs the risk of disrupting the dream, and so the author must use all thetools of his or her craft to keep the dream-state alive and to lure the readerinto the new setting.

Here are two simple guidelines.

1. Launch a new scene by orienting the readers. The reader needs toknow who the point-of-view character is, where that personis, what they are doing, and why they are doing it. If the scene is embedded in the story, the readers also need to know when it'staking place relative to the earlier scenes.

2. At the very start of a scene, put the readers inside the head of thepoint-of-view character.

These are simple ideas, but difficult to carry out in practice. It'samazing to me how many stories I read where the authors have omitted all theinformational tasks listed in the first guideline. The second step, puttingthe reader inside the point-of-view character's head, is even morechallenging. Let's look at an example, starting with a basic opening andthen tweaking it.

It was dinnertime when John walked into his brother Tom'shospital room. He felt bad seeing Tom's injuries and wished he'd beenmore careful when planning their hunting trip.

These two opening sentences accomplish the basics of orienting the reader:

We know who point-of-view character is: John. We've establishedwe're in his head because we know he's "feeling bad."
We know where he's at--in a hospital.
We know what he's doing and why he's there--visiting hisbrother.
We know when the scene takes place--dinnertime.

Thus, this opening does the basic job of orienting the readers. Note youhave to name John to answer the "who"question. The sooner you name him, the better, as this helps readers toidentify with him.

Do not start by writing, "It was dinnertime when he walked into the room." The pronoun "he" hasno antecedent and makes the reader stop and think about who walked in. Even if the point-of-view doesn't change between scenes, a new scene marks abreak in the fictional dream. Reinforcing that we're still in John's headhelps maintain continuity of the dream-state.

Do not start with dialogue. A disembodied voice will almost surely putthe reader outside the story looking in, hearing the words on their own insteadof through the point-of-view character's ears. Establish thepoint-of-view first, before anyone speaks. Further, opening with dialoguewill lead the reader to think about who is speaking and where they are. You don't want them thinking--at least, notyet!

The worst thing about this opening is that it does almost nothing to put thereader inside John's head. Doing that takes thought andcraft. The author needs to be inside John's head, imaginingentering the room, imagining the sensations and emotions that pass across hispsyche as this scene opens.

John heaved a cleansing breath and his nose tingled as he inhaled astringent hospital scents. He stepped into his brother Tom's room where a nurse's aide huddled beside the bed, spooning a liquid dinner of steaming soup into Tom's waiting lips. John blinked back tears at the sight of the casts immobilizing his brother's limbs. Guilt clenched at his stomach and tightened his throat while memories of yesterday's hunting accident came flooding back.

This opening is by no means perfect. Instead, it's constructed to make somespecific points about craft. It starts with John doing somethingpersonal--heaving a cleansing breath. We learn that he's in a hospitalfrom the scents that this breath brings. In fact, his nose tingles inresponse to the "astringent" scents. All of this combines tomake this bit of information intimate and immediate, since it's about what Johnsmells rather than just telling the reader that he's in a hospital. Inthe next two sentences, we learn about Tom's injuries in specific ways: hecan't feed himself, he's on a liquid diet, and his arms are immobilized incasts. We also learn that he's getting dinner, which answers the"when" question. Finally, we learn that John "feels bad"through descriptions of his physical responses to seeing his brother: he blinksback tears, his stomach clenches, and his throat tightens. These are allvisceral, inner sensations that help to put the readers into John's head andestablish him as the point-of-view character.

It takes approximately twice as many words to establish the point of view--thefirst opening is 29 words and the second is73 words. But notice that thesecond does a much better job of drawing the reader into John's head and henceinto the scene and the story.

Let me do one more example, this one based on an opening to one of my shortstories.

Mattlooked at the snow storm through his window. It was night, and thestreetlight illuminated the storm making him think of death. Downstairs,his best friend argued with his wife. He wanted to yell at them to stop,but he couldn't. He had had a headache and rubbed his eyes.

Here we know some the basic answers:

Who: Matt.
Where: upstairs.
What: He's looking out the window.
Why: This is an unanswered question, although it seems to have somethingto do with the argument downstairs.
When: It's night.

Notice that the "why" question is largely unanswered. Exactlywhy is Matt looking out the window instead of going downstairs? What isthe argument about? If he wants to yell at them, why can't he? Whydoes he have a headache and what does that have to do with the story? Sometimes leaving one of the basic questions unanswered or partially answeredcan launch the plot, which is the case here. Part of the point is thatthe guidelines are just that: guidelines. It would be amistake to follow thes rules, lemming-like, over a cliff.

Here's the opening I actually wrote for this story "In Dreams" .

Mattpressed his palm against the window pane and let his forehead kiss theglass. Outside, an immaculate shroud of snow enfolded the night-shadowedavenue. Flakes, silent and inevitable, wafted through the streetlight'shalo. He tilted his head to peer through the window, where icy facetsglittered like stardust across the drifts.

Voicesfrom downstairs, muffled and indistinct, muttered through the heatingducts. He wanted to scream at them, his wife and his best friend, but nosound escaped his throat. Matt withdrew his hand from the chill glass andrubbed his eyes. His cold fingers soothed the pain that lingered there.

In this story, it turns out that Matt is dead by his wife's hand, and we are inhis disembodied soul--a pair of twists not revealed until the very end. In the opening, I wanted to foreshadow these very specific plot elements andcrafted language to this end. Words like "shroud,""inevitable," "silent," "halo," and"stardust" all have deliberate portent. Instead of saying"he couldn't" yell at his wife and best friend, I say "no soundescaped his throat," which is quite different. His "coldfingers" are also foreshadowing, as is the fact that the pain"lingers" between his eyes--where his wife shot him.

Once again, as with the prior example, the point with this opening is to drawthe readers into the point-of-view character's head and, through the character'semotions, deeds and sensations, to draw them into the fictional world. If, at the same time, you can foreshadow the action and plot of the story, somuch the better.

I'm sure you can find examples of your own where the author makes use of theseguidelines. Indeed, I've posted this as a messageboard so that you can add your own examples and comments.

Also, never forget that guidelines are just that. They are suggestions,based on both theory and practical experience. Your story may havedifferent demands or structure. Maybe you want to employ the"distancing effect," in which case nothing in this essayapplies. As in the second example above, maybe some element of orientingthe reader is connected to the twist that makes the story work. Alwaysfollow your muse, not that of someone else. At thesame time, take advantage of things that make sense for your story and yourstyle.

Good luck, and good writing!

Max

Flatland released

2010-11-10T22:00:00.002-06:00

Video Code:

Flash Fiction for Halloween

2010-10-27T08:50:00.000-05:00

Mr. Moon, Shine on Me

flash fiction

Max Griffin

Mr. Moon is full tonight. I can just see him if I stand on the table by my bed, on my tippy-toes. When you stand like that, you can look out of the basement window and see our backyard. I pull on my chains so I can see Mr. Moon better. He's just sneaking over Mr. Wolfson's roof next door, just like he's playing peek-a-boo. I don't play peek-a-boo anymore. That's for babies. Mr. Wolfson used to let me play with his puppy, though. He's nice to me. His puppy gave me kisses sometimes.

My swing set is in the backyard. It's all shiny in the moonlight. It looks real pretty when Mr. Moon shines on it. I wish Mr. Moon would shine on me.

I wish I could play on my swing set. But not tonight. Mr. Moon is full tonight.

It's real scary when Mr. Moon is full. They scare me when there's a full moon. They always chain me in the basement on those nights. Sometimes they hit me, too. They're real scary when Mr.Moon is full.

My legs hurt where they hit me. Standing on tippy-toe makes my legs hurt the worst. My chains clank when I lay back down on my bed. I hug Mr. Bear. It's cold in the basement tonight. The wind is blowing outside, like my whistle that Daddy threw away because I blew on it too much and it hurt his ears. It's cold and I can't reach my covers. They're far away, on the floor across the basement. I tried to get them but the chains bit my leg and choked me so bad I couldn't reach them.

I wish they didn't make me stay here, but they said I was bad. They hit me and put the chains on me and said I was a very, very bad little boy. They must be right. They're my mommy and daddy. I try to be good. Cross my heart!

When they hit me, I cried and cried. I screamed when they carried me down here. I even hit Daddy. But they didn't care. I don't know why Mommy and Daddy hate me. I hug Mr. Bear tighter. Mr. Bear loves me.

The floor creaks from Mommy and Daddy walking around upstairs. They're yelling again. Sometimes I think Mommy and Daddy hate each other, too. I'm afraid Daddy might leave again. He left once for days and days but then he came back. Mommy cried when he left. She hugged me when she cried. That was nice; she gives good hugs.

But then she chained me in the basement and told me I was bad and hit me.

Daddy was gone for the longest time when he left. I was scared. Mommy said we didn't have enough to eat. Then Daddy came back. He didn't have any food, but Mommy hugged him and kissed him anyway. He was all hairy and Mommy made him shave. She said he looked like an animal. I don't know why she said that. Daddy didn't look at all like Mr. Wolfson's puppy. He put the shaving cream on my face and shaved me, too. We both giggled. That was fun, to giggle with Daddy.

They're yelling again. I don't understand what they're saying. It's all my fault. They must be fighting about me. There's a growling sound, too. It can't be Mr. Wolfson's puppy. He made growly sounds sometimes, but he doesn't come in our back yard any more.

It's so cold and my legs ache. My side hurts, too. Why did they hit me? Why are they yelling at each other? Now Mommy is screaming at Daddy. Daddy screams back. I think they maybe broke some dishes. I hope they aren't the ones that Grandma gave us. Grandma is nice to me. She loves me. She never hits me or locks me in the basement.

Mr. Moon's face is in the window now. He's shining right on me, here in the basement. I don't need to climb on my table anymore to see him. I don't like it when Mr. Moon is full. They scare me and hit me when Mr. Moon is full.

They shout some more. Then a door slams real loud, and a car starts and drives away. Mommy is crying. Her sobs sound all echo-y in the register above my head. I'm scared that Daddy has left again. Maybe if I go upstairs and kiss her, she'll love me and hug me. I think I can slip the chains off, now that Mr. Moon has shined on me. Maybe if I trot to the top of the stairs and scratch at the door, Mommy will open it and let me kiss her.

I'm nearly done changing now. I almost always change when Mr. Moon is full. He has to shine on me, though, or I don't change. I look just like Mr. Wolfson's puppy now. Poor puppy! Last month, when Mr. Moon was full, I got out and ate him.

Knowing When To Quit

2010-10-14T09:59:00.008-05:00

This is a rather long joke.I first heard this from a friend who was later to become my brother-in-law.I'm no longer married to his sister, and he's long deceased, but the memory his humor still brings a smile to my lips.I hope you enjoy.

Knowing When To Quit

Once upon a time there was a couple who longed to have children. Over many years they waited for their first child to come but, alas, for many years they waited in vain. They prayed and gave offerings at church and finally were resigned that it was God's will that they not have a child.

Then a miracle happened and the woman became pregnant! Perseverance has its special reward, as the couple would come to learn.

The couple was ecstatic at their good fortune. They added a room to their cottage for their child and made list after list of baby names. Boy names, girl names, they didn't care. They just wanted their child.

At last the happy day came. The midwife arrived, the father boiled water, and before long a babe's happy cries filled their cottage.

"What do we have, a boy or a girl?" the father asked the midwife.

"Well, I'm not sure, my friend," said she.

"What! Is our baby not healthy?"

"Oh no, the babe's cries are as lusty as any child I have ever delivered." The midwife hesitated. "But, well, your child seems to be missing something. You see, there is only a head. No body, no arms, no legs. Just a head."

Naturally the couple was disappointed at this. But they reasoned that part of a child was better than none and determined to rejoice in their good fortune. After all, their child appeared healthy and happy.

They loved their child dearly. They named their child "Head" since none of those baby names seemed right. After all, it was impossible to say if Head was a little boy or a little girl.

So the years passed happily for the three of them in their little cottage. Eventually, as these things happen, Head turned eighteen and the father resolved that it was time to initiate the new adult to the ways of the world, and to alcohol in particular. So he put Head in his bowling ball bag and they set off for the local pub.

Once there, the proud father put Head on the bar and ordered a glass of wine. Head slurped at the wine while a huge grin twisted his lips. At the last gulp, there was a huge puff of smoke and a flash of lightning. When the smoke cleared, a miracle had occurred. Head had grown shoulders and two arms.

Head flexed his new fingers--or maybe they were her new fingers, for gender remained a matter for speculation. Eyes wide with wonder, Head exclaimed, "That's wonderful, Pop! I want more!"

So the father ordered a beer. Head chugged the brew like an expert. There was another huge puff of smoke and flash of lightning. Head had grown a body. Head ran his hands over his chest while a wry grin bent his lips. "I guess I'm a boy, Pop." His laughter turned to a hearty belch before he said, "That was even. Let's do it again. I want more."

This time, the father ordered a Harvey Wallbanger. Head drained the drink in one swallow. Once again there was an enormous puff of smoke and lightning, even bigger than the first two. But this time Head was gone! He was nowhere to be seen, as though that last drink was too much for him and he just disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

Of course the father was dismayed at his loss.

The bartender could only think of one thing to say.

"He should have quit while he was a head!"

The Monster

2010-09-27T10:48:00.001-05:00

At rest in bed I dream a dream
of monsters who await
in darkness where they plot and scheme
With hearts that beat with hate.

My mind sees beasts with eyes agleam.
Their furry paws create
A whispered shuffle to make me scream,
And limbs with fear gyrate.

These creatures snarl and sound extreme,
Their yowls and howls so great
And mighty shake my room. They seem
So harsh and won't abate.

Yet monsters tremble when I scream!
They flee and hide and wait.
Perhaps they fear what humans deem
To be a normal state.

Could they be like me, I dream?
Perhaps we can create
Not fear but friendship. So I beam
A smile and risk my fate.

Henceforth in bed I can allow
My friend with me to cower.
The dark still scares us but we now
Bring comfort to each other.

--------------
I'm not very good at poems, but here's an attempt I'm willing to put out for the public to peruse.

To Be or Not

2010-09-27T09:01:00.007-05:00

Every author has heard an editor, or perhaps a colleague in one of our writing groups, complain about "weak verbs." The easiest example of a weak verb is any form of "to be." For instance, this sentence uses a weak verb.

Mary was a crybaby about Sam calling her lazy.

"Was" is the weak verb in this sentence; it carries the burden of linking Mary to her actions. In fact, the sentence is pretty awful all around since it tells the readers she's a crybaby as opposed to showing it. Many editors would ask the author to change it to a more active sentence. For example, we might re-write the above in the following way.

Mary's lower lip thrust out when Sam called her lazy. "I am NOT!" she whined.

Most of us would probably agree the second is better than the first. But why is it better? After all, it's still got that weak verb: Mary says, "I am not," and "am" is a form of "to be." Of course, what makes it different is that we are showing Mary acting like a crybaby as opposed to telling the readers. Her petulant speech denying it is part of the showing.

The point here is that when we talk about "weak verbs," it's usually shorthand for a more fundamental idea. In this case, that idea is "show, don't tell." The weak verb passively describes Mary, while the second example shows, through her words and deeds, that she's being a crybaby.

I recently read a long essay on an online writing site about this subject. The author had gathered together dozens of examples of published authors who used weak verbs in their prose. Some of the authors were famous, and many were current best-sellers. The essay used these examples to make the argument that "weak verbs," and forms of "to be" in particular, are just fine to use in our prose. After all, if they're good enough for Hemingway, or Capote, or Maugham, why can't beginning authors, use them?

Well, there's a good answer to that. We shouldn't use them because we want to get published.

Now, I could argue that there is a good reason having to do with craft for preferring active verbs. Like all preferences, it's probably not a good idea to apply this one with obsessive zeal. However, where weak verbs lead to weak writing, as in the example above, we should avoid them. But that's not the argument I want to make here. My argument is that if we want to get published, we should avoid weak verbs.

For the beginning author, the challenge is to get off of the editor's reject pile and into the consider-for-publication pile. Editors--and agents--are humans. By all accounts, submissions from would-be authors swamp their inboxes: they get far more stories and novels than they can possibly publish or even read.

Editors and agents have developed experience-based techniques for sorting manuscripts. Since they can't read everything that crosses their desks, they will scan for elements they can quickly and easily find, and they use those to sort into "read" and "reject" piles. Scientists do the same thing when confronted with reams of data; they call this technique heuristics. These become gatekeeper rules.

Just like "weak verbs" in the example above is shorthand for "show, don't tell," these heuristics are shortcuts to help over-worked editors and publishers sort through their submissions.

So, what do editors use to sort manuscripts? Well, the first thing is whether or not the author has previously published any fiction. Nothing succeeds like success. Thus, one can find countless examples from published authors to show that they have used weak verbs, passive voice, adverbs, inserted info-dumps and even head-hopped and still been published. I could give you an example of a current NY Times best-selling author who does all of these things. Whether these are good or bad isn't my point. These authors sell their works to publishers--and readers buy their novels--based on their prior sales history.

What other heuristics do editors and agents use? Well, some will decide which pile your submission belongs in based only on your first sentence. That may not be fair, and may not even make sense, but it's a fact. That makes the first sentence critical for an unpublished author.

All of the other "don't-do's" that we learn about the craft of fiction fall into the same category. Passive voice? Editors will likely toss it in the "reject pile." Info-dumps? Same thing. Weak verbs, head-hopping, adverbs, omniscient narrators and many other things have the same outcome--for unpublished authors.

Some of these things are fashion. Again, one can find countless examples to illustrate this by looking at classics from decades ago. So what? We don't have time machines to go back to 1980 to submit our novels. Fashions change, and many of the things that result in rejection today were pervasive fifty years ago, or even twenty years ago. This doesn't mean the current fashion is right. It just is.

If you're an unpublished author who craves to be published, you should listen to what editors and agents say about their heuristics. Your goal is to get into the "read" pile, and avoid the "reject pile." Weak verbs are one of the things that land you in the wrong pile. Put them in your fiction at your peril.

Max

Interview with M. King

2009-11-15T07:45:00.018-06:00

M. King is a colleague of Max Griffin who also publishes with loveyoudivine. Like Max, she writes across a wide number of genres, and often includes GLBT characters in her fiction. In addition to her fiction, she has contributed poetry, reviews, and columns to print and online publications. You can find more about her at her website. Max did this interview in a sequence of emails starting on November 10, 2009.

M. Griffin: Hi. It's nice to get started on this. Since we're on the other side of the pond from one another, this will doubtless be a bit of a slow process. For starters, can you tell me what authors influence and inspire you?

M. King: Thanks! And nice to 'meet' you, by the way. I've always read pretty widely, and I write across a lot of different genres and styles, so I suppose my influences are rather varied.

My love of imagery probably comes from the amount of poetry I grew up absorbing, and a long-time love of folklore. I'm fascinated by different languages, different cultures--different experiences in all forms, really--as well as the actual mechanics of writing and the written word. I love John Steinbeck's elegant sparseness of style, but I'm also very drawn to the richness of writers like Felice Picano and Djuna Barnes. I also have a huge soft spot for Terry Pratchett, which might be something to do with the English sense of humour, and if I ever accomplish a fraction of the complexity of vision he's managed in his Discworld novels, I'll be happy.

As far as inspiration goes, I take a great deal more from individual books--either the way they're written, or the themes behind them--than from specific authors. Certainly, Picano's Like People in History was a big influence on me when I was working out how to write my first gay character, as was William S. Burroughs' Queer and, nothing to do with sexuality, also a lot of Ayn Rand and M. R. James. It probably comes back to that quest to put myself completely outside of my own experience. After all, getting inside a man's head is not easy for a woman, even though I do try to remember to wipe my feet first!

M. Griffin: Wow, what an interesting answer. There's so many ways to take this interview! I think I'll avoid asking about the creative dissonance between Ayn Rand and Felice Picano (unless you want to comment) and focus instead on poetry. Your web sites mentions that your work has been featured in mixed media exhibitions. Can you tell us something about that?

M. King: Ah, but isn't dissonance a catalyst for inspiration? LOL I think the trick is that I get such different things out of different authors, different books. Reading Rand, for example, is just coming face to face with this huge, unflinching view of the world that says so much about a certain time and place - and Picano, in his own way, does the same thing, but it's a totally different experience.

The mixed media thing was a while ago now - back in my home county of Kent (South East England). A group of local artists were exhibiting at the County Hall, and asked if I'd do some poetry inspired by the paintings to hang alongside them. It was a fairly informal thing, and at very short notice, but it was great fun playing with the distinctions (or lack of) between how we perceive art and the written word...which almost brings us back to Ayn Rand! I have to say, I don't take my poetry very seriously, but it is something I enjoy.

M. Griffin: Good answers! We both have written novels with gay characters. While I'm writing for a broader audience, I'm pretty sure that the people who purchase my books are predominately gay men. I know that there's a significant market for gay fiction among straight women, such as the yaoi sub-genre of manga. Do you have a sense who buys your books, and do you write with any audience segment in mind?

M. King: Oooh, I'm likely to make myself unpopular here! Readers are advised to have their rotten vegetables ready to throw. *grin*

The point about who buys my books I would love answered. Most of the readers and reviewers I've come across have been female, but certainly not all--and I would adore more contact with my readership. I know they're out there, I just worry that they think I'll bite...which I rarely do unless invited.

However, like you, I'm not really writing with a particular market segment in mind (far too clinical!), and I'd like to think my appeal is reasonably broad. I go with what the idea for a story presents, and that ranges widely. Right now, I have gay, lesbian, straight, and completely genderless fiction available, and I'm currently working on a book that features my first trans characters.

I definitely agree that there's been a sharp upswing of women reading and writing gay fiction. Temporarily side-stepping the whole debate about what is 'gay fiction' and what is 'm/m', and who has the experience to write what in any case--which I find really fascinating--and excluding sub-genres like yaoi, with which I'm frankly not really that familiar, I do see parallels with the blaxploitation flicks of the Seventies.

Once the pelting with pulpy tomatoes is over, I'll explain that. There are many wonderful writers of all genders out there producing great work that offers readers a tremendous amount of choice in (particularly) romantic literature, and that is commendable. I'm not suggesting for a moment that the marketplace is flooded with authors slapping penises on two-dimensional characters and calling their work 'gay', because the Brokeback Mountain movie made it fashionable. In many ways, I think it's a great landmark of equality that GLBT has simply become another sub-category on so many retail shelves, alongside 'interracial' or 'historical'.

But, personally, I'm selfish. I write what I want to. If I could stick to a given remit that said, perhaps, I'm writing gay erotica for women, I would probably have a much better profile. Unfortunately, for me, it's not enough that a character is gay/trans/has three heads and a dog called Rupert. That part of their identity needs to serve a purpose in my story. In Breaking Faith--my first e-published novel, which started me on the road I'm on today--the fact that my protagonist, Tommy, is gay is only as relevant as the fact he's mixed race. They're both (regrettably, but realistically) isolating factors in what is, for him, a very difficult life that ultimately leads to the crime he commits.

The same is true of Safe House, to date one of my best-selling titles. It's short gay bondage erotica, but to me it's much more than that. Writing it was an exploration of how trust, risk, and honesty work between two people, and that dynamic would only have worked the way I wanted between--not just two men--but two men with the particular characteristics that Simon and Frazer have.

My Travellers' Tales series from loveyoudivine--short fantasy fiction inspired by Romany folk tales--is slightly different, in that I actively chose to link the series by giving them all a gay spin, so to speak. Again, it's got a undercurrent of relevance to the subject matter. In several parts of England I've seen Romani friends subjected to appalling discrimination, just the same way that gay friends have been, and indeed I have as a bi female. Orientation is not the only thing that--for no damn reason--makes people outsiders and, in my opinion, that's a social concern that still urgently needs dealing with.

So, no...hauling myself in from this very long rant, I don't write for any single audience. It's probably unlikely that the same readers who've enjoyed titles of mine such as Safe House or Breaking Faith would like, for example, Daemon--a very off-the-wall paranormal mystery novel in which an English grad student is haunted by the chain-smoking ghost of a murdered glam rock star from 1976.

Equally, some have, and have loved that variety in my work. Ultimately, I'm having fun, trying to consistently produce the best work that I can, and I welcome anyone who wants to come along for the ride.

M. Griffin. I'm loving your answers!! Our readers can learn more about the books you mentioned on the following websites: Breaking Faith, Safe House, Travellers' Tales, Daemon.

Can you give us a sense of your methods? Lawrence Block surveyed best-selling authors some time ago and found a wide variance in their approaches. Some authors start with a detailed outline and character portfolios, while others have a more organic approach and let the characters take the lead as the story the develops. How about you?

M. King: That's a good question. It would be wonderful to say I'm incredibly organised and always know what I'm doing, but I think people would just laugh if I tried to pretend!

It very much depends on what I'm writing. If I'm pretty much secure in knowing what I'm talking about before I start, it's usually just a case of pulling up the drawbridge, giving the dogs something to chew, and getting on with it.

But, if research is required, I go into a blind period of absorbing as much as I can about whatever it is I need to know--life in 1920s Paris, Assiniboine culture in Northern Montana, how somebody actually goes about self-administering hormones in a gender transition process, whatever--and then I sit on it for a while and let everything percolate. Once I've done that, I can apply the meat of the story onto its bones, and that is usually an organic process. Everything develops as I go and, more often that not, I end up with a totally different project to the one I started with.

I use music a lot to help me develop flavour. In writing Whistle Bait--a short lesbian romance set in the Fifties [www.flippedfrogcollective.com/whistle-bait]--I overdosed on Carl Perkins and The Collins Kids, and Daemon was probably at least half about expressing my love of seriously vintage glitter rock (think Alice Cooper, Marc Bolan & T. Rex, and Joan Jett). Things like that really build my perception of character, though, and the characters definitely do take the lead.

Sometimes, strange but true, if I've mismatched a character to a trait or physical description--say, describing him as blond when he 'wants' to be dark-haired--the story will stick until I fix it. That has actually happened, and convinced me that, unless I'm clinically insane, writing is predominantly about putting words to things we already know exist in our mind's eye...much like a sculptor who says he can already see the statue in the marble.

M. Griffin: I was only going to ask one more question, but now I've got two. I'll ask them both at once.

I loved your answer about music inspiring characters and scenes and how you insert references into the narrative and plot. Do you ever play music in the background while you write, to help inspire you and set the mood? If so, is there a favorite genre or composer?

My second question is more prosaic. Can you tell us a little bit about your most recent release and where our readers can purchase it?

M. King: Sometimes I do...I must confess Daemon was written almost entirely in 4/4 time, to a backing of my treasured collection of very, very rough Marc Bolan demos and studio out-takes (any readers unfamiliar with the self-proclaimed cosmic superstar who ruled the British charts in the early '70s should go Google him. Really.) plus a whole lot of Nick Drake, Humble Pie, Jimi Hendrix, and The Rolling Stones. I also really love good acoustic blues--largely because I'm a such terrible player--so I listen to a lot of Mississippi John Hurt, Son House, Dave Van Ronk, Cliff Aungier...and far too much more to list!

Of course, if the house is actually quiet, I can be equally happy to work in silence. It's just that I so often forget what that sounds like.

As to recent releases, it's been a very busy year for me. It would be lovely to point people in the direction of my Travellers' Tales series, available from loveyoudivine, with a new story coming out each month. You can find all the releases so far in the series on my author shelf at LYD and my work is also available on Fictionwise, AllRomanceEbooks.com and through my Amazon author page. I'm dotted all over the internet.

For excerpts, free reads, further details on all my titles and sneaky peeks at what I have planned for 2010, you can find me at www.flippedfrogcollective.com, and I also welcome friends on Facebook and Twitter. Thanks for having me--it's been a genuine pleasure, and great fun!

M. Griffin: Thank you! It's been a pleasure.

Read M. King's interview of Alex Morgan at her blog.

Portrait of an Artist Now available

2009-10-30T11:13:00.002-05:00

Portrait of An Artist
A Science Fiction Romance
by Max Griffin
Now available from loveyoudivine and Amazon.

Tag Line: The painting was literally like nothing painted on Earth. But can the mystery behind it really save Peter’s relationship?

Blurb: Peter’s an artist, but even his success can’t blot out the physical pain he has to endure. He’s sinking into despair and there’s nothing his lover, Aaron, can do except watch. But then a strange legacy from a distant Uncle on a far-off planet changes everything. As Peter pieces together the mystery behind the painting and the journal, he also uncovers a passionate love story that crosses boundaries, time and space.

Excerpt:

He woke in the middle of the night and unglued reluctant eyelids. Moonlight and shadow greeted him. He struggled to sit up and knocked his cane from its resting place. It clattered against the end table and a photograph tumbled to the floor where its crystal frame shattered into a million glittering pieces.

Aaron's sweet features smiled up at him from the scattered shards. Peter's face was there too, still youthful and surrounded by dreadlocks of chestnut hair. In the photo, Peter stood on two legs that were still strong, and Aaron's arm rested on his shoulder. Their faces shined with joy that hadn't yet met sorrow. He sighed and thought about the gray that now streaked his shoulder-length curls and the pain lines that scoured his face.

Reluctant fingers picked up the photo. His eyes glistened as he thought of Aaron, who, though Peter's age, still enjoyed the vigor of the youth in the photo. Wisps of blond hair floated about his head like a halo, and his broad shoulders and narrow hips sang of an athleticism that Praxiteles would have loved to immortalize. He shuddered as unwanted memories cascaded through his mind and splashed against the lonely shoals of his heart. Aaron's sweaty body above him, their passions merged in an erotic pas de deux. Aaron's merry smile in the morning when they woke together. Aaron's hurt when Peter stalked out of their condo that last time. Peter's own anger and resentment remained buried deep in his core, where it bubbled like magma.

Their separation had torn a hole in Peter's heart. Fuck him. Who needs him, anyway? He held his head in his hands and fought back tears. From the counter in the kitchen, an amber bottle of pills called. He hobbled through the darkness and his fingers quivered as he unscrewed the lid and stuffed a white capsule in his mouth. He sighed and wished it would ease the pain in his soul. He would settle instead for a brief surcease from the misery that plagued his leg.

Muffled harmonics plummeted against his ears from the composer in the adjoining loft. High notes bored through the ducts and the deep bass rumbled in the walls. The middle tones, though, were too feeble to penetrate the soundproofing. A deep ache clenched at his bladder and he groped for his cane.

The painting loomed over him, begging him for affirmation. The colors slithered after him in the faint lunar illumination as he lumbered to the bathroom, harassed by the dull burr from his brace. The forms haunted his mind even as his body expelled the foul-smelling fluid that pained him. He returned to the studio. His still life accused him with shallow abstractions while the dusty painting screamed in anguish. Light. He needed light to see with.

He flipped a switch and winced when the solid state imitation of sunlight flooded the studio. His bones ached and his skin crawled with greasy sweat and crusty paint. The brace gripped at him and its tendrils dug into his nerves like wasps. He grasped his cane and hastened across the studio to where the harsh lights washed across the pastel shades of his painting and transformed it to a sallow pastiche of academic maunderings. But the other painting! Its violent gobs of color compelled his gaze.

His hand trembled as he picked up a brush and stroked dust away. His breath quickened when the arid puddles of oil assumed a new sheen and the shapes they formed twisted at his mind. He leaned close and saw that the varnish was still clear. With a soft, flannel rag and painstaking fingers he removed the grime from the surface, inch by inch. The moon sank below the urban horizon, and the composer next door silenced his synthesizer, but Peter worked on. The sun rose, and birds sang outside his window, but Peter stayed focused on the fraction of the painting's surface underneath his rag.

At last he finished. He stepped back and examined the result. His analytical mind at once saw the clumsy technique. Paint coiled in hopeless blobs, so that the surface rose and fell in chaotic hills and valleys that bore no relation to the overall composition. The shapes twisted from random swirls to crude geometric figures. It was as though Euclid had drawn by manipulating a child's Spirograph using his tongue.

He recalled Cantwell's words in his uncle's basement. The painting was, indeed, hideous. Disappointment huddled in a dismal corner of his soul. Like the pain in his leg, it was a familiar companion.

He tossed his rag aside and yawned. When his gaze fell on the pristine perfection of his just completed still life, a smile tugged at his lips and satisfaction with his mastery of craft swelled in him. He was an artist, not some amateur hack producing crap that tasteless snobs called "folk art."

His glance turned once more on the canvas from Helios. That was when the flowers trapped inside the artist's tangled creation bloomed and filled the room with glory. In that instant, their beauty took his breath away.

He collapsed to his sofa and stared in wonder. Nothing about the painting had changed. It was still an inept clump of colors and contorted shapes. What changed was that Peter looked deeper into the images and saw with the artist's tormented eyes. Bumbling, incompetent, graceless: yes, the painting was all those things. But the painter had found beauty in a bouquet of flowers and had poured his soul onto this canvas, in the anguished hope that others might know the same joy he felt. Peter wept, for the painting's very imperfections amplified the tragic magnificence of its creator's vision.

His eyes roamed over his studio. The carnations that he had painted yesterday still stood in their vase, now wilted from the heat of the morning sun. His still life glowed, like a pure and delicate theorem, filled with form and color and no meaning.

Next to him, on the table, rested the leather notebook Cantwell had delivered yesterday. It creaked when he opened it. An inscription inside, written in an ancient Spenserian hand, read, "This journal is for my brilliant nephew, Peter. Within, I spin the tales of my many journeys off-world in search of beauty and truth. Contrary to the poet's wisdom, I have rarely found these two in the same urn, for often truth is filled with sorrow while beauty brings but frivolous joy. For the diversion of his muse, I commend to him the narratives within."

A faded ribbon marked a page in the journal. Peter opened the book and a tattered photograph fell into his lap. He picked it up with two fingers and peered at a handsome couple standing before a corrugated building. Wind whipped at her long skirts and lifted his blond hair in a golden halo, while auburn braids framed her face. They gazed upon one another with smiles that glowed with the serenity of a Klimt portrait. An endless smudge of carnations covered the ground, as though a fantasy of van Gogh had come to life. What appeared to be a large badger with purple fur nuzzled at the woman's hand. He flipped it over and found the words, "Caitlin, Adam, Sebastian, January, 2359, Spirit Lake, New Iowa, Helios."

Long Musings on Short Stories

2009-05-13T13:05:00.016-05:00

I love reading short stories. I've been scared by The Telltale Heart, uplifted by Le Jongleur de Notre Dame, and amused by The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calavaras County. I read short stories every chance I get. Good and bad, funny and sad, I can't get enough short fiction. It's also my favorite medium when I write. I enjoy being able to produce a complete tale in less than 10,000 words, where I can wrap everything up in a neat little package. The fun of a short story comes from its brevity. That's also what makes it difficult to create. But if it were easy, it wouldn't be nearly as satisfying.

I've read and critiqued so many short stories by beginning authors that I decided to summarize some of my reflections on the craft of short fiction. Every author will find their own voice, and not every lesson I've struggled to learn will apply equally to every story or to every author. In real life, I'm a mathematician. Proving theorems is hard work, too, just like writing, but at least mathematics proceeds from agreed-upon axioms and follows a logical set of rules. Writing is an art, not a science, and doesn't follow rigid, logical rules. There are, however, conventions that authors have learned, by hard experience, over the years. A writer who knows when to break with convention can transform a routine story into a powerful work of art. But you have to know what the conventions are before you decide to break them. Picasso first mastered academic realism before moving to more abstract Symbolist forms. Beginning authors would likewise do well to understand the principles of narrative and style deduced by past masters of the short story.

Short fiction has been around almost since the dawn of history. Everyone has at least heard of ancient myths and fables, even if they have never read Homer, Virgil, or Aesop. Short stories, however, are a fairly recent innovation as a literary form. Starting in the early 19th century, this new genre emerged with innovative works by such authors as Nikolai Gogol, the Brothers Grimm, Washington Irving, and Nathanial Hawthorne. Edgar Allen Poe built a good part of his literary reputation on this new form, and was its most discerning early critic. Starting with his review of Hawthorne's Twice Told Tales, Poe developed a theory of the short story that is still applicable today.

Poe felt that the most important single artistic goal of a short story was to present a unified experience for the reader, either in effect or impression. From this simple premise, he outlined a number of conclusions that can help authors construct effective short fiction. Poe's view of the short story anticipated the modern theory of story-telling, articulated most clearly by John Gardner in his book The Art of Fiction. Gardner explains fiction as a guided dream, in which the author leads the readers through the events -- the author and the reader become partners in creating the fictional universe. In doing this, the author engages the readers as active participants so that they imagine the story along with the author. Things that distract the reader from this dream-like state, things that "take the reader out of the story," are thus counterproductive to the primary artistic goal. If one combines Poe's concept of the short story providing a unified experience with Gardner's notion of fiction as a guided dream, some simple principles emerge.

I should note that it is the author's job to guide the readers in matters that are important to plot, character, theme, and emotional context. The reader is the author's partner in imagining the other endless details of the story, filling in details from their own experience. By showing the details that are important to the story, the author stimulates the readers' imaginations and encourages the fictive dream.
Point of View. The general rule in all fiction is "one scene, one point of view." Hopping from one character's head to another's is one of the quickest ways to take readers out of your story. On the other hand, staying with one point of view throughout a scene deepens the readers' engagement and increases their sense of intimacy and immediacy. In short stories, head-hopping is even worse, since it detracts from the unified effect that should be author's artistic goal. Thus, a short story should almost always use a single character's point-of-view.

Sometimes authors will want to convey the emotional state of more than one character in a scene. It's tempting to write something like the following.

Mary watched as the door swung open and Pete walked in. She smiled and said hello, while she wondered why he looked so worried.

Pete couldn't stand that she smiled at him. "Hello, Mary," he said.

Besides being dreadful writing, this little snippet jumps from Mary's head ("she wondered") to Pete's (he "couldn't stand" that she smiled). Now suppose the whole thing is re-written in Mary's point of view.

Mary turned when the door creaked open. "Pete! It's so nice to see you." A smile tugged her lips upward, but a chill passed through her at the sight of his pale complexion and trembling hands.

He glared at her and snapped, "Hello, Mary. What are you smiling about, anyway?"

Now this is all in Mary's head. She turns in response to the sound of the door creaking. The smile "tugs" at her lips, and a chill passes through her at the outward signs of his tension. Then he glares and snaps at her, both things she can sense, so now the reader infers he's angry. His words show that it's her smile that annoys him. The second example conveys the same information as the first, but does it a dramatic rather than narrated form and stays in Mary's point of view.
Show, don't tell. Of course, this is one of the most fundamental rules of all fiction, but it is even more important in short fiction where economy of style is often crucial. It should go without saying that economy of style sometimes means "more is less." Consider this example.

Mary watched as the door swung open. The man walked in. He was about five-foot-five, wearing blue jeans, a red shirt, and glasses. He had a sad expression on his face.

Besides the fact that these sentences thud along like an out-of-tune engine, they constitute the author stopping to recite a set of facts. This recitation takes the reader out of Mary's head and out of the story. Now consider a second example, with even more facts.

The door creaked open, and Mary whirled as a short man scuttled inside. She wrinkled her nose at the gross beer-belly that hung over his grimy blue jeans and the pizza stains on his red T-shirt. His eyes cowered behind horned-rimmed glasses, where gloom puddled in unshed tears.

This gives the same facts, plus several more, but the second example paints a picture and uses more active verbs. By leading with the sound of the door creaking and having Mary whirl, we remind the reader that this is in her point of view. By listing the details that Mary notices -- the grimy jeans, the puddles of gloom, the pizza stains, and the beer belly -- we learn things about both the observed and the observer beyond just a listing of facts. Subjective words like "gross," "cower," and "gloom" remind the reader that it's Mary who is gathering these impressions, reinforcing the point of view.

Note that it's more intimate if the author describes the sensory information directly, rather than filtering it through Mary. For example, it would weaken the image to say something like, "she felt a cold wind blow through the open door," as opposed to "she shivered when a chill wind gusted through the open door."

I would be remiss if I didn't add one of my most frequent observations about beginning writers: overuse of adverbs. Stephen King tells us that the road to hell is paved with adverbs, and I'm convinced he's correct. Adverbs are often a shorthand in which the author falls into "telling" rather than "showing." I try to use no adverbs, since otherwise I'd sprinkle them all over the place like fairy dust.

Consider the sentence

"What a fool," he said softly.

Now it's true that "said" is pretty tepid, but the way to pep up this verb is not with an adverb. Instead, we might use a more precise verb:

"What a fool," he murmured.

Even better might be a simile or metaphor that paints a picture.

"What a fool." The words puffed from his lips and fled like smoke in the wind, leaving behind but a memory.

The reader is left to infer that the words were "soft." That little step of inference is one way to draw readers into your story.
Make Every Word Count. Chekhov wrote, "One must not put a loaded rifle on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it." Don't put something in a short story unless it serves a purpose. Don't spend pages describing a giant marlin unless the reader needs to know those details to understand the story, the theme, or the old man who's roaming the sea searching for the largest catch of his life.
First and Last Sentences. The first sentence is important in any piece of fiction. In my ideal world, the first sentence names the point-of-view character, places that character in time and space, and has him or her doing something. It's even better if the first sentence portends the conflict that the character has to resolve. The last sentence should provide that resolution, make the reader reflect on what just happened, and reinforce the theme of the story. Combining these tasks with "show, don't tell" can make these two sentences some of the most difficult to write. It's worth the effort. The first sentence is what grabs the readers and thrusts them into your fictional universe. The last sentence is what nails the story into the reader's mind.

Here's an example of a not-so-good opening paragraph.

Derek got in his car and headed for downtown. He wore a tight-fitting pair of leather pants and a white t-shirt that showed off his muscles. The county court building sat on a square piece of land in the middle of the city, surrounded by brick storefronts on all sides.

This is a nice, short, declamatory set of sentences. They name the point of view character, have him doing something, describe him, and orient the reader as to location. But they are also the author intruding to tell the reader a set of facts, and thus are "telling" rather than "showing."

Here's an alternative that is has more imagery and reinforces point of view and character.

Derek followed Old US 30 as it wove its way into the center of the town. He circled Jackson Square looking for a place to park and cursed the congested noontime traffic. When a teenager on a skate board zipped in front of him, Derek hit his brakes and honked. The kid gave him the finger before he disappeared into an alley between two grimy, brick storefronts.

Derek glanced at his destination before he squeezed his beat-up Honda into an empty parking space. He thought that that Stalin would have loved the dreary, concrete courthouse that squatted in the middle of the Square. After he fed the meter, he dodged traffic and pushed his way into the lobby.

A buxom security guard lounged next to the metal detector just inside the door. She shoved a plastic bowl at him. "Please put your wallet and any metal objects here, sir." Her eyes widened a bit as her gaze raked over the muscles that coiled under his crisp, white t-shirt.

He grinned and flexed his pectorals for her while he dug items out of his tight-fitting leather pants. "Can you tell me where the County Recorder's office is at?"

"Third floor, on your left. You can't miss it." She seemed to be undressing him with her eyes as he passed through the gate. "Let me know if you need anything else," she purred, licking her lips.

"I'll do that." He hesitated as he read her name off the badge on her uniform. "Gretchen." He swaggered to the elevator and pushed the up button.

This establishes all the basic elements found in the simpler, declamatory opening. It adds many details to help bring the scene to life, and presents everything from the standpoint of what Derek senses. In addition, the things that Derek notices and that happen in this scene reveal little details about him and his surroundings. This, in turn, can reinforce bits of plot, theme, character, or mood. For example, if Derek gives the skateboarder the finger instead of just honking, we learn something about his state of mind. The fact that he's driving a beat-up Honda instead of a Porsche also conveys information about the character and his situation. His interactions with the guard show that he's a bit of a narcissist and perhaps a tease as well.

On the other hand, if your goal is just to get inside the courthouse where Derek does something, maybe the best approach is to start the scene once he's inside. Maybe all this information about the location of the courthouse and its surroundings is irrelevant to the story and should be just omitted. Sometimes deciding what to not include is as important as deciding what to include.

Just for completeness, let me include one more example. Consider the following opening.

The buzzer woke him up. It was dark, and he couldn't think from the sleeping pill he'd taken after the quarrel. His mouth tasted bad. The buzzer sounded again. It was raining outside.

It starts in media res, but that's about all. We don't know who the "him" is in the first sentence, nor do we know where "he" is at. We don't know who "he" quarreled with. Even worse, the sentences are dry and the images tepid. Here's a better opening that has more complete information, and with more vivid prose.

The buzzer's repeated rasp pulled Peter from a numbed sleep. He sat up, peered into the gloom of his studio, and groaned. The sleeping pill he'd taken after his quarrel with Ivan muffled his thoughts like a giant pillow jammed inside his skull. His tongue was a dead sausage that pressed against his mouth and tasted of stale coffee. Whoever was at the front door pressed the buzzer again and drowned out the gentle susurrations of rain drizzling on the roof.

Of course, I'm not saying the second example is perfect. But it's certainly better, and orients the reader in space and time, and reinforces the point of view. The images are more interesting and the prose more vivid. On the other hand, opening with the character waking up is a bit trite.

Limit the Time Frame. While flashbacks and flash-forwards can be effective tools in longer fiction, they often detract from the unity of short fiction. In addition, the transitions from the present to the past and back again are difficult to manage in a short story and can be confusing to the reader. Time breaks also, by definition, interrupt the flow of the narrative and run a grave risk of taking the reader out of the story. In short fiction this latter risk is even greater. Thus, a short story should almost always be told in a linear fashion.
Narrative technique. We all remember the basics of narrative structure from high school: introduction, complication, rising action, crisis, climax, falling action, resolution. While you don't have to follow these conventional structural elements, they have the advantage of being familiar to readers. In a short story, there is less time to introduce and manage a nonconventional narrative. In "The Philosophy of Composition", Poe argued that a short story should end with the climax, with the resolution folded into the action at the high point of the story. In any case, a short story should almost always follow a conventional narrative structure.
Characters. There's not time in short fiction to have a cast of thousands. A short story should have as few characters as possible. The author must draw the characters with a few distinctive traits and reveal their personalities through their words and deeds.
Purpose and Theme. Not every story has a theme, but every story has a purpose. Note "theme" and "purpose" are not the same thing: the theme is the moral of the story, while the purpose is why the author wrote it. Some stories are just there for fun, some to amuse, some to instruct. As an author, you have to have a clear idea of why you are writing your story and what you want the reader to take away. Don't forget that your story should achieve a unity of effect or impression, so your artistic techniques and your purpose must be congruent.
Focus. The very best short stories almost always have a single point of view, a simple narrative structure, a short time frame, and a single, clear theme. It's tempting to add a sub-plot, or a counterpoint theme, or the quirky second cousin, but if these distract from the unity of effect, don't do it! Instead of a satisfying, unified whole, you will wind up with a hodge-podge. Remember, a short story is not a novel, where you have time to explore characters and themes and plots in great depth. A short story is, above all, short!

Of course, none of the above are absolute rules. The astute reader will, for example, know that A Rose for Emily has a non-linear time-line, or that dozens of adverbs appear in the first ten pages of The Sun Also Rises. It's not that Faulkner and Hemingway didn't know about Poe's theories, or couldn't follow the conventions. They considered what was best for their story, and made a deliberate choice to discard convention. Since this was a self-conscious decision, they could then adjust other aspects of their narrative to still achieve unity and the overall effect of a guided dream.

The grotesque contortions of Guernica are so powerful precisely because Picasso mastered academic realism. This mastery meant that he understood how to distort realism to achieve his desired effect. Similarly, Faulkner and Hemingway produce powerful works of art because they understand narrative, plot and character and can defy convention to startle and inspire rather than confuse and disengage the reader. Except for a few natural geniuses, one acquires that skill by first understanding and mastering the craft of writing.

If I were as skilled as Faulkner or Hemingway, I could break convention and produce great art too, and with the same regularity as they did. But I'm not that talented, so I apply craft to produce the best stories I can. If I choose to break with convention, it is only after considerable thought. Convention exists because it's what usually works best. It shouldn't be a straight jacket, but neither should one discard it without due deliberation.

2009-05-11T15:53:00.010-05:00

Beam Me Up, JJ
A review of the new Star Trek movie

I grew up in eastern Iowa, not far from a small town that will be the future birthplace of James Tiberius Kirk. I know where he will be born because the town celebrates his future birthday every year. There's even a museum and statue of their future favorite son. The name of the town, well, village, is Riverside, Iowa.

After its launch in 1967, Star Trek became a unique and powerful phenomena of popular culture. While the networks at first wouldn't listen to the fans and cancelled the original series, something in Gene Roddenberry's vision resonated in the popular culture. It arrived in a world on the brink of nuclear destruction, divided by race, religion, ideology, disease, and poverty. In the face of these challenges, Star Trek offered a vision of the future full of hope and confidence. Somehow humankind would survive and build a new and better society, one which surmounted our present-day problems. That new world honored diversity, and replaced divisions with a federation of intelligent beings all working together for the common good. In the future, technology and a strong moral compass assured that all beings could find a path in which they might live long and prosper.

This vision of hope became the DNA that bound together millions of fans world-wide. Without it, forty consecutive years on TV in six different series and ten feature films would never have happened. Never mind that the plots were often hackneyed, and the characters flat. Never mind wisecracks about William Shatner and stop-action acting. This series was never about art or literature. It was about hope.

But, let's face it, something about the franchise had lost its panache in recent years. We all loved Scott Bakula, but even his considerable talents couldn't rescue the last incarnation on television. To be sure, the writing was better, the special effects dazzled, and the acting was solid. But something had changed. Maybe it was us. Maybe hope no longer mattered. Maybe the Star Trek vision no longer held meaning.

The new Star Trek splashed onto the big screen this last weekend and breathed new life into the series . The director, J.J. Abrams, brings just the right combination of drama, character, humor and, yes, hope to the screen. This movie promises to re-launch the series for a new generation of viewers, in the language of today's problems and today's challenges. At the same time it respects the old and the enormous fan base that's out there.

In the latest Star Trek film, when James T. Kirk departs for the Starfleet Academy, he does so from the Riverside Space Port, in a nod to that little village in Iowa. That was when I knew that the writers and producers of the new Star Trek movie cared about the myriad fans of the old series and would be true, in their own way, to Gene Roddenbery's vision. Never mind that the scenes from Iowa looked like Southern California. Where in Iowa is that enormous gorge that the youthful Kirk drives his Corvette into? Well, nowhere. But it was fun to watch.

The casting director deserves special kudos for selecting actors who are credible as youthful versions of their iconic forebears. Chris Pine looks and acts like we'd think a young Kirk would, all bravado and obsessed with the young ladies. Karl Urban is perfect as the disheveled and laconic McCoy, and Simon Pegg steals every scene he's in as Scotty, delivering zinging one-liners with aplomb. Zoe Saldana is credible as Ohuru, and the rest of the bridge contribute in their own way. But the star of this film is Zachary Quinto as Spock. His performance is perfectly nuanced. He channels the cool and logical Spock that Leonard Nimoy created. But there's the twitch of his lips, or the cock of an eyebrow, or an ironic twist to his tone, that reveals new and unexpected depths. The script shows him as an outsider growing up, the X-Man of this story. As a youth, bullies taunt and beat him for being a half-breed and he yearns to become a perfect Vulcan. When at last he succeeds and gains admission to the Vulcan Science Academy, he turns it down because they insult his dual heritage. Later, it's his passion that leads him astray, but it's Spock's discipline and honesty that bring Kirk to command chair. We see his conflict in his face and in his tone at the penultimate moment. His story is the one that resonates with today's outcasts, just as Nimoy's did for an earlier generation, and Quinto plays it to perfection.

No Trek movie is complete without its villain, and Eric Bana adds a new page to the saga. Just as Ricardo Montalban created a conflicted and believable villain for an older generation, Bana portrays the bad guy in this film with passion and clarity. Like all interesting villains, he's not pure evil. It's the searing loss of family and friends that drives him to the deeds he commits. We understand him, even if we cheer when his ship collapses into oblivion.

The sets and CGI images are faithful to the old versions of Trek, but they have the gritty reality of Star Wars, too. Even the brand-spanking-new Enterprise, on her maiden voyage, doesn't have the plastic perfection of the 1967 craft.

The new Star Trek movie re-launches the series. The old vision is there, along with the creative fires to keep it going through more sequels. There must be joy in Riverside, tonight, as their future favorite son makes hearts throb and continues the mission to boldly go where no one has gone before, or at least not gone recently. Star Trek and its vision of the future are back. That vision never really left us, for it was always in our hearts.

Don't count out the tenacity -- or audacity -- of hope.

2008-08-08T11:07:00.003-05:00

New release from loveyoudivine!
The Hounds of Hollenbeck

Allen and Sam are unlikely lovers. Both are graduate students at Browning College in the small Pacific Northwest town of Lagrange. Allen works with hyper-intelligent dogs on a secret Army project, while Sam is a detective on the police force who is also pursuing his masters degree in criminology. Everything changes when one of Allen's professors finds dismembered human bodies in her research habitat. Sam investigates and uncovers evidence of a brutal serial killer who targets young gay men. The trail leads back to the Army lab, to Allen, and to his beloved experimental dog Teena. The tension increases when Allen disappears and Teena leads Sam on a desperate search to save him.

Excerpt:

After the play, they strolled hand in hand in the Campus Commons, a large park in the middle of the College. The main buildings faced onto this wooded reserve, while College Street looped about it. Tonight, as with most nights, cars cruising the night clogged the street.

Allen took his hand and smiled. "I had a wonderful time tonight." They detoured around puddles in the sidewalk and the air filled with the fresh scent of the light shower that had come and gone while they were in the play.

"I did too." A light breeze rustled the trees and stirred the leaves that clustered on the ground. "Geeze, look at all these worms." He looked in disgust at the slimy creatures that covered the walkway.

"It's the weather. They've come out because of the rain." Allen knelt and probed the soil to the side of the path. A gaggle of beetles waddled away from his fingers. "See, there's a whole universe down here if you know where to look."

"It's just creepy. You know beetles eat dead things."

"That's the way of the world." Allen stood and brushed himself, then took Sam's hand again. "Let's sit for a bit. I know a place down by the Duck Pond." He led the way to a secluded park bench that rested under an ancient oak tree. Ducks paddled in the moonlight across the little pond, quacking and diving for food.

They sat close to one another watching the birds swim and the moonlight glimmer on the pond. Allen sighed. "I'm glad you sat at my table in the Union, even if you are a table thief."

"Is that what you thought I was doing?" Sam put his arm around him. "I saw you come in and decided I wasn't going to let you get away." He brushed Allen's hair out of his eyes. "Did you know you have the most beautiful eyes?"

"These beady things?"

"You have eyes that were made to be kissed." He leaned forward and slipped off his glasses. Allen's breath warmed his cheek as his lips brushed his eyelids. "Even here, in the moonlight, your eyes are this incredible color. I don't know that I've seen that shade of blue before."

Allen's finger traced a line down his cheek. "You're so beautiful you scare me, you know that?" His sigh broke in his throat.

"The only thing I'm afraid of is that I'll lose you, now that I've found you." He wove his fingers through Allen's soft curls. Sam pulled him close and inhaled his sweet scent. Their lips touched in a silent grace note of anticipation.

"We found each other, I think," Allen whispered in his ear.

Sam pressed closer, pulling him in a tight embrace. Their lips touched anew, this time in a thunderous crescendo of sensation. Their bodies twisted in longing and their souls rejoiced at the promise of new love. Sam dared to slip his tongue forward and the willing softness of the other's mouth yielded to his advance. Their tongues twined about one another and their teeth clicked in percussive cadence to their yearning. The kiss lasted but a moment, but it promised an eternity.

Sam pulled back and gazed into his eyes. "Where did you learn to kiss like that?" His heart raced in his chest and his hands trembled.

A smiled played with Allen's lips and his eyes twinkled. "You mean where did you learn to kiss like that, don't you? I felt as if we were the only people in the universe. Like you didn't have anything else to do but kiss me." He rested his head on Sam's shoulder.

"I felt the same way." He descended again, his mouth greedy for sensation and his soul hungry for sustenance.

The second kiss stretched longer than the first. Allen's hands traced circles on his back and his muscles rippled in response. His own hands reached lower and stroked the hardness that strained at Allen's khakis. Their moans of pleasure merged with the quiet splash of ducks diving and the gentle rustle of leaves blowing in the breeze. Their tongues embraced in a liquid caress that transcended passion and sang with ardor.

Sam gasped, withdrew and played again with those amazing curls. "With any other guy, I'd have you off in the bushes by now. But with you, I want the first time to be special."

"I know what you mean." His fingers played with Sam's earlobes and followed tendons down his neck to his collar. "I want this to be more than a one night stand, you know? It's already the best first date I've ever had in my life. Shit, it's the best date I've ever had."

"Me too." Sam grinned. "Does that mean you'll go out with me tomorrow night?"

Allen sat back and fisted him in the shoulder. "Of course, you idiot."

"I'll fix dinner if you'll come to my place." He leered at him. "Said the spider to the fly."

Allen just smiled back and kissed him on the cheek. "I'd like that. A lot."

They strolled through the park and back to Sam's car. On the way, a dilapidated old van cruised by, streaming blue exhaust in its wake. Sam didn't notice the van slow and the man inside stare at Allen before it sped away into the darkness.

Characters

2008-07-27T12:29:00.003-05:00

What kind of characters do you like to read about?

One of the author discussion groups to which I belong recently asked the inverse question: what kind of characters do we, as authors, like to write about? The other authors all gave really good, if somewhat different, answers to this question. Everyone agreed that characters should be realistic, with flaws and imperfections just like people we meet on the street. Of course, a story about an ordinary character, in an ordinary setting , on an ordinary day, doing ordinary things will be, well, pretty ordinary. So, unless one has the talent to produce a masterwork like Ulysses which does exactly the above, there must be something about your character that inspires the imagination.

Sometimes the character might have unusual abilities. Good Will Hunting is an excellent example of a story in which a character from an ordinary background has extraordinary abilities. In other cases, we find ordinary characters in extraordinary situations. The Birds is surely such a tale, in which an extraordinary event challenges both the characters and their social matrix. Sometimes the characters might be in a setting which is culturally or historically remote from the reader, so that what is ordinary for the characters is unusual for the audience. Much of science fiction and fantasy fall into this category, as does historical fiction. The point of this is that in an interesting story characters confront a challenge. Sometimes the character is successful, sometimes not. Sometimes the character changes and grows, sometimes the character's flaws lead to a tragic denouement. In the best cases, the fictional conflict engages and changes something in the readers.

In order to inspire the imagination, characters must exhibit traits for good or ill that the reader can recognize. In novels with both a protagonist and antagonist, both must represent believable types that the reader can love or hate. In more complex works, such as Anna Karenina, good and evil may be at war inside the characters and this internal conflict drives the story forward.

It's clear that there are lots of things that can make a character interesting. Even the most insipid character, when thrust into an unusual chain of events, can become interesting -- think of North by Northwest, for example. Alternatively, the most dynamic and charismatic of characters stuck in a prosaic setting with no conflict is boring. Superman is interesting only when his super-powers aren't up the challenge!

This brings me to my answer to the question about what characters interest me. All of the other answers are interesting and weave together to make characters I'd want to read and write about, but what most interests me are the relationships of my characters. When Gene Siskel reviewed movies, one could always count on him to like movies with strong relationships. His instincts coincide with mine exactly. The relationships among the characters, between the characters and their culture, between the characters and their physical world -- this is what I find most interesting. Relationships reveal the internal depths of the character, expose conflict, and generate change. The physicist Arthur Eddington once said:

We often think that when we have completed our study of one, we know all about two, because "two" is "one and one." We forget that we still have to make a study of "and."

This insight applies as much to real -- and fictional! -- people as it does to mathematics. We all live in and interact with the world about us. Even before Friday's arrival, Robinson Caruso confronted and surmounted obstacles in his world. These conflicts, and his reactions to them, both exposed his character and set the stage for internal growth.

So, my answer to what kind of character I find interesting is that I am less interested in the character than in the relationships between the character and the world about him.

Hitchcock: Anticipitating Suspense

2008-06-25T19:23:00.005-05:00

An Homage to Hitchcock

By Max Griffin

I love films. There is something about sitting in the dark and losing yourself in the panorama unfolding on the big screen. There is a totality to the cinematic experience that engages the senses in ways that the stage and prose cannot. The music and the acting enhance the experience, to be sure, but it is the camera that makes all the difference. The camera becomes my eye, roaming over the scene and the characters, snooping out surprising little details that the players on the screen don't know or see. The most skilled directors use the camera to fold the audience into the narrative, empowering us to imagine and create the story in partnership with the artists creating the cinematic experience.

When I write, I imagine my stories as a movie running through my mind. I think of the scenes and descriptions in terms of what the camera would see, and hear a soundtrack playing in my head. So, last week when the American Film Institute released lists of the "Top Ten Films" in various genres, I thought of cinematic influences on my writing. The AFI "Mystery" genre turned out to contain some of my favorite films: "Vertigo," "Rear Window," "North by Northwest," and "Dial M for Murder," among others. It should come as no surprise that Alfred Hitchcock directed four of the ten "Top Ten" movies in the Mystery genre. In fact, Hitchcock's theories about suspense and the psychology of the camera's eye influence my stories in ways that are both explicit and subtle. When I remember Hitchcock's lessons, my stories have greater emotional impact and higher levels of suspense. When I forget those lessons, my prose falls flat no matter how clever my plot, how lyrical my writing, or how quirky my characters might be.

So, what are those lessons? I think the first, and most important lesson, is that the story happens in the mind of your audience. The characters, the dialog, the mise en scene, all of these are devices to draw your audience in and make them your partner in imagining your story. In films, the director has the camera, with all the tricks of angle and zooming, along with the music, the expression on the actor's face, the sound effects, and many other details to achieve this fundamental goal. On the printed page, the task is both harder and simpler. It's harder since everything must happen in the reader's imagination: there is no score, there are no actors, there is no Foley artist. But it's easier too, because the author can saturate the reader's senses by describing all of these things and more. Many authors forget, for example, to include scent in their stories, yet this is one of the most powerful and intimate of all our sensations. In any case, keeping the reader actively and emotionally engaged in the story is the first, and most fundamental, job of the author.

Hitchcock downplayed both plot and dialog in his movies. That doesn't mean these are unimportant, for he recognized that people will identify with characters, even villains. Hitchcock once said, “People don’t always express their inner thoughts to one another. A conversation may be quite trivial, but often the eyes will reveal what a person thinks or needs.” In film, the camera's eye can reveal what is happening in the character's mind despite what he or she is saying. A famous example happens in the opening scenes of "Notorious." The camera starts with a wide shot of a party and we hear a trivial conversation between Ingrid Bergman and Claude Rains. How boring. But while they talk the camera zooms in on the two of them, and then continues with a slow but inevitable gaze down to a close-up of Bergman's fingers flipping nervously with a set of keys hidden in the folds of her skirt. We know from the eye of the camera that Bergman is hiding something, and these keys must play a role in her deception. This is no longer boring, but rather intriguing: the director has introduced both mystery and suspense. The author does the same thing in a well-written story, picking and choosing which details to describe and which to leave to the mind's eye of the reader. The reader is engaged by incomplete information which creates suspense. Even the most pedestrian of stories needs suspense, else the reader will become bored and move on to something more engaging.

Consider "Rear Window." Here, the journalist played by Jimmie Stewart mimics the audience: he sits in his apartment and imagines stories about the neighbors outside his window, as if watching a real-world movie. Eventually he draws his girl friend and his health care worker into his voyeuristic imaginings. Meanwhile, we, the audience, are the real voyeurs, watching in the darkness as the story of the voyeur on the screen unfolds. What drives this story is not his broken leg, nor the mystery centered on the Raymond Burr character. What drives this are the little tragedies: Miss Lonelyhearts, the young marrieds, the party girl, and broken relationship between Stewart's and Grace Kelley's characters. Everything else is an excuse for us, the voyeurs in the audience, to spy on the lives exposed on the screen. We don't care so much about what happens as about the people caught up in their individual, lonely sagas.

Hitchcock didn't exactly disdain plot; what he recognized is that the plot is something the characters care about, while the audience cares about the characters. Characters need plot devices to set them in motion and to give them a reason for speaking and acting; Hitchcock was interested in the psychology of the characters, not the love affair that made them steal a fortune from their boss, as in "Psycho," or the crimes they are hiding, as in "Shadow of Doubt." He called these plot devices a "MacGuffin" to emphasize that they are just a tool and not central to the task of engaging the imagination of the audience. In "Vertigo," the plot device is a detective trailing the mentally ill wife of a client. This is just an excuse -- and not a very interesting or plausible one -- to set in motion the haunting interactions between the Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak characters. In "North by Northwest," the Leo G. Carrol character says of the spies, "Well, let's say he's an importer and exporter. What of? Government secrets." That's enough explanation, since in this movie it is the chase and the mistaken identity that matter, not the "secrets" tht the James Mason character steals. I like reading science fiction too, but all too often in SciFi the story and characters hang on the MacGuffin rather than the other way around; clever technology or sociology is just a MacGuffin unless the eye is focused on the characters. I'm far more interested in the personal implications of, say, teleportation, than the technicalities about how it might work. Well, I confess as a scientist, I'm interested in the latter too, but not in a work of fiction.

With respect to suspense, perhaps the most important lesson Hitchcock teaches us is the difference between shock and suspense. Peter Bogdanovich, in his New York Times homage to Hitchcock in 1999 relates the following quote from the master:

''We come to our old analogy of the bomb. You and I sit here talking. We're having a very innocuous conversation about nothing. Boring. Doesn't mean a thing. Suddenly, boom! A bomb goes off and the audience is shocked -- for 15 seconds. Now you change it. Play the same scene, show that a bomb has been placed there, establish that it's going to go off at 1 P.M. -- it's now a quarter of one, ten of one -- show a clock on the wall, back to the same scene. Now our conversation becomes very vital, by its sheer nonsense. Look under the table! You fool! Now the audience is working for 10 minutes, instead of being surprised for 15 seconds.''

A more terse summary is the Hitchcock aphorism, "There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it." Of course, it is the audience which anticipates the bang -- the characters must be unaware of that it is coming. In "Psycho," for example, the audience learns about the psychotic Mother before the Martin Balsam character enters the house on the hill. We know, but he does not, that a crazed killer awaits as he climbs the stairs. That makes the scene one of the most suspenseful in all of cinema.

"Psycho" also teaches a lesson most forgotten and most needed in cinema and fiction today: don't show the bomb going off! In the famous shower sequence, we never see the knife strike. The director reveals the attack through a sequence of quick cuts, slashing back and forth so the audience imagines the knife cutting, but never sees it strike its victim. When the attack is over, the camera focuses on Janet Leigh's character's now dead, unblinking eye and her lifeblood whirling down the drain. The audience is left to imagine, but to never see, her horrific wounds. This is much worse, and much more terrifying, than an explicit image of a brutalized body.

There are many more lessons to be learned from the Master of Suspense, far too many for such a short essay as this. His theories and innovations changed cinema forever, and his influence echoes throughout popular culture today. His dark vision inspires the movies that play in mind and that I transcribe so imperfectly to the pages of my stories. His relentless eye always remained focused on humanity and on those impulses that lend both sorrow and joy to our lives. His dramatic insights continue to inform and entertain. He was and remains an artistic genius.

Welcome

2008-05-06T09:12:00.000-05:00

Greetings everyone, and welcome to my new blog! Thanks for visiting and please leave me a message!

I'm pleased to announce that loveyoudivine has released my story "The Frog King." Click below to read more about this short story or to purchase a copy!