The 38 Most Common Fiction Writing Mistakes - Jack M. Bickham [33]
6. Write the scene moment-by-moment no summary.
7. Devise a disastrous ending of the scene—a turning of the tables or surprise that answers the scene question badly.
After you have practiced this procedure for a short while, I think you'll begin to see that it has within it the essential dynamic of fiction, the way fiction "works." A character wants and strives and is battered back tension increases, and so does reader sympathy; then the character strives again.
This structure of scene... one scene inevitably leading to another scene... gives your fiction straight-line development. In addition, the structure powerfully implies something wonderful about life and the human condition. In using scene structure, you show people who struggle and try to take charge of their lives; indirectly, you are saying that people in real life can do that, too. In addition, you imply that life is not merely blind fate... that anyone can struggle and try to take their own life by the scruff of the neck, and improve it. Finally, by showing a character meeting serious disaster after such a struggle, then getting up to struggle again, you say something positive about human strength and courage.
Please note, however, that none of this can happen—nothing can work—if the scene does not grab your readers and intensely involve them. To accomplish that, the scene must be lifelike. And the greatest danger to this verisimilitude is summary. Check out the scenes in your story. If you find inadvertent summary, by all means fix it by playing out that part of the scene in detail. Nothing less will do.
23. DON'T DROP ALLIGATORS THROUGH THE TRANSOM
DISASTERS—THOSE BAD TWISTS that end scenes with an unhappy answer to the scene question—often are very bad indeed. But sometimes the use of the word "disaster" confuses a new writer, and she thinks any kind of really bad thing will work at the end of a scene.
It is said that somebody once provided a "disaster" at the end of a detective-client scene by literally dropping an alligator through the transom.
In the fabled detective yarn, there sat our Sam Spade clone, interviewing his beautiful client in his grubby office. His goal, clearly stated, was to learn the name of the man who had threatened her life. Thus the scene question clearly was: Would he discover the identity of the man?
At the end of the scene, according to legend, the writer realized she needed a disaster. So kerplop! over the transom of the detective's office door came a live alligator, wetly hitting the floor beside the desk and opening wide in a decidedly nasty mood.
The development was pretty stupid in that story. Why? Because it didn't answer the scene question.
The question, remember, was, "Will Sam learn the identity of the man threatening his client?" The alligator had nothing to do with that question.
If so, the disaster had to answer that question. The answer could not be, in effect, "Gosh, I don't know about that, but an alligator just fell through the office door transom."
That's the worst kind of cheating, the sorriest kind of writing.
Don't do it. You'll give all of us fiction writers a bad name.
Figure out what the scene question is. Then devise a setback, negative answer for the end of the scene, one that is bad news, logical but unanticipated, but which answers the question asked.
In the case of the mythical scene and question just presented, it's hard to imagine how an alligator could provide an honest disaster. But it's easy to think of some disasters that would have worked.
The answer simply could have been: "No, Sam never got an answer."
Better yet, the answer could have been: "Yes, Sam finally got the answer, but when the client identified her threatener, it turned out to be Sam's dearest friend."
Or it might even have been: "No, Sam never got his answer, but his persistence so angered his client that she fired him on the spot, storming out of his office and leaving him never to know—or have the income he needed from her fee."