In the rewrite we do not want to lose touch with our ideal reader. Story is a dialogue between the author, and that reader whose questions we intuitively anticipate by constantly asking ourselves, “Am I revealing character through behavior and action, or am I relying on telling the reader who the characters are?”

Telling something about a character without demonstrating it through behavior will engender suspicion in our reader. I remember, years ago, when I first moved to New York, I had a roommate who was a prodigious blind-dater. She would come home and regale me with her stories. Once she had a lunch date with some guy who midway through the meal reached across the table, took her hand and said, “I just want you to know that you can trust me.” She high-tailed it out of there.

As writers, we do not want to be that guy. It is presumptuous to assume that our reader should trust our opinion on anything. We do not want to bury some political screed in our dialogue, or bully our reader into seeing things our way. A story is a pact, and we must hold up our end of the deal. As the writer, we have agreed to simply present the world and allow the reader to have his own experience.

SHOW, DON’T TELL

We’ve all read the writing books that insist we “show, and don’t tell.” This phrase can be misinterpreted as an imperative rather than a caution. Showing means that we’re bringing our reader directly into the scene, through description, dialogue and detail. There’s immediacy in showing that is absent in telling. Telling involves summarizing events and can feel distancing for the reader, as if the events are simply being reported.

However, there is a place for telling, and in fact, there are situations where it’s preferable and even necessary to tell the events rather than show them. Not every piece of information in our story demands the same level of importance, thus, at times it’s beneficial to summarize selected events in order to focus on the drama that is crucial to the story.

For instance, if Bob and Larry are driving from New York to San Francisco to rob a bank and we need our reader to understand the rising tension between them, then a scene might be necessary to illustrate this dynamic. However, if we were to write every blessed moment of their drive, our reader would be stultified with boredom. Our reader is likely most interested in the ‘turning points,’ those moments where the relationship subtly shifts through tension and conflict. By showing these moments, while sketching in or ‘telling’ the events that lead to them, our reader will have a sense of the entire journey without the narrative becoming dull.

Let’s look at an example:

Bob stopped at a gas station in Denver and filled his tank. He paid the attendant in cash and climbed back into the car.

“That was forty bucks,” he said to Larry. “You owe me twenty.”

“Don’t have any money.”

Bob glanced at his partner. “I hope you’re not expecting me to pay our way to California.”

Larry shrugged. “I’ll pay you back when the job’s done.”

Bob drove in silence for nearly an hour. When he finally spoke, he said, “I think I’ll pull over at the next stop. Feel free to watch me eat my dinner.”

“I might do that.” Larry reached into his pocket and riffled through a wad of cash. “I’m getting hungry myself.”

The short opening paragraph where Bob stops at the gas station is ‘telling,’ but it’s necessary to provide context for the scene that follows. We don’t really need to know if Bob filled up the car with regular or unleaded, or what the temperature was in Denver, or the gender of the attendant. Although these details could be included, it’s important to recognize the point of tension in the scene, and to direct our focus to that area. Towards the end of the passage, where Bob drives in silence for nearly an hour, there is another moment of telling that acts as a bridge between the next scene where the tension mounts as Larry reveals that he’s lied about not having any cash.

Let’s say that our protagonist lives in Los Angeles while her mother lives in Akron. In the first draft, the mother flits in and out of her life, while also holding down a fulltime job in her hometown.

The story might feel burdensome with the characters either engaged in long phone conversations, or flying back and forth. Unless the true distance is germane to the story, we might ask why we placed the mother on the other side of the country.

Is it because this is where our mother actually lives?

Fiction writers frequently pull the wrong details from their lives. Perhaps the mother feels that she lives too far away, while the daughter feels that she’s too close. Perhaps the author felt this when her mother was living in Akron, but when she puts this into a story, the reader doesn’t experience a sense of the mother’s intrusion.

When we look at the nature of what we’re attempting to express we’ll find a sense of proximity that best suit our story.

How often do we use someone’s name in real life?  Rarely. Perhaps we use their name when we greet them, and again when we say goodbye, but even then it is uncommon. When we are angry with someone, or emphatic, we might be inclined to speak their name, but again, it is far less than we might think. The next time you spend a day with someone, notice the number of times you speak their name. It might surprise you.

How does this dialogue sound to you?

“Bill, what are you doing here?”

“Just dropping off some files, Steve.”

Now take the names out. Sounds real, right? If we’re going to use names in our dialogue, let’s make sure we are clear on our reason.

A year ago I self-published The 90-Day Novel. I considered having my agent shop it, and even toiled on a book proposal, but the more I read about “what publishers are looking for” the more I sensed that my book didn’t fit their schematic. (It’s a book that focuses primarily on process rather than result.)

I think there are certain types of books that traditional publishers don’t want, but this doesn’t necessarily mean that they are of lesser value. After all, the first books of Walt Whitman, e.e. cummings and Ralph Waldo Emerson were self-published.

What is exciting is the ease with which ideas can now reach the marketplace. There is no greater time to test your ideas.  There will always be people who don’t get it, or who disagree, but remember what Schopenhauer said: “All truths pass through three stages: First it is ridiculed, then it is violently opposed, and finally it is accepted as self-evident.”

Trust your ideas and stay curious. You were born seeing things in a way that no one else does. Follow your impulses and your discoveries will help others see things in a new way too.

Yesterday morning, my sweet wife knocked on my office door to ask, “Is today a work day for you?” The subtext was clear. You’re not actually planning to write on Thanksgiving, are you?

How do I tell her, “Yes, that’s precisely what I was planning to do.”

I did clock out earlier than usual, but I can’t make it a habit, because as much as my wife likes to spend time with me, when I don’t get my writing done, I’m an irritable bastard.

Here’s some brilliant ideas to getting your writing done through the holidays.

1) Get up earlier.

2) Write faster.

3) Delete your facebook account

4) Cancel your Internet

5) Stop paying your cell phone bill (it will take a couple of weeks for AT&T to shut off your phone)

Whatever you do, don’t stop writing.

But no more. Because you are the market. Tell the story that you want to tell and put it out into the world.

The rules have changed. The old model is dead.

What is the market looking for?

You.

By exploring your protagonist’s dilemma, you will be led to the most specific and dynamic version of your story. The dilemma will help you to understand what you’ve been attempting to express. It will help you to distill your prose to its most clear and effective meaning. The dilemma will guide to what does not belong in your story, as well as offer clues to what still needs to be rewritten, and it will indicate the most effective order of events to convey what you’re attempting to express. The dilemma will keep you connected to the conflict in a way that keeps you from going off the rails, from unintentional digressions that may provide random conflict, but that doesn’t build the story and may obfuscate the intended meaning.

Here’s the rub:

The dilemma can’t be figured out, at least not in your head. We must become invested in our characters. We must take our thumbs off the scale and let them live. There can be a tendency to hold so tightly to our idea of the plot that we choke the aliveness of our characters. By inquiring into the dilemma in every scene, you will find the most dynamic and surprising way to express your story.

If you’re trying to convey a sense of distance, be aware that it is subjective. For example, let’s say that your protagonist lives in Los Angeles while her mother lives in Akron.

In the first draft, the mother flits in and out of her life, while also holding down a fulltime job in her hometown. But the story might feel burdensome with the characters either engaged in long phone conversations, or flying back and forth.

Unless this sense of dislocation is germane to the story, you might ask why you placed the mother in Akron. Is it because this is where your mother actually lives? That’s not a good reason.

Choose the location that best serves your story. Look at the nature of what you’re attempting to express to find the geography that best suits your story.

1) Your story is about something more than the plot. Don’t confuse your plot with the theme. Always remain curious as to what your story is about.

2) Journaling isn’t novel writing. Journaling is personal. The novel connects to something larger, something universal.

3) Write because you have something to say.

4) Be willing to write the forbidden.

3) Don’t bore your reader.