There's something that
we live by when we read a novel or watch a movie, but tend to
completely forget when we write one: readers (and viewers) assume that
everything the writer tells them is there on a strictly need-to-know
basis. Our assumption is that if we don't need to know it, the writer
won't waste precious time telling us about it. We trust that each piece
of information, each event, each observation, matters-right down to how
the protagonist's hometown is described, the amount of hair gel he uses,
and how scuffed his shoes are-and that it will have a story
consequence, give us insight we need in order to grasp what's happening,
or both. If it turns out that it doesn't matter, we do one of two
things: (1) we lose interest, or (2) we try to invent a consequence or
meaning. This only postpones our loss of interest, which is then mingled
with annoyance, because we've invested energy trying to figure out what
the writer was getting at, when the truth is, she wasn't getting at
anything. So as a writer how do you avoid falling into this particular trap? By using something I like to call the "And so?"
Test. It works like this: ask of each insight, each piece of
information, each scene, "And so?" Meaning, what is the point? Why does
the reader need to know this? If the answer is she doesn't, give
it the boot. You'll both tighten your story logic, and banish those
pesky darlings that otherwise send your reader off into a decidedly
different story than the one you're actually telling - that, or to the
refrigerator for a snack.
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Lisa Cron is the author of the forthcoming Wired for Story: The Writer's Guide to Using Brain Science to Hook Readers from the Very First Sentence. She's
a story consultant, an instructor in the UCLA Extension Writers'
Program, and there's nothing she loves more than talking story. She can
be found at wiredforstory.com.
One
of the pleasures of great fiction comes when a character you love takes
an action that you didn't foresee and yet is so right for the character
that it feels inevitable. You find yourself saying, "Of course! That's
so like her!" The flip side of the experience is the character whose
action so surprises you that you scratch your head and flip to the cover
just to make sure you're still reading the same book. That's emotional
resonance at work (or not at work in the second example.) Character
interviews and charts listing personal appearance and habits are an
excellent beginning, but how do you move into the realm of what makes a
character internally consistent and emotionally true? To get at the
deeper character, a writer has to ask herself deeper questions. Here are
two to get you started.