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chewthepage-blog · 8 years ago

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Easy Dos and Don’ts to Improve Your Writing.

A perfect life is boring. Would you read three hundred pages about a character without flaws? No obstacles to overcome? Would you pay twelves dollars to see a movie where the main character breezes through the plot, everyone loves him and defeats the bad guy easily? Why not?

Why don’t we run to buy these kinds of stories? Isn’t this what we aspire to have for ourselves? I say at least not for our fiction, and those perfect characters should be burned.

There’s a life we wish we had and a life we want to read about.

Life’s imperfection is the perfect foundation for story building. If your plot is the meat then tension and conflict is the flavor. What’s a story without that resistance or pushback? You could go to the store, get some shopping done and go home. That’s a story. There’s a beginning, middle, and end. But is it a good story? Does anyone walk away relieved that everything went smoothly? Good news is better than bad news, but good news doesn’t keep you on the edge of your seat. What fills those cracks that creates interest in what’s going on? Let’s try a loose example:

Since we’ve established that going to the store and coming back is boring, let’s mix it up.

“Maybe you wanted to go straight home after work, but couldn’t put off grocery shopping anymore. There’s no coffee, you’re low on laundry detergent, there’s practically nothing to eat. It has to be today. You pass the exit you would normally take to go home and go two more to your usual grocery store. They don’t have your favorite coffee and so you settle for something lesser so you don’t have to make a second trip. You wait in line, the cold handle of the milk jug has a rough seam that presses into your hand. The register girl is smacking her gum as she rings you up, her hand on her hip as she bounces on a leg.

Maybe on the way home you get a flat tire. It’s a full blowout so the patch kit in your trunk won’t do you much good. Your dad’s words come to mind:

“You should put a spare in there, a patch won’t get you out of everything.”

Standing by your car, thumbing through your contacts, you try to call someone for a ride. No one is picking up. Cars are passing by and sweat is beading at your hairline as you shield your eyes from the setting sun.

A man in a white truck pulls up behind you. He can’t do much to help without a spare but he offers to get you to the next exit so you can wait at a gas station. It would be safer that way.

“Your choice.”

At this point, anything would be better than standing in the heat. You grab the gallon of milk from the backseat and climb into the passenger seat of the man’s truck.

“Thanks.” The man is friendly enough, trying to make small talk with you but conversations like that are doomed to die. You resign to stare out the window to watch the tree line down the embankment pass by. The milk in your hand is sweating in the heat, leaving a wet mark in your lap. A green sign passes in front of your eyes. You passed the exit. The exit is behind you. You need to get home.”

Maybe the man robs the station in a way that makes you look like an accomplice. Your face is on video and you have to run from the law with someone you don’t like. It’s a new pickle for the character. You could take this into many different paths. Do you want to be this guy’s accomplice or hostage? Is this the start of a life of crime or a fight to get home.

I am assumptious by using the “you” pronoun to try and force empathy. I wouldn’t do that normally but I wanted to illustrate a point. Was there a point at all that you began shaking your head or “noping out.” Maybe you thought to yourself “I wouldn’t do that” or “don’t do it” like many people who talk to horror movie characters.

Is it a comedy? A drama? Horror? Heck, a romance?

Is the man with the truck trying to save a loved one and turn to a life of crime? Is he actually a long lost cousin? Brother? Is he a murderous psychopath? Do whatever you want, but whatever you do, don’t bore the reader. Make them uncomfortable, gross them out, make them consider things they wouldn’t otherwise.

Maybe this is a comedy and the character’s life is perfect. There is value is setting up this scenario as long as you plan on ruining it very quickly. I would exaggerate the lifestyle of this person to make it too good to be true and make the character flounder a bit in the shift. Maybe he’s shocked that someone with a beard could be untrustworthy since Santa, Abraham Lincoln and their dad has a beard.

Back to bad writing. Sometimes recognizing what’s sour helps us appreciate the sweet.

When I was younger, as do many people, my characters and plots revolved around the wishful thinking of my youth. I like to think we’ve all written something like that. For example:

“The awesome life of Mason Gerkins by Jason Perkins.

PS: The main character is totally not me.

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Mason and he was going to school for the first day. He was nervous but his mom told him he would be okay and to study hard. He waited for the bus. When the bus came, he went on and looked for a seat to sit.

“You can sit by me.” Said Gatlin Green who was sooo hot.

“Thanks for the seat.” said Mason.

“Hey, that’s my girlfriend and seat.” Said Danny, who was a bully and dummyhead. “You don’t want to mess with me.”

Mason didn’t want any trouble and thought that maybe Danny was just having a bad day but he couldn’t move from his seat because it was against the bus rules.

Suddenly, the bus stopped and Gatlin Green’s books almost fell on the floor. Mason caught them all quickly with one hand and everyone thought he was sooo cool. Danny felt embarrassed.

In class, Gatlin Green sat next to Mason.

“Thanks for catching my books. You must be strong to catch them all with one hand.” Said Gatlin Green.

“You’re welcome. I do ninjutsu so my reflexes are pretty good.” Mason wanted to tell her his secret that he had to train so he could protect his family from assassins. Which is why he brought his sword in his backpack, just in case, but he couldn’t because he promised his dad it was a secret.

All of a sudden, assassins broke through the windows.”

You get the idea. I hope we all have something like that to look back on. I threw mine away long ago and I shouldn’t have. It’s good to read back on them for a laugh or a humbling experience. It’s not good, but it’s also not weird for most people to start writing that way. Authors can only draw upon the things they know. As a kid, I didn’t know much and had a selfish perspective as most kids go.

There’s the life we wish we had and the life we want to read about.

“Hey, that’s the kind of story I write now.” Then stop it. Don’t throw it out, but try something new. Using your new found power as the storyteller to make everything great is far from it.

Ask what were we missing in those days? It had assassins in it, middle school is relatable right? What more could you want?

Tension. I’ll say now that tension and conflict are not the same and we can cover it more in depth later on. For now, let’s say you can fight ninjas every other paragraph but without tension you’ll yawn through most of it. Unless your story comes with a hype-man it’ll be difficult to make repetition exciting. Ever been in the same room as two people argued? We’ll call that conflict. It’s in the open being resolved. Ever been in a room where someone wants someone else dead, but is acting civil? There’s might also be a gun in the room somewhere, but it’s hard to know. Tension is a conflict with mystery, like a battle under the surface of what’s being presented. An unseen snake in the grass. You know it’s there but no one is talking about it.

As the creator for whatever medium you present your storytelling, you have an incredible power but must walk a razor’s edge. At any moment of your drafting and revision stages you must determine what is too little and too much.

“Mason sat down on the bus seat, the cushion sighing from its seams. The seat was warm from the sunlight pouring in from the windows. The structure of the bench was sturdy, the support could be felt through the foam and faux leather construction. He tried to find a comfortable position, trying not to disturb the girl next to him. He lay his backpack in his lap, clutching it to his chest. He leaned against the back of his seat, his back would soon sweat as his body heat mixed with the sun’s heat through convection which is the tendency of hotter and therefore less dense material to rise, and colder, denser material to sink under the influence of gravity, which consequently results in transfer of heat.”

What are you doing? He’s just sitting! There’s no tension, the setting doesn’t seem important to the plot. All these details aren’t interesting enough and make the progression hang. Get to the good part! Don’t stall out your story by holding the clutch down or switching gears too slow.

I’ll gladly revisit these subjects as per request or as soon as I hit my general topics and pass again for more specific blogs.

You can make anything mundane into something far more interesting. Let that be a challenge. You can write it, vlog it or just try it verbally on a friend. I am also starting a podcast for those of us who like a good story, written or otherwise. If you have a good story (fiction or not), a weird dream, and want to share them- or anything really- copy paste it or link it and email it to me at [email protected]. I don’t click on strange or shortened links.

I’m also on Twitter under @ChewThePage if those are preferable ways to share.

https://twitter.com/ChewThePage

#writing #getgood #examples #chewthepage #dos and donts #improvement #fiction

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chewthepage-blog · 8 years ago

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The Shitstain

Laughter burst from a booth, a round table perched on a step-up corner of the smoky club. The music beat the walls and kept others from hearing the conversation, only the laughter.

“Hey Bernie tell us dat uh, story about that fuckin’ kid. Y’know, with the fat guy.”

“Who the fuck said that... Damnit Rico, you always ask me to tell that goddamn story.”

“It’s funny, now tell the story you bitch.”

“Rico, I swear to Christ I’ll choke you, understand?”

More laughter hummed from the men who sat around the table, their faces pink from the alcohol.

The Caucasian wore a thin black tie, his white shirt’s sleeves rolled up. “Bernie tell the story, you can’t leave us hanging.”

Bernie shook his head at Rico who wore a shit-eating grin. “Alright Rico you sum’bitch, I’ll tell the story. You fellas know that, uh, new blood that wanted to get a piece of the action? That pretty boy that walked in looking for a job? Damn, what wassat... November?”

A man who still wore his suit coat grunted, white by all accounts but Italian hair swooped sideways, styled to look careless. “Yeah I know who yous talkin’ ‘bout. Real queerboy. He ran off didn’t he?”

A few others laughed, nodding in agreement.

Another said it, a Cuban. “Dito, Fernando’s cousin. He wasn’t a queer, fuck you.”

Bernie continued. “Yeah, Ditto or whatever the fuck. This guy comes in looking like a, uh shit for brains. Said that Gerswin sent him and hands me some paper trying to look real tough. You guys know what I’m talking about, the way he pushed that fuckin’ jaw of his.”

The others agreed in nods, a series of ‘yups and yeaaahs.’

The Caucasian sniffed. “Got stuck that way from sucking so much dick.” The Caucasian smiled at the Cuban.

The Cuban bust. “Fuck you man, Dito’s my boy’s cousin. He had an underbite, shit’s been like that his whole life.”

The Caucasian huffed with a shrug. “Shit, I didn’t say he sucked your dick, but that’s okay if he did if that’s what got you heated.”

A mix of laughter and ‘oohs’ drifted across the table.

The Cuban shook his head. “Whatever, fuck you white boy and fuck the rest of you. I’m outta here. That shit ain’t funny what happened to him, he was one of us. You guys disrespect him like he didn’t do a job none of you cowards would have done--”

“Ah, fock you.”

“Get the hell out with that shit.”

“No ‘un gives a shit.”

“What a dickhead.”

The Cuban picked up his coat and walked backward for the exit with a bird in the air. “Fuck you pricks!”

“Alright, hey, hey. Fuck ‘em, let me finish. So he’s standing there with that mug of his, just askin’ to get his stupid face slapped. I’m reading this paper, ‘You gotta be shittin’ me.’ Gerswin decided that this idiot was ready for a rack job. I thought it was a joke!”

The Black shook his head. “Jesus, you don’t even have to finish the story. The kid got whacked didn’t he?”

Rico leaned, patting the air. “Shh, let the man finish th’ story, don’t ruin it.”

Bernie sighed. “Yeah, please may I? Hm? So I’m reading this notice and I says, why not? It’s Gerswin’s big idea so I’ll let it be his fuck-up.” Bernie shrugged. “Right? What else could I do? I take him in the back and he’s been told to do it clean for the, uh cleanup boys.” A groan came around the table with stifled laughter from Rico. “I turn to him and I says, ‘Alright, you only got a few options. A no blood order means you got this and that, these and whatnot. What do you think the prick picks up?”

The Italian smiled into his glass about to take a swig. “The piano wire.”

Bernie pointed at the Italian. “The goddamn wire.” He put his hands up in mock-surrender. “I says, sure kid whatever you want, but don’t break those handles when you’re cranking on that bastard’s neck. Quicker ain’t always better.”

The Caucasian reached to plant a hand in the middle of the table. “Hold on, who was he going after?”

Bernie paused his mouth hung open. “Ah, fuck me. Whats ‘is name, fuckin’...”

Rico answered. “The Reigart boys’ father. The motherfucker that keeps fightin’ Gerswin over the copper flippin’. Finally had enough.”

The Caucasian laughed. “Ha, shit! Finally, he’s been a pain in the ass since the beginning. How am I just now hearing about this?”

The Black gave a solemn nod. “He was a fat fuck. Too big for his britches, too big to be breathing anyway.”

Bernie snapped in the air. “Yeah, yeah uh... shit, Jameson! That was it, that’s his name. Anyway, Dickhole picks up his garrote and says he’ll be back and I’m like ‘shit, want some lunch first?’ I mean the guy left right after to take care of this guy at eight in the goddamn morning like he got someone to impress.”

Rico laughed. “Gotta make time to suck all those dicks later.”

The Black man shook his head. “Shut the fuck up with that nasty-ass-gay-shit, joke’s done man, just drop it.”

Rico put a hand up. “Stay cool man, I’m done. It’s a new age so we gotta make sure we’re giving gay-boy his spotlight.”

Bernie grimaced as he rubbed his wrist. “Yeah yeah whatever, so I carry on and I’m talking to the boys when I get a phone call from Gerswin. I’m sayin’ to myself, ‘what fuckin’ else does he want from me?’ I answer the phone and he’s already laughing his ass off, I ain’t never heard him laugh like that before.”

Baldy perked up. “You’ve heard him laugh? I haven’t even seen him smile since he’s been cutting my portions.”

Agreement came in grunts and pointing affirmations.

Bernie stifled his laughter. “Gerswin’s so cut up about this doofus that tried to whack Jameson, he ain’t even mad- ha, shit- the shitstain went straight to his house, right after talking to me, broke in found the guy and went straight to strangling him.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“What a focking idiot.”

“Dumbass.”

“He’s so small! He gets thrashed by Jameson, getting thrown around the room. There’s obviously something going on, someone calls the cops, and boom: cops are all over the place.”

Rico put a finger in the air. “I heard dat on the cop scanna’ actually. I was in the area pickin’ up my dry cleanin’.”

“The kid is yanking on the guys’ neck, just going to town but he’s too tense, way too tense and he’s forgetting to breathe while he’s being thrown around by this fatman who don’t wanna die but by the time he does, the fuck-nut passes out right next to him.”

The table let laughing, a few hands slapping the table, making the glasses clink.

“By the time the kid woke up the cops were already cuffin’ him.”

Rico gasped for air, slumped against the wall within their booth.

They sat between intermediate laughter, coming and going, shaking their heads. Hands lifted from the table rubbing eyes from tears welling up from belly laughs.

Baldy choked between his laughter. “Ah shit, fuck. I hope someone took care of that shitstain. Kid could blow our whole operation if he squeals.”

The Caucasian was rubbing his eyes with a hand. “Ah Jesus, that kid would be too embarrassed to even say his own name, much less drop ours.”

The Italian shrugged, his hand dragging another drink across the table. “...Prison dicks.”

The Black’s laughter cut short. “It don’t care how funny you think that story was, kid’s a runt and he’ll talk if he’s as much a fuckin’ coward as he sounds. Someone took care of him.”

Rico sat up still laughing, his head inclined and resting on the back on the booth’s chair, casual and relaxed. “Relax friendo, Cuban ain’t here. I took care of him. He ain’t squealin’ to nobody. Not even to God.”

#experimentation #dialogue #fiction #mob #short story #original work #writing #rough

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