The Marketplace of Technique: Open to All

Now I see that siggies go in retroactively

That is, retroactively to posts which had had the imperfect version.

Only just now did Evening Star succeed in helping me, at last, to get Lost Dreamer's excellently-suited graphic up! Thanks to you both! I would have hated to finish my story without its banner ever having been seen!
 
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Again Copper...I apolagize for not being around when you needed help...and i'm glad you got the banner up.
I just wanted to say to EveningStar that i enjoyed his lesson; i wish i had more time to comment on it now, but i do plan to check back later and try to join in with the discusion.

mAndy
 
CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT

One of the most fun things about Byron on Wells is the consistent yet surprising character development that takes place. Getting to know characters as individuals helps you care for them and therefore take the unfolding plot personally.

When people tell a joke, they have to assign names to keep the two characters straight. The names are so unimportant that often they will rhyme to make the joke easier to remember and keep character development out of the way of the punchline, like MIKE and IKE.

Mike: Gee I wish I'd been born a hundred years ago.
Ike: Why?
Mike: Then I wouldn't have had to learn so much history!

They are throw-away names. You could switch Ike and Mike and nobody would care. Certainly they wouldn't start IKENITES and MIKENITES on The Dancing Lawn.

Don't just stick in "stuff" to add character development. Reveal character by the way you write about the characters. Here is an example of a young fox Bramble and badger Buck feeling bored in a tree house. It reveals a lot about them without just "sticking in stuff":

Buck and Bramble were in the tree house one summer morning. Buck hummed idly, chewing on a grass stem, staring at the clouds. Meanwhile, Bramble sat on the edge of the platform swinging his legs. He looked at the empty road below and heaved a deep sigh.

Buck looked about. “You’re bored.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You always fidget when you’re bored.”

Bramble asked, “What of it? At least I don’t do that humming thing.”

“That humming thing?”

“Yes, you were just doing it. You never finish that song and it gets stuck in my head. I end up swinging my legs to the beat. Why don’t you sing the words, for pity’s sake?”

“I don’t know the words.”

Bramble rolled his eyes. “It figures.”

Buck turned about and sulked. “Hmph!”

For two experts in the art of doing “nothing at all,” their inventive spirit had failed them.

For several minutes after that, they fought an icy battle of wills, with Bramble still as a statue and Buck silent as a stone. Then when the tension was strong enough to feel, Buck said, “Why don’t we see Mountie?”

“Oh absolutely!”

The chilly tension melted at once as they scrambled down the rope and headed for our reservoir. Either they expected some grand idea or they were desperately grasping at straws. I suspected the latter.
 
MELEE

There are times when you want to show several things happening at once. The trick is to do this without hopelessly confusing people, and since human language works in a straight strip (despite "flashbacks" and "flash forwards") you have to BUILD THE LAYERS by carefully leaving things hanging, then going back to them before they collapse in the mind of the reader.

Here is an example of how NOT to fix breakfast with well meaning but underskilled volunteers....

Just when things seemed to be humming along as fast as they could go, Nickaby stuck his head in the door and shouted, “Shake it up in there or we’ll be having breakfast for dinner!”

Hollyberry came in looking disheveled and hard pressed. “Oakley, I need twenty-five porridges.”

“How many??”

“You heard me. They’re eating everything but the furniture!”

Holly grabbed a crock pot full of hot cider and started back out the door. Which would have been fine if Buck weren’t headed in with a load of dirty dishes. Both ended up in the floor.

“Garn!” the vixen shouted. “Buck, there’s another pot on the top shelf. Fetch it down like a good lad.”

“I’ll pay for the damage,” Oakley said.

“I should have said out before I hit the door. It was my fault.”

“It’s the day’s fault. I hardly know which way is up.”

“Dad, I’m scared!” Buck said, teetering on the tall, unsteady ladder to the top shelf.

“I’m coming!” Oakley stopped stirring porridge to help Buck get the crock pot. In the meanwhile the porridge began to boil ominously.

Nickaby stuck his head in the door. “Garn! My crock pot! What’s the meaning of…thunderation! Oakley!! The porridge!!”

“I’m sorry, Nickaby! I was…”

“Dad,” Buck shouted, “I can’t reach the top shelf!”

“Stir! Stir!” Nickaby said to Oakley. “I’ll fetch it down myself.” He scrambled up the ladder and reached for the large crock pot. The ladder began to slip and he dropped what he was doing…literally…to grab the shelf. The ladder clattered to the floor and the crock pot rolled off and smashed.

“Oh no,” Buck said. “You dropped it!”

“Do you think so??” The otter said, dangling from the shelf. “Fetch the ladder and get me down!”
 
That last scene was one of my favorites in all your writing John. By the time its finished, i'm always chuckeling.

A bit on the charecter development.
I guess i just wanted to interject a little bit here by saying something else abut charecter development, that i have learned by trial and error: If you don't have your charecter developed enough, they might evolve as a story goes on. Of course charcters change--they learn somethign new, they face a crisis, but any well-rounded charecter can take this in stride. I don't have any examples right now. But its important to remember this as you write your story--if you force your charecter to act a way they normally wouldn't, just so the plot flows, DON.'T--it can ruin the story.
And if any of you scholaries wants to correct me on this point i will gladly ste aside. :rolleyes:

mAndy
 
I just read the whole thread. Great job! I haven't done much prose writing; it's like crocheting – very difficult to think of anything to make (or write). Poetry comes easy...well, fairly easy. I can't always write poetry on demand, but it's a whole lot easier than prose, at the moment.

If you guys feel like critiquing, I have one poem I don't mind putting up. I wrote it for one of the first RPG's here, when Ithilien stuck me with the job of coming up with a Narnian song. ;) So I wrote it overnight, and it is certainly not the best of my work :eek:...but I'd love to hear what you think of it!

http://www.narniafans.com/forum/showthread.php?p=17197#post17197 said:
Long, long ago,
In this great land
The trees danced and the birds sang.

Fair was the Queen
Of our fair land;
Yet all lovelyness must pass away.

For when the strange,
Protecting tree
Lingering o'er many years

At length its great
And weighty boughs
No more could hold aloft,

Evil then o'er-took the land;
The Sorceress our kind had brought
Now had returned - to reign.

But in that bitter hour
A hope unlooked for came;
The Son of the Emporer over-sea.

He called across the worlds
The four great Kings and Queens
And he himself destroyed the vile Witch.

The royal four he crowned
And great was their reign;
The Golden Age of Narnia.
Click to expand...
 
SUBTLE WAYS OF SHOWING LOVE

The hardest thing to show in writing is love. Not SAYING love, but SHOWING love. When it is done subtly it can be very powerful indeed.

Young Buckthorn Badger has been snakebitten. He's very ill. Young Bramblewood Foxworth was with him and feels responsible. He also feels deep grief and shame and is frightened for his friend. Here he talks with Horace Beaverlee, who is by his bedside treating the stricken badger. Monitor the way the relationship is portrayed among the characters....

Buck looked very small and helpless in my bed. Bramble hovered next to his stricken friend looking very miserable.

“Mr. B.? Is there anything I can do?”

Dad gave Bramble a pat on the back. “You and Mountie should go outside so when his folks arrive there won’t be a great hurly burly."

“Do you promise to tell me if anything happens?”

“The moment I know anything.”

Bramble looked down. “I know I’m a lot of trouble sometimes. You think I’m bad, don’t you, Mr. B.?”

“No, son. A little reckless, but good hearted. Now I expect you to be more cautious in the future where snakes are concerned.”

“Yes sir.” Bramble shuffled his feet. “Then you’re not angry?”

“No. I couldn’t stay angry with you if I tried.”

Bramble looked Dad in the eyes. “Really? I thought you just put up with me for the Missus.”

“You’re good for her and for Mountie too, but you’re also good for me, you little tookie. And when I say my prayers at night, I always put in the good word for you.”

“I could use a good word right now,” Bramble said, coming close to Dad and putting an arm about him. “I’m glad we’re friends, Mr. B.”

“So am I, Bramble. So am I. Now run along and say a prayer for Buck.”
 
Thank you, John, for showing how to "show, not tell."

Dernhelm, I liked your poem. You cannot have failed to notice that much modern poetry is nothing but prose with the sentences broken up and some of the punctuation marks missing. When a poet does not use rhyme, there needs to be _something_ to create a poetic feel. You provided that something with a sense of rhythm all through.
 
EXERCISES IN ANARCHY

If you want to be fresh in your writing, you need to learn how to trust your gut feelings and just WRITE what comes up. You don't have to dump that out unedited, but learn to ride the waves of creativity that sometimes break on your mental shoreline. As I said in my other thread, "The Challenge", take a deep, cleansing breath, let it out slowly, and TYPE:

Staid and gray the mists hung heavy on the wintry field. Silent as stone lay the noble dead just where they fell. With downcast eyes we drank our cup of sorrow to the dregs before we dared to break the spell and speak. "There on the short hill," I said at last, pointing at the place where wood must go to free the ashes of our fallen friends and cleanse the land of decay. And yet we knew the vale had been forever marked by their last cries. It would never be the same.
 
I was surfing the web and ran across what I thought was a hilarous article where an author is bickeringwith his main charcter on what should happen. While its a bit lengthy i thought I would post it, along with this question:

How do you write? Do your charecters ever do something that utterly suprises you, or make a complete plot-twist, or write themselves into a corner without your consent? on the other hand; are you charecters the obedient type that do what you say because you said so? What works for you?

For me personally its a bit inbetween. I may plan to write something and then realize it just doesnt fit. Then i have to spend the next ten minutes figuring out what my charecters would do, and why they won't do this. Its less of my charecters writing themselves, and more of them digging in thier heels if they dont like my leadership.

The article in the next post(s):
 
Author:
‘The night passes quietly. Character sleeps soundly and wakes up at first light. Rooster crows. Climbs down from the hay loft and stretches, pleased to see that the fog of the night before has cleared and he can now see the town -- a couple dozen buildings, including a travelers’ inn. He'd found refuge in their stable. Grateful for the chance to sleep so comfortably --‘

Character:
You know, I've been quiet and gone along with you for the previous four chapters without a complaint, but this is too much. I've spent six days sleeping on leaves, huddled by a tree in the rain, and half-drowned and miserable. And now you think sleeping in a hay pile is comfortable! I tossed and turned all night. Hay isn't down feathers, you know -- it's dried twigs. They stab. And what the heck is this? (holds up something between his fingers)

Author:
(peers closely) Looks like a needle to me.

Character:
Right. What perverted person would put a needle in a pile of hay? It jabbed me.

Author:
Did it? (looks hopefully at the needle, then glances at research books) Is it rusty? Tetanus... severe muscle spasms, also called lockjaw... that might be interesting. I hadn't thought of an illness like that, before the shots and everything. Let me see it.

Character:
See what?

Author:
The needle!

Character:
(brushing hands) What needle? There's no needle here. Can't be. This is pre-industrial. No needle... and no tetanus.

Author:
(reluctantly puts aside the books) Oh well. Okay, where were we?

Character:
New day, no fog, etc.

Author:
Right. Okay. ‘Character makes his way through the stable yard and past the open door to the inn's kitchen --‘

Character:
‘His stomach growling --‘

Author:
If you're hungry, eat the journey bread in your pocket.

Character:
Are you joking? That stuff's so hard I could chip rocks with it. A caveman with this journey bread could have ruled the world.

Author:
‘Character walks past the door and out into the street where he sees something that makes him shut up and forget everything else. There, on the hill top overlooking the village, is the black stone castle that has haunted his dreams for the last five years! He anxiously turns that way, heading toward the distant castle gate --‘

Character:
Are you crazy? Or do you just think I'm stupid?

Author:
What's the problem now? That's the castle -- your goal in sight --

Character:
Yeah, the castle. Those dreams would be the ones where I wake up in a cold sweat, screaming because the castle sucked me in and buried me alive. And now you expect me to blithely head straight up and walk in? To heck with that. I'm heading the opposite way on this road, just as fast as I can --

Author:
Back toward the toll gate and the guards you so carefully avoided last night? Oh, good plan.

Character:
Crud. I forgot. What's to the right?

Author:
‘A fetid swamp still curling with the last tendrils of the fog from the night before. It must once have been part of a lake and port. Character can even make out the masts of ships buried in the muck, vines twining up across tattled sails.... and the bleached bones of men, trapped within those ropes of green, as though the plants had suddenly reached out and grabbed them --‘

Character:
I get the idea. Thank you so much for another new level of nightmare to add to my others. What's to the left?

Author:
‘To the east’ -- left for Characters not paying attention to where they are --
‘he can see a few more buildings, some of them obviously abandoned. Beyond that
are rocky fields and small plots of dying plants. Less than a mile away is the
shadow of the forest --‘

Character:
Excellent! Oh, and may I say that five chapters is a bit long to be waiting for a name?

Author:
I want it to be the right name, the perfect name. I'll know it when I see it.

Character:
Fine. Whatever. ‘Character casts one worried look at the brooding black castle and sets off on foot past the falling buildings and into the fields --‘
 
Author:
‘Almost immediately, Character hears the baying of dogs and looks worriedly toward the castle. He can see the pack that is pacing beneath the walls, he thinks waiting for the morning meal. But now they've seen him moving in the empty land below --‘

Character:
Crap.

Author:
Don't worry. They're only poodles.

Character:
A pack of poodles? Toy? Miniature? Standard?

Author:
A mix. And actually they're only half poodle.

Character:
(eyeing them cautiously and trying to guess if he can reach the forest and get away from them) Half poodle and half what?

Author:
Wolf.

Character:
(stops and shakes head) Wolves. You crossed poodles and wolves. And the reason was...?

Author:
Wild killers, less fur to clean up. ‘They have spotted Character, and the woodle pooves bay -- or maybe yip -- again.’

Character:
Woodle pooves. I'm getting an image of the dogs here.... oh man, that's just wrong.

Author:
Are you trying for the trees or not?

Character:
Can I make it?

Author:
Probably. They're kind of inbred woodle pooves. Not entirely bright.

Character:
Okay then. Better than the castle.

Author:
‘Character jogs along the broken path between the rocks as the woodle pooves gather at the top of the hill. He's more than halfway to the cursed forest before they --‘

Character:
(stops) Cursed forest? You didn't say anything about the forest being cursed!

Author:
Let's see: Deadly swamp, dying fields, big brooding black castle.... of course the forest is cursed. Duh.

Character:
Good point. My mistake. What kind of curse?

Author:
(flips through notes) ‘A century ago a major battle was fought at the village. A mage-king, seeing all about to be lost, cast a desperate spell to save his throne. He brought not only the plants of the lake but also the trees into the battle. They won, but unfortunately, the trees developed a taste for blood. They on't kill you... well, not right away.’ You can escape in a couple years. You won't be sane, of course, but I think you might be an interesting character if you were insane.

Character:
I don't need a cursed forest of vampire trees to drive me crazy. I've got you. ‘Character, sensing something evil from the forest -- or maybe not wanting to risk his luck with the woodle pooves -- turns around and hurries back to the village.’

Author:
‘Character soon reaches the street and turns toward the castle.’

Character:
No.

Author:
What do you mean no? You've found out there is no other direction. Now start up for the castle --

Character:
I am not going to that stinking castle!

Author:
Do you know how long I've been setting this moment up? That castle has been in your dreams --

Character:
Nightmares --

Author:
For five years! You’ve been pursuing it since you came of age!

Character:
I had dreams about Daisy from the Bread and Barrel for ten years! Why couldn't I pursue her instead?

Author:
This isn't that kind of book!

Character:
Like I haven't noticed!

Author:
‘Character, reluctantly realizing he has no choice, and that this is his destiny, heads for --‘

Character:
The privy. It has to be around here by the inn somewhere.

Author:
You're just putting off the inevitable.

Character:
Where is the privy? Or we're going to have something else inevitable happen.

Author:
‘The privy is at the opposite side of the stable. Character can see the swarms of flies and flinches at the stench as he nears --‘

Character:
Bull.

Author:
I don't think bulls have anything to do with this problem.

Character:
Look, this is stupid. The world has magic. The first thing they're going to use it for is to fix the stink from the outhouse! ‘Character heads for the privy, nothing the faint scent of lilacs and roses. Butterflies dance in the air.’

Author:
‘As he slips in and closes the door --‘

Character:
A little privacy, if you don't mind. Out.

Author:
...

Author:
...

Author:
...

Character steps back out, looking toward the door to the kitchen again.

Author:
Too bad you don't have any money.
 
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Character digs into jacket and pulls out shiny silver coin.

Author:
You've been holding out on me.

Character:
I got it off one of those five bandits who tried to kill me back in Chapter Three. You know, right before the bridge -- the one that had borne the weight of a thousand peasants and their wagons -- gave way under me for no apparent reason and I nearly drowned.

Author:
Yeah, but you lost the bandits who were trying to kill you.

Character:
I'm going for breakfast. Then I'm going to lay low for the rest of the day and escape the way I got in. Don't even bother to say anything. ‘Character goes in and orders food, has a quiet leisurely meal, lingering over bread and honey. The local serving wench isn't bad looking, either. She reminds him of Daisy, the girl he left behind. They might have a pleasant day together. He finishes up the food, pushing away the plate --‘

Author:
‘And the guards, having been relieved of their posts at the gate, come in for their own breakfast. They immediately spot Character and know he's a stranger who didn't come through their gate. Worse, though, is that they recognize him.’

Character:
What? I've never been here! They can't --

Author:
‘The guards fall on him, and he's soon beaten to his knees --‘

Character:
Beaten? But -- but --

Loter, Captain of the Guard:
Another one! You look like your great-grandfather, boy! We're not going to have any more mad mage-kings!

Selis, Another Guard:
I didn't think that dream crap would work, but heck, what is this? Fifteen of them now? Up boy.

Author:
‘Selis grabs Character by the arm and hoists him to his feet, taking him outside. Captain Loter loops a rope around his arms and ties it to his saddle --‘

Character:
But --

Author:
‘Loter kicks his horse into a trot, heading toward the castle gate, and only barely slows when Character stumbles and falls, dragged along the rough road. Bloody, bruised and panting, Character gets back to his feet and tries to jog along behind the horse.’

Character:
Look, it doesn't have to be like this --

Author:
I gave you the chance to come here quietly. You really shouldn't argue with your author. It just gives me more time to come up with something more interesting to do.

Character:
Maybe the woodle pooves wouldn't be so bad --

Author:
‘The group slips through the gate and into the shadows of a courtyard where it seems the sun never reaches. People scurry for the shadows and hide at their approach. Somewhere a man bellows in rage. Loter doesn't pause, as though the place unsettles him. The three head straight into the building -- cold, damp walls, mold in corners, the sounds of rats running. Salis pushes open a door and the head down the first set of stairs, then another... down and down and farther until it seems...’

Character:
‘The castle has swallowed him alive.’ Yeah, I get it.

Author:
‘Finally they reach a hall lit by a flickering torch, obviously magically fueled because the cobwebs are so thick that no one could have been down this way in a long time. Salis grimaces and uses his sword to cut through them. Decay and death scent the air, and the only sound is hysterical crying from behind a door they pass. "Can I go home now? Please, can I go home?" Loter stops at another door and nods. Salis pries up the rusted metal bar.’

Character:
I hope he gets tetanus.

Author:
‘The door comes open with a loud wail of unused hinges and Loter shoves Character inside and down to his knees again.’

Loter:
What's your name, boy? We need it for the records.

Character looks plaintively at author.

Author grabs name books.

Guards, anxious to get out of this hell hole,
look at author.

Author:
Yes, fine. Right. Okay! I found the name: Varyn!

Character:
(looks back at the guard) My name is Varyn.

Loter:
We'll write it in the book, Barren --

Character:
No, no. Varyn, with a V and a --

Author:
‘The guards slam the door closed. Varyn can hear the bar dropping into place and the guards hurrying away, and the hysterical whisper of someone else: "Can I go home now? Can I go home now?" Varyn leans back, ignoring blood, scrapes and bruises. He knows -- having seen the cobwebs -- that no one is going to come back for a long, long time.’

Varyn:
(bangs head on door a couple times) This is great. Wonderful. Do you have any clue how you're going to get me back out of here?

Author:
Well... Do you still have that journey bread?
 
Thanks for providing that entertaining piece, LD.

Anton Chekhov, pre-Communist Russian author-playwright, wrote a story once about a writer who puts his characters through terrible suffering, then has the characters haunt him like angry ghosts.
 
The idea of charecters coming alive, or the author becoming the charecters, fascinates me. Its got enough of the truth in it to be chillingly possible; and of course, so sci-fi that we know it will never happen, but wonder anyway. So far i've only heard of three books with that theme; Inkheart and its sequel, Inkspell, and one i can't remember the name of. Not your russian man tho, Copper.

mAndy
 
That was hilarious! I read it all the way down... Sometimes I wish my characters had a bit more spine, like that one. Although they do have some ideas at least...
 
I've allowed one or two of my trustworthy ones to "drive" for a bit, seeing if the persona is strong enough to act out in real time. Actually "being" Oakley Badger for a bit is fun.
 
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