Ready, Set, Scene Goal

Whether drafting or revising, writers often imagine what could happen next and start typing immediately. For the lucky few, that’s a great strategy. For everyone else, it’s ignoring an opportunity that may sound like busy work, but in reality is anything but.

Among other things, Jack M. Bickham is known for observing that “Writers write. Everyone else makes excuses.” The quote lets us know we can trust him. In Scene & Structure (1993), Bickham differentiates the protagonist’s over-arching goal from the pressing one in the scene at hand. This is what he says about scene goals:

The prototypical scene begins with the most important character—invariably the viewpoint character—walking into a situation with a definite, clear-cut, specific goal which appears to be immediately attainable. This goal represents an important step in the character’s game plan—something to be obtained or achieved which will move him one big step closer to attainment of his major story goal.

In the last two decades, a lot has happened in and about fiction. Today, one might describe the scene goal this way: Whatever a character desperately wants to get or avoid.

The scene goal differs radically from the author’s goal. Successful scenes do more than supply backstory, introduce minor characters, create atmosphere, or break for an info-dump.

Tip: Focus on character desire; this gives scenes energy, focus, and momentum.

Scene goals assist with every stage of the writing process. Here’s what the scene goal can give you:

~ A genuine hook.

Avoid the summary or context that don’t truly entice.

~ Focus.

You detect details that don’t belong in this scene, or possibly not in any scene.

~ Tension.

How will other characters respond to the protagonist's determination?

~ Foreshadowing.

How will the protagonist fail or learn from that failure?

~ Launch pad.

Before the climax, the goal isn’t realized, only appears to be, or results in worse trouble.

Isn’t it worth that little extra effort to build scenes from what characters—not authors—want? After all, that’s what readers want.

The Novel and the Novelist’s Emotions

Like everyone else, writers may be reluctant to wade through their deepest emotions. It’s like a swamp down there—with all the worst quagmire characteristics: rotting material, oppressive atmosphere, fetid odors—the stuff of nightmares. Maybe even the idea turns you off. Who loves swamps, or wants to revisit fear, anger, or pain? At best it puts you in a terrible mood; at worst it hurts.

But dark places can originate creativity: carnivorous plants, larger-than-life creatures, symbolism, secrets.

In Writing 21^st Century Fiction: High Impact Techniques, Donald Maass suggests that novelists often gain the greatest impact by probing deep inside—unearthing what they’d rather forget or ignore.

Tip: You’re the best source of the depths that make your characters compelling and real.

The point isn’t self-torture, of course, but the kind of experiment that scientists like Newton have always performed. To whatever extent you can step back to notice or recall profound feeling, you might gain both perspective and stoicism. You might unearth the details that create complex characters, which in turn creates compassionate readers.

Questions to might help achieve that:

~ How would you rank this pain (or fear or lust or rage)?

Scoring helps recall other instances of intense emotion and produces more objective comparisons. This can yield specific examples and strong metaphors. Make yourself take notes so you can later round out your characters—even your minor ones.

~ What’s hidden in your personal swamp?

Perhaps there’s more envy (or competitiveness or greed or selfishness) than you usually acknowledge. But it’s okay, because you’re wearing protective garb: “This is for the writing.” That arms you against hideous imagery and noxious fumes while you dig up the traits that shape intriguing characters. Write down the details.

~ How does intense emotion affect you physically?

Note breathing changes—also your pulse, lips, shoulders, and tongue. Which of the five senses dominates? What happens to hunger, thirst, energy, even digestion? Record your observations to replace clichéd body language like turning, yawning, and shrugging.

 If life dumps you in a swamp, such exercises may feel intolerable. But if you can wade the bog for the sake of your novel and its characters, your discoveries might enrich not only your fiction, but your life.

Full or Frantic?

 Like many Americans and Brits, last Sunday I tuned in to “Downton Abbey” with anticipatory pleasure. And don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed it. But I also sensed two issues I’d never noticed before, both relevant to the craft of the novel.

The first is self-consciousness. Who knows what the writers or cast actually think, but it almost seems as if concern about rivaling past performance swallowed the freshness and vitality of past seasons. This kind of pressure often surfaces when you let yourself worry if you’ll ever outdo the success of the last great season, scene, or sentence.

Once you enter “worry” mode, you might just decide that the solution is to add more. More of what? Why not everything? This can generate a deluge of detail, sub-plots, minor characters, imagery—everything but the kitchen sink, and if you’re desperate enough, maybe that, too. Here’s the danger:

Tip: Blurred focus makes for perilous pace.

That’s true not only for scenes but also individual sentences. The too-much-of-everything

syndrome can generate a painful irony: Clutter feels simultaneously frantic and tedious, hectic and monotonous. How do you solve this?

·         Remind yourself that for most writers, early drafts don’t start out great. But if they’ve been great before, they will be again. Then you’ll have the confidence to streamline.

·         Streamline not by offering tons of everything, but one or two or maybe three additions that really work, whether it’s a detail, sub-plot, image, or clause.

·         Emphasize what matters. That sounds easy, but if you want readers to grasp significance, you must first identify it yourself. That can be less obvious than you imagine.

·         Finally, offer an uncluttered view of what you want readers to see. That means you’ll have to cut. And that’s okay. Because “Downton Abbey” acquired the fame it enjoys by doing lots of things right. That means it’s highly likely that it will do most things right again. Guess what? So will you.