Flash Fiction Chronicles

Does anyone get rejections that say, “Some strong writing here, but this isn’t a story; there’s no arc” or “I like your character but where’s the conflict?”  Have you thought, “This editor is nuts!  A guy’s chasing her.  She has a gun.  She shoots him.  Isn’t that enough conflict?”

No actually it isn’t.  What that is is action which is different from conflict.  Action is movement.  Conflict is choice followed by movement.  What???  What I’m talking about here is structure, what Randall Brown pointed out in a recent post at Flash Fiction Chronicles,  “Who Cares?”: The Nuts & Bolts of Making Narrative Matter:

Something happens (precipitating incident) to create a desire, and that desire creates a need for action that is thwarted by this and that and this and that until, finally, there’s resolution.

Movies are a great way to learn structure and what exactly a story arc is.  One of my favorite movies to illustrate structure in that old reliable action flick ( I know, I didn’t say “structure flick”), Die Hard, made back in 1988 when Bruce Willis was moving from Moonlighting on TV to the Big Screen.

Get the Die Hard DVD and watch it with a pen and paper and the timer on your DVD player.  Number the lines on your paper from 1 to maybe 120 or so.  Maybe skip lines to make sure you can write big if you get excited.  Record what happens every minute or so all the way through. This may seem like a tedious exercise,  but it’s amazing to just how carefully the story is constructed. For the hot-shot movie critics out there who love those ponderous three-hour think pieces, Die Hard is too “on the nose,” but for learning about structure and character development, it is one of the best.

What you’ll be looking for is based on Aristotle’s Poetics–the basic 3-act play structure.  There are many good books out there (Robert McKee’s Story which is based on The Art Of Dramatic Writing: Its Basis in the Creative Interpretation of Human Motives by Lajos Egri and for a quick understanding there’s always Syd Field’s Sreenplay) help a writer learn all the ins and outs–as well as the disagreements about rules, formulae, and art–but I’ll lay out the minimum here. 

Act 1 starts with a character in his regular life, something happens to turn his life on its head, and by the beginning of Act 2 (approximately 30 minutes in), the character’s life is 180 degrees different from what it once was and the character sets out to either change his or her life back or to figure out how to make the best of things.  He’s not trying all that hard because frankly, he can’t really believe things could go this wrong.  Then something else goes wrong. 

About a quarter way through Act 2 (around 45 pages in) the character has some kind of epiphany that he’s going to have to work a helluva lot hard than he thought.   The simple solution isn’t working.  He needs a better plan.

About half way through (60 minutes) he realizes who the enemy is (himself, his best friend, the woman with the man hands) and at the same time, there is a coming together between the character and his/her main relationship usually washing wounds or sex). 

In the second half of Act 2 some new effort is launched, but it doesn’t work and leads to a dark moment around 75 minutes in.  The character gives up the game as hopeless. 

But by 90 minutes, the beginning of Act 3, the character has come up with new energy, a new plan, a new assault on his problem and works through his conflict until he either wins or loses. 

Notice as you are jotting down what is happening on your lined paper, about when these things happen in Die Hard.  The timing won’t be perfect, but you’ll be shocked to see how close it is.

Look for: Set-ups and pay-offs: On the plane McClane talks with the other passenger about being afraid of flying. The passenger offers a suggestion. Watch for this to pay-off when he is in the bathroom of the Nakatomi building, and then later when he’s in the elevator and later when he’s being chased.  This suggestion from the passenger pays off about 6 times in this move. THAT’s good structure.

Look for how exposition is handled: On the plane, in the taxi, between McClane’s wife and her boss, when McClane gets to the Nakatomi building and looks his wife up on the list of employees. Then think about set-up and pay-offs again.  How is information given to the viewer?

Look for character development: The characters in this piece are so well-defined and consistent in their traits. We get them quickly and their motivation and subsequent behavior holds the structure together when the twists are thrown in. There is suspense without confusion.

Setting: Think about the airplane, the limo, and the high rise Century City building. Then think about how this movement evolves and what happens in the building and how each of these places have their own twists and turns. 

Pacing??? Remarkably fast, but with the right amount of time spent on reflection so the movie has meaning. And it does. It’s about loyalty, determination, married love, brotherhood, evil….

Okay enough. Now if you decide to do the jot down what’s happening thing, here’s what to look for. By the first three or so minutes you know who McClane is, what his problem is, and how he thinks he’s going to solve it. Notice he HAS a problem. A personal goal to find out what the hell is going on between him and his wife. That isn’t the PLOT of the movie, it’s a subplot, but it’s what gives the movie some universal meaning.

About thirty minutes in you might notice that everything has changed 180 degrees from the beginning of the movie (this is about where ACT 1 ends). The building is taken over and the story problem isn’t just about McClane and his wife, but it’s about surviving the “terrorist” attack.

Act 2 come next from around 30 or so minutes to about 90 minutes in. In that time it is McClane fighting the bad guys.

The first part of act 2 is all about getting the police’s attention and he assumes of course that the police will solve the problem. He has to just survive and create enough chaos to keep the bad guys busy until the cops save the day.

But in the middle of the movie around 60 minutes in we see that McClane isn’t going to get any help. As a matter of fact he’s now perceived as one of the bad guys. The stakes are ramped up. There is no help coming. He’s got to do it himself.  However, if I’m remembering correctly this is about the time John McClane’s wife begins to feel more kindly toward her estranged husband.

And then at about 90 minutes when Act three begins, John McClane makes his final assault to save his wife and everyone else who has survived. And he manages to do that in true action hero form.

The end? The enemy is defeated and he regains his wife.

Okay. Formula. Over the top. Right? Yeah but it’s a learning tool too. Knowing why this movie works has helped me to have answers to story problems whenever I get stuck. What does the formula say at this point??? Do I want to do that? If yes, may it a unique with details. If I dn’t, make sure that what does happen has the same kind of emotional effect.

I didn’t make this up. If this idea of studying movies to help understand structure appeals to you you might consider reading one of the books I mentioned earlier.

I can’t remember all the movies I did this with, but it is amazing to see how close movies THAT WORK stick to this. 

Movies I logged

Overboard
Witness
Terminator
Suspicion (wrong ending really but I still love it)
Outrageous Fortune
Trading Places
Charade

 That’s all I can remember off the top of my head!  Happy movie watching!

Gay Degani writes surrounded by the frantic chortles of parrots.  She has published in journals and anthologies including The Best of Every Day Fiction 2008 and TWO (2009).  Her stories online can be read at The Battered Suitcase, Night Train, 10 Flash, 3 A.M. Magazine, as well as other publications.  Pomegranate Stories is a collection of eight stories by Gay. She is the editor of EDF’s Flash Fiction Chronicles.  

Secrets escape acute adorations, escape attack from the critical masses by nature of being hidden. When someone mentions SECRET concerning another’s interests, ears attune toward the sound of the one speaking, and syllables are licked from the air as if they were ice cream.

In today’s world, we have books for DUMMIES, how-to books and authors expunging themselves of secrets that supposedly made them billions of dollars.  The bestselling Bible Code reveals secret codes in—you guessed it—the Bible.  Self-help gurus attune the individual’s consciousness to his inner-nature through secrets of Eastern gurus now finally revealed for the FIRST TIME!

Secrets linger in courtyards, whispers of political intrigues and veiled threats spoken from seats of power.  They empower innuendo that cannot be understood by the masses teeming with ignorance, such as the Freemasonry symbols used in some of author Dan Brown’s works, until the spell of ignorance is broken by the solving of riddles—riddles that reveal secrets.

There have been how-to books concerning writing as well, works that promise to reveal the tips and tricks (secrets) to those willing to purchase them.  Most are good self-help modules to improve one’s writing, and some are quite excellent.  However, the catalyst for “writing secrets” often comes through writing groups based in the internet; one unknown writer reveals something he found on a blog, which is turn revealed to his group.  Someone within his group becomes excited and reveals that secret to another writing group she belongs to based in the UK, and pretty soon the SECRET starts to lose some of its secrecy.

This is where I come in.  I have a large private web office where secrets are often shouted from the rooftops.  Within my private office linger lots of editors concerned with promoting their publications and seeking quality writers, as well as those who wish to improve their own writing, both editors and writers alike.  Often, someone posts something of interest to the craft of storytelling.  More often than not, there are little snippets within what is presented—secrets, if you will—that go without comment.

I’m going to reveal one of those snippets based on an outline that swept through my private office and out again, with nary anyone commenting or saying a word.  Graeme Renolds is the writer who supplied the blueprint, snatched from another writer who received it from another… and through the grapevine it comes.  Graeme is a fantastic writer, astute and always willing to learn and evolve in his craft, which is how he came across the outline.  I believe he altered the outline somewhat with some modifications.

Here is that outline:

Story Flow Blueprint

Step 1: Characters, conflict, and major story goal are introduced
At the very beginning of your story, the characters, the opposition/conflict, and
the overall goal of the tale are introduced.
Step 2: Characters begin their journey
The characters will begin consciously or unconsciously making preparations for the “journey” or adventure that they will be undergoing throughout the tale. A deeper sense of their abilities and motivations is given to the reader during this section, a means of letting the reader “get to know them” better.
Step 3: First goal is determined
The characters make a decision to take some action relative to helping them reach the story goal. That goal is identified for the reader, as are the reasons behind it.
Step 4: Actions are taken to reach that goal
The characters take some action designed to bring them closer to the goal outlined in the previous step.
Step 5: Characters are prevented from reaching their first goal
The first goal is thwarted, either through the actions of the opposition or some other circumstances that are not under the characters’ control.
Step 6: Characters react
The characters react to the fact that they failed to reach their goal.
Step 7: Stakes are raised
The stakes the characters are facing if they do not reach the story goal are raised, which in turn raises the tension and excitement of the story for the reader.
This is also where the characters react to the raising of the stakes.
Step 8: A new (second) goal is developed
Determined not to let one set-back prevent them from reaching their goal, the characters develop a new, larger goal (since the stakes are now higher).
Step 9: Actions are taken to reach the second goal
The characters take some action designed to bring them closer to the goal outlined in the previous step.
Step 10: Characters are prevented from reaching their second goal
The second goal is thwarted, again either through the actions of the opposition or some other circumstances that are not under the characters’ control.
Step 11: Characters react
The characters react to the fact that they failed to reach their goal for the second time.
Step 12: Stakes are raised
The stakes become even higher, with greater consequences in the event of failure. The characters react to this change.
Step 13: Low period begins
At this point the characters are feeling their failures. They are demoralized and uncertain just what to do next. Some may even be on the verge of giving up. It is only the high stakes that keep them in the game now.
Step 14: Third goal is developed
With uncertainty and confusion running rampant, the characters try to rally and push onward. A new goal is developed, though this time the specter of failure
looms close at hand.
Step 15: Actions are taken despite uncertainty
Determined not to give up without a fight, the characters push through and attempt to reach the goal one more time, despite the fact that their chances of success look slimmer by the minute.
Step 16: Dark time begins
The characters fail miserably and the terrible circumstances they have been trying to avoid seem all too likely.
Step 17: Characters react to the dark time
Despair sets in as the characters reach their lowest emotional point in the story.
Everything they feared is about to come to pass and they seem to be completely out of options. The stakes are at a fever pitch by this point.
Step 18: Pivotal change occurs
A crucial event takes place that makes the character’s all too well aware that they don’t have the option of failing. Maybe their lives are on the line. Maybe it is the life of
a loved one or the fate of the entire world. Whatever it is, the characters must face it and decide that they have to give it a go or die trying.
Step 19: Goals are revised one last time
For the last time, the characters set a goal and go for it with all they’ve got. They are at their limit, not just physically but mentally and emotionally as well. This is the
point of no return.
Step 20: Final showdown happens, the opposition is defeated and the characters
react to their success
The characters face off against the opposition and this they succeed. The opposition is defeated and they are left to figure out just where to go from here.

One thing that is most interesting is that this blueprint is built for plot, and it creates stories entirely too long for flash fiction.  In fact, by itself this blueprint is 743 words.  I used it experimentally once shooting for 5,000 words, and I soared to 7,000 words (with the way I love description).  With that in mind, what good is this blueprint for flash fiction?

Well, breaking it down into smaller patterns is beneficial.  Removing steps can shorten it up.  But why would a writer of flash fiction want to do that?

One concept I found from this blueprint that swept through my office—and was forgotten about rather quickly—are the failures disclosed to the protagonist’s accomplishing of his/her goals.  Particularly, Step 5, Step 10, Step 16 and Step 20 reveal the secret I’m referring to, and that is one of failure. Writers are well versed with the concept of failure, often calling it rejection—although every bestselling novelist has had stories rejected including Stephen King.  The most beloved heroes often fail repeatedly before procuring their goals.  Some even fail at the story’s end, as did Mel Gibson’s historical character in Braveheart. The world (readers) are well acquainted with failure, and when they read about a character who fails as many times as they do, AND THEN SUCCEEDS, they tend to identify more with that character.

But this blueprint is already 743 words.  How could a writer of flash fiction utilize it?

One way is to get right to the action.  Editors are always saying how they want stories that begin with the action. But what if an astute writer began not only with the action, but with the mentioning of two or three previous failures as well?  What if the writer began with a character… say, at an abandoned castle surrounded by werewolves?  The writer could use some back-story to fill the reader in on the previous failure of the character trying to lead his village to safety from the growing werewolves.  After setting out on a two-day journey for the safety of a nearby citadel, the village is destroyed (a failure).  A new goal emerges.  Now the character must protect those who still survive: his family.  The stakes are raised because he loves his family, thus the drama intensifies.  He fails.  Now, alone, he is in the castle ruins, a very dark time in his life indeed.

Here come the werewolves.

Do you feel this sudden shift in intensity?  Just briefly mentioning the past two failures (secrets snatched from this blueprint), the story intensifies and, perhaps, we can use more dramatic language at this point: Behold now the iron will of the nefarious agents of abominable intent. See how negative the distraught hero embraces his doom.  Yet somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears his children’s voices saying, “Daddy, don’t give up,” and he remembers lessons he taught his children.  As howls fill the air and jaws snap at his heels, the hero races up the castle to the bell tower of the desolate abbey still attached.  After slamming a heavy oak door and barring it, he gazes at the vast sky because the roof is gone, recently collapsed.  Only his sword and an rusted iron bell hangs and—an idea!

Our hero rings the bell by beating it with his bloodied sword.  It creates a sad sound, a dull noise, but the more he beats it the more rust falls away; the outer casing comes off like crumbling armor.  Beneath the veneer of rust gleams solid metal, and now the sound rings pure and loud: CLANG, CLANG, CLANG! The werewolves cannot stand the tolling of the bell, and the hero rings the bell until morning, weeping the entire time, until the sun’s rays drive away the evil.

Failure is a tool to increase tension for your characters and readers, a secret for writers of both flash fiction and novels.  And it came as a nugget of truth buried within the blueprint listed here.  What other secrets lie in the blueprint above?  What secrets do you have regarding writing?

Please comment and reveal your writing secrets!

Liquid-Imagination

Silver Pen

American Zoetrope (where my private web office, Liquid Imagination, resides)

Silver Blade (sister publication of Liquid Imagination)

John “JAM” Arthur Miller owns Liquid Imagination Publishing, an ezine combining artwork and music with speculative fiction and poetry to create a new art form. JAM has over 65 publishing credits/acceptances with various publications ranging from anthologies, print publications and ezines. He is on the Board of Trustees at Silver Pen, a non-profit organization created to promote literacy.  JAM has full physical custody of three small children who have tamed his writing and slowed him down somewhat, and that’s just fine with JAM. The importance of optimism combined with the occasional YIPPIE (regardless of rejection) for writers is a frame of mind that, JAM believes, must be attained for optimum performance. “YIPPIE!!!”

In a previous post I talked about the limits of flash fiction — the hard ceiling of 1,000 (or sometimes less) words that force a writer to focus his energies in such a way that makes him, paradoxically, freer to explore techniques of language and narrative. In that post I talked of gardens of various sizes, and mentioned walls and fences. The walls of my analogy were the hard word limits of flash beyond which no word count could go.

But think of flash fiction — indeed, all fiction — as being surrounded not by a fence, but a window frame. When we look out the window from a fixed position we see only a slice of the world itself. Prior experience tells us there is more to the world than meets the eye, but so too do various clues in the scene itself — perhaps we only see a part of a road, or the shadow of a tree, or, indeed, neighbors moving in and out of frame. Good, evocative fiction should do this too, it should hint at a larger world.

My own domain of genre fiction demands this more so than contemporary fiction, and so as a technique I think it is more important for writers of science fiction, fantasy, and assorted other ’speculative’ or fantastical stories to seed their story with such cues to achieve a measure of believability. Set a story in the modern world dealing with modern problems and the believability is already there — both the audience and, perhaps more importantly, the author believe in that world because they live in it already.

One of my favorite things about Every Day Fiction are the comments left by such a large variety of readers. And there is always one thing I want to see in the comments section, one thing that lets me know I succeeded in my job as illusionist and world-maker, and that’s when someone tells me that the story felt like part of something larger. That means nothing more nor less than my fictional world had achieved a level of believability that persuaded the reader into thinking that there was indeed more beyond the frame of the window.

And, truth be told, there always is more beyond the frame that the reader does not see — the ideas the writer has about the world and its characters that just don’t fit in the story in explicit or elaborated-upon ways. But rarely is there a great deal, as least for my stories, as it doesn’t make sense to imagine a novel’s worth of back story to lend authenticity to a 1,000 word piece of fiction — if that were the case, one would just write the novel. No, there is a trick to it.

The first and most important aspect of doing this has to be the the writer’s own belief. You have to believe you are writing about a world and character that exists beyond the 1,000 word window frame that you are confining them to. This isn’t magical thinking on the writer’s part, rather it is a deliberate way to get into the mindset of someone writing contemporary fiction. In contemporary fiction, the author knows the world intimately because it is the one he lives in, and he is free to reference or hint at so much that we all take for granted. And that’s the second part of our approach, taking things for granted.

Robert A. Heinlein is famously held up as an example in this regard; whereas science fiction prior to him would often draw attention to the differences in the setting with descriptions of the gee-whiz gadgetry, Heinlein would cut right through it with something as simple as his character crossing from one room to another through an electronic door with the words ‘the door dilated.’ Major breakthrough in believability, because it presents an unfamiliar world as familiar, and therefore gives it a reality that exists apart from the narrative. Heinlein took the old SF fence of highlighting the differences of things and turned it into a window frame that suggested that those things you wanted to know where all there if you were to just tilt your head and look through the frame at a different angle.

Giving your audience everything on a plate is the worst way to tell a story — in fact, it’s often what’s meant by the condemnation of ‘telling’ rather than ’showing.’ The best way to paint a scene is to get your reader to imagine it for themselves — and sometimes that can be done more effectively with fewer, rather than more, words. By the same token, making a world feel real to an audience involves getting them to supply the answers to questions you carefully suggest to them. ‘The door dilated’ does this beautifully, as the reader instantly imagines for himself what a more plodding author would have begged him to believe with an extended description. Getting your reader to internalize the truth of your world by forcing them to meet you halfway on some of the speculative or unique elements within it makes such fiction essentially collaborative.

Curiously, I sometimes hear ‘this felt like something bigger, I wanted more’ as a kind of minor criticism, as if by suggesting a larger world and then not delivering it in full I’ve somehow reneged on my authorial agreement. I know how to read between the lines when I see this. When the reader might bring this up as a flaw I see it as proof positive that they had become emotionally involved in my story and believed it enough to be disappointed when they realized there was in fact a fence obscuring their view of the rest of the world where they had been certain a window frame existed. Perhaps they feel as if a trick as been pulled on them — and it has, as writing is a great deal about illusions and trickery.  Wanting to see the rest of a world that does not exist — that is, in fact, constructed almost entirely out of a few hinting references scattered here and there and made stronger by authorial conviction — and then being disappointed that you can not indeed actually see that world, must to be the greatest compliment of all. Especially in flash fiction. The point of hinting at a larger world within flash fiction is not to satiate readers, but to whet their appetites.

Bill Ward is, most probably, a figment of his own imagination. His flash has appeared at Every Day Fiction, Murky Depths, and the anthologies Dead Souls and Northern Haunts, as well as The Best of Every Day Fiction 2008. He blogs about all things genre at www.billwardwriter.com.

If you haven’t read part 1, give it a spin when you have time.

An author blog I read once recommended reading a book about screen writing and the three-act structure as a way to help develop novel plots. The caveat I remember this author mentioning was that after she read the book and understood the formula used in movie scripts, it made it harder for her to simply lose herself in a film. Instead, she was always looking for the catalyst, the denouement, and the other traditional parts of the screenplay.

Sometimes I feel that way about reading. The more I hone my craft and the better I get at this writing thing, the harder it is for me to be forgiving of other work out there. Especially published work, and especially work that is published in novel format. I’m much more apt to set a novel down and not pick it up again if the writing is sloppy than I ever used to be — even if I like the plot and the characters.

The mark of a really good book to me is one that sucks me in as a reader and totally short circuits the editing brain. If I look up an hour later, and I haven’t thought about word choice, grammar, or passive voice once, it’s a good story.

Take the Twilight series as an example. People give it a hard time because it’s not quality literature (I’m not sure it’s supposed to be, but people judge best sellers harshly, I suppose). And it’s true — there are many books that are better written than Twilight (though, I do think that Meyer’s craft improved over the course of the series). But when I jump into the world of Bella, Jacob, and Edward, I am totally sucked in. Hours can go by, and I don’t even notice until I start getting a crick in my neck or the phone rings.

That is the point that character, setting, and good, old-fashioned story-telling trump the mechanics of writing. Twilight transports me into the fictional dream and doesn’t let me go without a fight. To me, that’s the mark of a good novel that’s worth reading, no matter what the naysayers think. (Though, I can see how someone who’s not into young adult romance or vampires might not be sucked in the same way — subject matter is subjective.)

So, from the reader’s perspective, I guess I would have to say that the editor’s brain is a detriment. It is harder to enjoy reading certain things than it used to be — I’m much more selective than I used to be.

But, from the writer’s perspective, the editor’s brain is an asset that you simply cannot do without. The better your craft, the better chances you have of selling it — case closed. Sure, sometimes less well written stories get published, but I prefer to think that’s because the person who bought it was swept away by the story and the characters so much that they didn’t mind a few mechanical flaws.

I don’t think I would give up my editing brain, not even for all the reading enjoyment in the world. There are enough books out there that still suck me in and there are books with issues that I still enjoy (remember the clavicle thing from the Luxe series?), despite being knocked out of the fictional dream every once in a while. There is a wide world of books to choose from out there — I’ll keep my editing brain and let it have a field day with all of my first drafts.

And then all you guys can laugh at me when you read something of mine where I missed a glaring instance of word repetition or passive voice!

Erin M. Kinch lives and writes in Fort Worth, Texas. Visit her blog, Living the Fictional Dream (www.erinmkinch.com), for links to her published stories and more of her musings on writing. Erin is a brand-new Mommie.

Content, structure, and language work together. No one element can make a story work. Many writers use a series of steps—brainstorming, outlining, drafting, revision, editing, and proofreading—to juggle content, structure, and language. The order of each step is a matter of choice and fluctuates with story ideas. Here is my preference:

•  To create content: brainstorm, free-write, draft a first draft
•  To apply structure: outline first draft, then draft second draft
•  To perfect language: revise, edit, and proofread

Content refers to the subject matter of a story.

• The who, what, when, where, and how of a specific idea.
• A character (the protagonist) finds himself in a difficult situation at a certain time and place and must deal with that situation. 
• How the protagonist deals with the situation depends on the protagonist’s wants, character, and the nature of the obstacles he must overcome.
• Content provides the “story question or problem” that propels the protagonist through the plot and ultimately reveals a universal theme, a jolt, an epiphany, some small observance of life.
• Content evolves from a premise, notes, a rough draft, research, observation, plus the attitudes and concerns of the writer.

Structure refers to the basic organization of a story.

• Just as a play is divided into three acts, most stories have three main segments
  • The opening (Act 1) gives a story focus and meaning by providing the premise, setting, and tone of the story as well as hints at the nature of obstacles the protagonist will face.
  • The main body of the story (Act 2) focuses on the protagonist’s actions to resolve the story problem.
  • The conclusion (Act 3) reveals the results of the protagonist’s struggle and infuses that struggle with meaning.
• Each segment of a story has a similar structure: the overall story as well as each chapter, each scene within the chapter, each beat within the scene
• Structure also involves other devices such as set-ups and pay-offs, sub-plots, and the shaping of structure specifically to content.
• Structure evolves from outlines, note-taking, drafts or a combination of the three.
   

Language refers the diction and style used to express a story’s idea.

• Diction refers the specific words that are chosen
• Style refers to how those words are combined, the order, the length of sentences and includes the use of literary devices such as metaphor, symbolism, and allusion.
• Grammar keeps writing clear and understandable.
• Language evolves from revision and rhythm.

Process is what brings these three basic components of composition together.

Writing is a Process. Yeah, it is!

The rough draft is about content…
making it up.
The second draft is about structure…
making sense.
The third draft is about language…
making it clear.
The fourth draft is about perfection…
making it publishable.

Actually, the steps to the writing process bleed into each other like ink dropped from a leaky pen over one spot. The blotches don’t land in exactly the same place, but they seep beyond each other’s borders, and create a new kind of art.

This post appeared last year at Gay Degani’s Words in Place Blog.

Dramatic structure in flash fiction is an interesting beast, isn’t it? On one hand, the most satisfying flash stories are going to be basically be very, very short stories. On the other hand, it’s such a teeny, tiny amount of room.

Take for example this complete story, A Little Fable by Franz Kafka. It weighs in at a hefty 92 words counting the title and byline:

A Little Fable
by Franz Kafka

“Alas,” said the mouse, “the whole world is growing smaller every day. At the beginning it was so big that I was afraid, I kept running and running, and I was glad when I saw walls far away to the right and left, but these long walls have narrowed so quickly that I am in the last chamber already, and there in the corner stands the trap that I must run into.”

“You only need to change your direction,” said the cat, and ate it up.

Okay, as an author my interest is piqued. This story has two characters, two lines of dialog, and a good bit of philosophy. Dramatic irony, and a twist ending, all wrapped up in a neat little package of less than 95 words.

Roll up your sleeves, put on your latex gloves and hand me a scalpel right out of my little black bag. We’re going to do some exploratory surgery . . . what? You can’t find the scalpels, only the Three Act Structure and The Hero’s Journey? Those will have to do. I guess we can make a big a mess out of this patient with those as we can with knives …

“But Bosley,” I can hear you saying, “The three act structure is for plays, and movies. Not my beautiful whimsical flash.”

Okay, I’ll be the first to admit applying structure in this way is more an exercise in creative thinking than it is true analyses. But heck, I’ve never let the facts get in the way.

What is the three act structure?

Act 1: Introduce the protagonist, the premise and a get the conflict rolling

Act II: The protagonist should try to fix the problem, and make things even worse in the process (or at least things should get worse). Change will most likely be instigated by an outside force.

Act III: Things are resolved with a climax, the premise is addressed in a meaningful way. Loose ends are tied up.

Okay, so let’s apply it . . .

“Alas,” said the mouse,

Main Character: We are introduced to the mouse, and we see immediately he is bemoaning his situation.

“the whole world is growing smaller every day.

Dramatic Premise: He explains that his world is changing there is an implicit question here: How will he handle this change?

At the beginning it was so big that I was afraid, I kept running and running, and I was glad when I saw walls far away to the right and left,

Dramatic situation/Obstacles/rising action: this answers the implicit question, how does the mouse try to deal with it? Running. Well what can stop him? Will he succeed in his escape? There is even a bit of irony worked in there … he previously feared the largeness of his world.

but these long walls have narrowed so quickly that I am in the last chamber already,

First Culmination: No, he can’t run away and solve the problem, in fact it’s made things much worse.

and there in the corner stands the trap that I must run into.”

Midpoint: Can’t do this alone, at the very least . . . maybe that cat will have some advice.

“You only need to change your direction,”

Climax: Ah, it is all so clear now, the answer is so very simple.

said the cat, and ate it up.

Denouement: and how is this new information used? As it turns out this is a bit of a tragedy, the mouse is far worse off than he was at the beginning Also, a bit of a trick ending.

“I guess that makes sense,” I can hear you saying, “If one is to squint just right, and play very loosely with definitions . . . but what is this hero’s journey thing about?”

The short answer is that the hero’s journey is a 12 part structure that defines what a Hero Archetype must go through to complete his goal. Take a peek here, I’ll wait.

Okay, so here’s my attempt to put A Little Fable in this structure:

Mouse’s Journey

The mouse describes his ORDINARY WORLD by saying it is ‘growing smaller’ there is an IMPLICIT CALL TO ADVENTURE in this, if his world is changing what will he d? He REFUSES THE CALL by ‘running and running’, he then CROSSES THE THRESHOLD by declaring he is in the ‘last chamber’. Here is the TEST, the trap, what will he do as he approaches the INNERMOST CAVE and suddenly he is face to face with the cat who appears to be a MENTOR but is really a SHAPE SHIFTER, the cat gives some advice about the ROAD BACK …

… okay so it’s lacking RESURRECTION I think, but the ELIXIR is ultimately given to us as the reader in the advice that ‘You only need to change direction,’ and while it is too late for the mouse, we have his wisdom.

So that was a little more tricky, I think. And as you can see not all the steps are really met. That’s often the case, even with works meant to fit into the structure, as this one surely was not consciously meant to.

As you can see, with some mental acrobatics  and pretentious assumptions even the shortest bit of finely crafted fiction can be brutally bludgeoned with these crude tools. Now the really interesting post would be on what this story actually means . . . any volunteers?

Bosley Gravel writes  all manner of nonsense.  Check out his two latest traditional length stories “The Courtship of Lady Boo-Boo” and “Paid in Full“, both containing a full three acts of heros, journeys, whimsy.   His first novel, “The Movie” is scheduled for released late 2009.

Ever notice how much writing advice there is floating around out there?  Well here are some of the most common ones I’ve heard and my take on them.

Advice: Writing is re-writing.

“I don’t write, I rewrite, that’s when all the fun begins. I just get it all out in the first draft, then I spend countless hours going back and editing, editing, editing.”

Okay, revision is important. But do we really just need to throw caution to the wind when do our first drafts? I contend that, especially with flash, the answer is no. I think those hours editing, editing, editing would be far better spent studying dramatic structure, successful stories we admire, or even just day dreaming. You put good stuff in, good stuff will come out. Overworking a flash piece can ruin it by the second pass. Too much revision is far worse than not enough.

Suggestion: If it doesn’t work set it aside for a while, a couple of months. Let the ideas percolate, then rewrite it from memory.

Advice: Keep a notebook for ideas.

“I keep a little notebook that I carry everywhere and record every stray thought that pops into my head. It’s a rich goldmine of ideas.”

Yeah, I’m sure it is a rich goldmine of random ideas. But good fiction is not made out of random thoughts. Yes, you might put a seed for a good idea in there sometime.  Yes, it might turn into a story for you. My line of thought on this advice is that if the idea is not good enough to stick in your head, it’s probably not all that great of an idea. If you aren’t obsessed with the idea, it’s not worth writing about. Flash is short and sweet, most of us are quite capable of rendering the whole thing in our heads.

Suggestion: Most authors I know do keep some kind of idea file on their computer usually just a one liner or a title. There is nothing wrong with this, per se, but again, if you can’t keep the idea in your head long enough to sit down and file it, it probably is not worth saving.

Advice: Write everyday, form a habit.

“I get up every morning at the crack of dawn, and write four pages.  If not, evil gremlins will come and eat my brains!”

Would be nice to have that kind of motivation, right? Unfortunately it is impossible to do this for most people. I think most of us writing flash are not professional writers and have jobs and families, and complex ‘real-life’  lives to attend to.  One of the fun things about writing flash is it doesn’t require long term commitment. Why not dash out a flash when you have a few minutes? No need to feel guilty that you can’t always find the time.

Suggestion: To be efficient with your time, combine daydreaming with a strong understanding of the craft of fiction. It’s often easier to fit in a few minutes reading up on writing advice than to produce a draft. Better that you do something towards developing your skills than nothing. Read, develop the story in your head, watch people (your kids, coworkers, etc) for details that might be useful. Anything.

Advice: Author’s should always get paid for their work.

“I only submit to top tier magazines that pay pro rates.”

Get published much? Probably not. The fact is there are a 1000 writers who are worse than you who are getting published. And there are a 1000 writers better than you waiting in line for their slots. Writers should get paid for their work, but keep in mind that flash is a close cousin to poetry, traditionally not a very lucrative venture. Most flash ezines need the money more than you do. Most flash ezines are labors of love with the editors paying out of their pockets.

Suggestion: Donate cash payments back to the ezine or some where like Duotrope these are the places that are keeping the scene alive. They are developing the audience for you. Think of your donated flashes as advertisements for your longer works (you are writing a novel aren’t you? Or will someday.) Creating ‘branding’ for your fiction has a long term value that exceeds the professional rates. We new writers have a vested interest in keeping the scene alive, right? (Obviously I’m not saying one should never submit to top tier magazines, just that not every story you write will be top tier.)

Advice: Writing is magical, mystical and hard.

“Every word I write is gut-wrenching agony, exposing my soul to the world.”

Right. This is the worst of the lot. I’ve often thought, I must be doing this wrong. I’ve never been miserable writing;  if so I wouldn’t do it. There are some stages I like more than others, of course. But if writing is a painful experience at any level, for god-sakes, go take up needlepoint or something. Writing is a craft; writing can be used to illustrate complex philosophy, existential woe, or something as simple as a lost pet that is found. Writing is like wood working, model ship building, or painting. It takes practice and determination. If it is causing you to suffer, go do something else; the world has enough writers. Flash is a bad place to try to unleash your angst and misery, not enough room for that sort of thing.

Suggestion: Write for fun; write for yourself; write from the heart, but most of all, write your best. If you’ve done your best then you’ve succeeded. Develop your craft; develop yourself as a human being, but where the two overlap is thin and fragile and can easily wreck an otherwise perfectly good story.

Advice: Bosley has a clue, listen to him.

“Bosley Gravel is a writing genius and with his dozens of published short stories and a forthcoming novel The Movie from BeWrite Books slated for pre-Christmas release), he must know almost everything there is to know about writing.”

Ahem, while I appreciate the flattery–what a load. If there were to be a Number One Rule about writing, it would be that there are no rules.

Suggestion: Do what works for you. Trust your instincts. That’s not to say ignore all advice you get because you know best. Lots of editors and writers will offer you perfectly good advice and lots of them will not ‘get’ your writing and make some very odd suggestions. Your job is to separate the two.

Knowing what advice to take and when to trust your own instincts can be hard and confusing sometimes, but becoming an expert in any field is difficult. The bottom line is that writing is an act of individualism. Only you can write your stories and only you can make them perfect. If some advice doesn’t suit you, ignore it. It’s allowed, and I’ll even suggest it for the best. Keeps things interesting.

Don’t agree?  Want to fight about it?   Post a comment and tell us your take on these or any other bits of advice you’ve heard.

Bosley Gravel, eclectic hack writer, was born in the Midwest, and came of age in Texas and southern New Mexico. He writes in a variety of genres. His fiction focuses on the absurdly tragic, and the tragically absurd. He likes good black coffee, nightmares, Billie Holiday, and that hour just before the sun comes up. Visit his site for links to his fiction, and contact information.

Coming soon: his debut literary novel The Movie from BeWrite Books (for pre-Christmas Release).

I had just finished a flash and read it. It seemed familiar. Then it hit me. It has the same format as many of my other stories. Going through my work I discovered I had a set outline I would use for my work. The story goes like this: 300 or so words of exposition or character description, then a character will have a 100 word speech that will be related to the theme of the story and finally about 50 or so words to finish out the tale.

I told my wife my discovery and she looked dumbfounded that it took me this long to realize it.

Those of us who write flash are easy targets of repetition. Our output are 500 or 1000 word stories, so we tend to write a lot of these little suckers. You can’t blame yourself for falling into a form that has worked before. We have a good idea, an interesting character, a cool final line, so how do you cobble it all together, with the set format. Be careful. This will lead to the characters and the situations becoming set as well.

Sometimes this set format is the perfect vehicle, but most of the times its just expediency. For me, I will use the format on the first draft, but try to shake it up on additional drafts. One of my most popular stories on Every Day Fiction is “Wing Mending.” It started out as a much longer piece that followed the pattern of many=20 of my stories. I just left it in the notebook for a year and then worked on it. I cut out everything but the last paragraph and slightly expanded it and that became the work that you can read on Every Day Fiction.

I suppose the most important thing you can do is write in the easiest and fastest method and then be critical when the draft is done. Ask yourself, is this like everything else I have done? If the answer is yes, then figure out how to change it, or alter it or just leave it in the notebook. Also, read your older work, be aware of what you have done, find the patterns in your own stories. Don’t be annoyed when you find patterns, just don’t get stuck in the rut, write yourself out of it.

Dave McPherson lives in Worcester, Ma. He is a co-editor of Ballard Street Poetry Journal. He has been published in several on line and print publication for his flash fiction, if we must call it anything. He is a former slam poet and has performed across New England.

For the last few years I’ve been teaching a class in writing the micro fiction story at the UCLA Extension.  I had wanted to teach a flash fiction class but someone was already running one. I was very attracted to these short forms for many of the reasons that contributors to Flash FictionChronicles have put forward:  With such a small piece of literary real estate, what can you say?  What can you do?  What are the limits and boundaries of storytelling? 

In the late Jerome Stern’s Micro Fiction anthology, I found my model and the class:  250 word stories (exclusive of title) and not a word more. In my classes, I’ve come across some of the best writing I’ve ever encountered. 

But why does it work?

My conclusion is structure. Micro fiction stories don’t need any.  Let me restate.  Near the beginning, I introduce Janet Burroway’s notion of the conventional contemporary short story structured as an inverted check mark which I draw on the board.  Then I erase the conflict and the resolution portions, and leave only the crisis moment.  That’s all the structure you need.  Or I draw the check mark again and after erasure leave only conflict.

Or a third time, all that remains is resolution.  I tell the participants to use any of those possibilities as their structural element and they getit, immediately.  With a singular focus on only a portion of that conventional structure, they bring an amazing intensity and attentiveness to language as a result.  They’ve brought me stories every bit as inventive and as strong as the ones featured in the Stern anthology.

There’s one more element needed to make the pieces something other than mere anecdote.  Each writer needs to find a way to set their moment of a story within a continuum.  That is, this has happened before and it will happen again. Given that sense of continuity, the stories resonate at a muchdeeper level.  They assert their “story-ness.”

If you’re stuck for how to approach these brief stories, try the method. I think you’ll surprise yourself.

Ian Randall Wilson is the author of two story collections and the novella, Great Things Are Coming. His work has appeared in many journals including The Gettysburg Review and the North American Review.  His micro fiction stories have appeared in the Vestal Review and have been anthologized.  He is on the fiction faculty at the UCLA Extension where he teaches classes in the short story and the micro fiction story. He is writing a cell phone novel which can be found at: http://mobilenovel.blogspot.com.