January, 2013
Cynical Reader or Unconvincing Character?
Allow me, if I may, to put on my reader-hat for a moment. See, there’s this thing that happens sometimes when I’m reading, and I’m not sure if it’s me or the book.
“Sorry, book, it’s not you. It’s me.” Ugh. Good thing books can’t throw their readers across the room.
It’s a little hard to describe. I’m reading along, enjoying the story well enough, even liking the side characters, but there’s something about the protagonist.
I don’t believe her.
(Yes, it pretty much always happens to be a female protagonist. Maybe that’s more for me to ponder.)
Not like I think she’s lying, not directly. But what she’s trying to be or supposed to be doesn’t feel real. Not to me. And that’s where I’m not sure if it’s me or her (or rather, her author).
The verdict might vary by book. Sometimes it might really be me and my cynical side getting in the way. Maybe that keeps me from being open to certain traits coinciding. That wouldn’t surprise me.
Sometimes, though, I think it might be a weakness in how the character’s written. Here’s a fairly common manifestation: Female MC is stubborn and insists on being self-reliant. Hates getting help from anyone.
That’s all well and good, and plenty of YA heroines these days fit that description. It doesn’t always fly believably, though, and I think sometimes it’s because the author shoehorns those traits into the character. The author wants a character like that, because who doesn’t love an independent female who isn’t afraid to butt heads with other people?
Wanting that kind of character and creating one are two different things. It can’t be pasted on top of everything else the character is. Pasting is for flat objects. Who the character is needs to be pervasive, leaking through in moments that seemingly have nothing to do with that aspect of them.
With my writer-hat back on, how does one accomplish that?
That’s a post for another day. If you have ideas, please share.
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1 commentKids, Don’t Apologize for Making Me Do My Job
The other day, my ninth graders were working on a review assignment. Mostly independent, or working through with friends, while I circulated to help out.
These were mostly things we’d learned between Thanksgiving and Christmas, so it was a little tricky to remember some of the concepts. Not a problem. That was the point of reviewing.
In more than one class, a student or two got to the fourth or fifth question they’d asked me and prefaced with this:
“Sorry.”
Sorry to bother me? Sorry I had to weave through rearranged desks to get to them? Sorry they had so many questions?
Well, at least one said it was the last one. “Sorry, I have a lot of questions.”
Mind-boggling, from my perspective.
I guess there are teachers who prefer that their students work in silence while the teacher sits at their desk and does their own thing. And okay, I admit, there are days when I’m exhausted and sitting down sounds really nice.
But like I said to my students … “What are you apologizing for? Why do you think I’m here?”
Helping students is what makes teaching fun. Seeing them piece things together until they understand. It’s certainly not about hearing myself lecture from the front of the room.
If you have kids, make sure they know they should never feel like they have to apologize for asking a teacher to do her job.
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2 commentsBeing a Benevolent World-Builder
There are a lot of amazing things about being a novelist—things that make the tough parts worth it. The joy of bringing characters to life, torturing them because we can … in worlds we create.
Talk about power.
Sometimes, though, we get carried away with that power. We name and define enough flora and fauna to cover the planet twice over. We develop a 700-year history of the monarchy. We formulate scientific theories to support complex technology that all runs on algae.
That’s great. Fill reams of paper or gigabytes on your hard drive with every nuanced detail. Go for it.
The problem comes if we throw it at the reader … all of it.
Don’t get me wrong. I love a fully realized world. And I hate one that doesn’t have enough detail, lacks internal consistency, and just doesn’t feel real. But having that fleshed-out world as a foundation doesn’t mean we have to spell it all out within the manuscript. If we do all the hard labor of working it out behind the scenes, it can seep naturally into the story.
Some details do deserve to make the page and add to the narrative. Personally, there are a couple of situations where I feel it’s worth the word count to detail things in.
It’s News to Me. This is pretty typical in speculative fiction genres. The protagonist enters a new country/society/galaxy/dimension. Everything will be new, so some detailing is only natural. In these situations, I always ask myself what my MC would notice first, and what would get glossed over until they’re in deeper.
It’s a Matter of Life or Death. Okay, maybe not that extreme. But I’m talking about aspects of world-building that are pertinent—even critical—in that particular moment. Make sure the diversion into explanation or description is properly motivated.
I’m Right and You’re Wrong. This can be a fun one. Character #1 says, “Let’s do ____ to accomplish this goal.” Character #2 says, “You’re a moron, that’ll never work!” #1: “Yes it will. If we ____, ____, and ____, then ____ will happen.” #2: “No way. Nuh-uh. The ______ of the ____ will never ____ _____ _____ ….” And so on. Hopefully done more artfully than that, but you get the idea. When there are legitimate differing views on how something in the world operates, that can be a decent time to work in some specifics.
I’m sure there are other situations and a variety of factors that can play into how much is too much and what approach is best. Some genres expect world-building to be handled a particular way. Some readers can drink in pages of geography and political history, while others will skim (if they don’t just give up on the book altogether).
And who says it’s just the sci-fi/fantasy spectrum that world-builds? Historical fiction may call on a setting we have some passing familiarity with, but it has to make it real just the same. Just about any novel has to establish at least a microcosm of a fictional world.
For myself, the sign of great world-building is when I don’t notice it happening. Whether through description, dialogue, or more subtle means, I experience it and live in the world.
Do you have pet-peeves when it comes to world-building? Tips for pulling it off smoothly? I’d love to hear them.