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Theme and Irony Working Together

This week I read two articles that touch on two different concepts; however, both articles offer guidance on how to trim and focus my work in progress.

In the March issue of The Writer, author Terry Bain* discusses a step by step approach to finding the theme in your story. He mirrors my past (green writer) inclinations, when he says he thought his stories were finished and ready for publication, because they sounded good. For me, I always thought a story that flowed well and told a good tale was good enough. But, like Terry Bain, no one was falling over anyone else to publish my early works.

Terry Bain suggests, maybe those stories were missing a central focus, a theme. He says a writer can start a story with a theme in mind, but the writer may do better to let the story unfold and discover the theme later.

I’m a writer; I know about theme. But, it is a piece of the puzzle I tend to ignore. Typically, theme isn’t the spark that ignites my stories (except if I’m writing on Wednesdays), but it is one concept I should hold onto right now as I rework my novel.

Theme is not to be confused with plot, which moves a story forward. Terry Bain says, theme can “shine [a] flashlight on some aspect of life.” A theme doesn’t give the reader answers to world-wide problems, but it does provide another way for the reader to connect with the story.

He also says, “…knowing your theme…helps you make key decisions about what to keep and what not to keep,” and he offers some questions and suggestions to help an author clarify the theme and refine the story:

  • “Do the characters’ actions imply any universal truths?”
  • “What made you write this story in the first place?”
  • “Watch for repeated words or images. Or words and passages that strike you as particularly poignant.”
  • “Try to simplify your ideas into a few simple words.”

His last suggestion leads me straight into the next great article I read this week on The Sharp Angle.

Lydia Sharp wrote a post on Irony that complements much of what I read from Terry Bain. Lydia Sharp, however, suggests finding focus in your story via a one sentence pitch, a sentence that incorporates irony.

“[I]rony,” she says, “is a writer’s best friend.” If a well-crafted sentence contains irony, the writer can reveal the complete story and hook the reader at the same time. And, that well-crafted sentence becomes crucial when the author approaches an agent.

“The irony shows the potential for an engaging story, no matter what the story is about. Without that clear potential, good luck finding someone to take an interest in your work, let alone represent it or publish it.”

I’m not ready to pitch my story. But, I want this rewrite to move along with a little more ease. Theme and Irony might be two key concepts to keep in my mind’s forefront.

If you haven’t read Terry Bain’s article, pick it up. And, if you haven’t seen Lydia Sharp’s post, click on over. I’d love to know your thoughts and hear about your experiences. Do you start your stories with a theme and a one-sentence pitch? Or do you write the story first, then flesh out the point?

________________

* Bain, Terry. “Theme is What Unifies Your Story.” The Writer. Mar. 2010: 21-23, 55 . Print.

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Writing with Tunnel Vision

For various reasons, I slowed down a bit with my NaNoWriMo novel this weekend. The decision to take a mini-break was easy, since this year’s NaNoWriMo experience has felt, in some ways, like I’m trudging through six inches of mud. I’m making progress, but it’s slow and sticky and I keep getting stuck.

I turned to Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones again and flipped through my December issue of The Writer magazine. In both the book and the magazine, I found crucial tips or guidelines – or maybe even rules of the trade – that I often miss when I write, whether it’s for NaNoWriMo or just in general.

In The Writer, I saw myself as I read Mary Miller’s “A Case for Plot.” She starts out by saying she never cared much for plot, because she “believed that in order for things to happen in [her] stories, they had to be happening in [her] life.” Like Mary Miller, I keep my life as level as I can, because I, too, am a lover of structure and routine. I prefer logical steps to accomplish any goal and minimal risks. But, when I write with my idiosyncrasies and philosophies in the forefront of my mind, I make it difficult to allow a character in a story to take action or risks.

For instance, in the first 10,000 words of my current NaNoWriMo draft, my main character observes way too much of life’s happenings from behind a window, either the kitchen window or the living room window. Maybe that’s her thing, her own idiosyncrasy. Or, maybe that’s more of me seeing the story through my limited vision.

Maybe my main character would rather step outside and press her nose up against the neighbors window, be more forthright in her snooping. I, myself, wouldn’t be quite so daring. I tend to hide behind the edge of a curtain or to open the slit of the blinds just a smidgen. But, that’s me. I’m only the writer. If I reconsider my main character in her own right, then maybe, as Mary Miller puts it, my main character will “step in and do something, or I’ll get to know her better and her lack of action will feel like a choice instead of just passivity.”

Natalie Goldberg’s chapters “Be Specific” and “Big Concentration,” complement Mary Miller’s article. First, Natalie Goldberg suggests we name things, like a specific flower or a tree, when we write. In naming an object with more specificity, “it takes us closer to the ground. It takes the blur out of our mind” (p. 70). Rather than show the reader a moment in a story from a general distance, naming things keeps the reader present, in the exact moment, and makes the experience more realistic. Second, Natalie Goldberg suggests we widen our concentration on a character and add environmental clues, like a sentence about the temperature or a background noise or even the color of the sky. In this way, we remind ourselves, and our readers, that “the universe moves with us, is at our back with everything we do” (p. 72). It all sounds simple, so simple that I forget to do it.

Each time I force my main character to stay behind the kitchen window (because that’s what I would do) and look straight across the yard to the neighbor’s kitchen window, I isolate her. I force the reader to decipher a story through tunnel vision, and I shortchange the experience. If, instead, I let my main character open up the front door, get hit by a brisk night air, sneak under the dark shadow of a large oak tree, and let goosebumps rise up on her arms, the reader has more to consider and is more vested in the story.  Are the goosebumps from the night chill? Or, are they in anticipation of what she might see once she climbs the front steps and presses her nose up against the cold, glass pane?

Tomorrow, I will have a little more time to spend on the story. By pushing my writer-self to the side and by widening my character’s perspective, I hope to travel easier along the plot line.

***

Goldberg, Natalie. Writing Down the Bones. Boston, MA: Shambhala Publications, Inc., 1986. Print.
Miller, Mary. “A Case for Plot.” The Writer Dec. 2009: 15-16. Print.

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To Draw or Not to Draw

A week ago, I sat down with the first draft of my novel and started an official re-write. I didn’t just talk about it or think about it. I actually moved things around and added content where content was due. Since then, I turned to other pieces of writing with more critical deadlines and managed to get a hefty cold. So, the rewrite sits. And, waits.

In that week’s time, however, I received my November issue of The Writer, in which several authors focus on the art of developing a sense of place in a story. Phillip Martin (in “Power Your Story with a Sense of Place”) emphasizes that “[p]lace influences stories far more than many writers realize.” It can make or break a story. Linda Lappin (in her article, “See with Fresh Eyes”) suggests creating a “deep map” of a neighborhood to draw material for a story.

Jennifer Neri recently posted about people in landscape, where several writers commented on the art of describing a place. But, Phillip Martin and Linda Lappin seem to imply more than just good, vivid descriptions of a setting for a scene. I’ve heard of authors who map out a whole city where a story takes place. Some draw or paint pictures of a character’s dwelling. For my story, so far, I have a vision of the apartment where my main character lives, but I’ve yet to put the image down on paper. And, I don’t have a city map that mirrors how the story unfolds.

What’s your tactic? Does every story need an intricate and detailed layout of floor plans and elevations and street maps? Do you sketch your images in a notebook separate from the one with character development and story time lines?

I love to draw -my friends say I’ve developed quite a style in the stick figure arena. I’m curious, though, as to how much time an author should spend on creating a visual sense of place versus time spent on developing the story itself?