Formula for disaster

He was your first creative writing teacher, who had not only admitted you to his class when you were a mere tenth grader, he habitually wore double-breasted suits. He took you across the street to the drug store lunch counter, expansively ordered a round of cherry Coke, and proclaimed with an emphasis that vibrates to this very day, "Formula. If you learn the formulas, you will have no trouble." He gave you his tattered copy of Stanley Vestal's Professional Writing, which, he assured you, would help you learn the formulas. For starters, he initiated you with the mantra, Shoot the sheriff in the first paragraph.

Sometime later, you'd heard of a remarkable writing teacher at Los Angeles City College. With the first of a series of forged documents that would thrust you through your late teens, you sneaked enrollment at City College, therein to forge your craft. If there is a gun mounted on the wall in Act One, the gun should go off at some time during the play, you were told. You were also told that Ibsen and Chekhov knew story.

A few years later, when you were at City College under your own steam, the same instructor wanted to know if he'd met you somewhere before. He was particularly insistent that you understand rising action and denouement. At the time, you were not the best speller. Learning denouement meant learning how to spell it.

At about the same time, with equally forged documents, you frequented the lounge of The Garden of Allah, a Sunset Strip version of a residential hotel, famous for F. Scott Fitzgerald shenanigans and an abundance of screen writers. With the typical assumed sang froid of a teen-ager attempting to pass, you ordered such potables as vodka collins, Pimm's Cup # 3, and at one point, B & B over ice, that is, until a man named Frank Fowler braced you with the incontrovertible fact that ordering such drinks was a fatal tell that you were under age. 

 From that point and for some time to come, you developed a taste for Jameson's and for either Old Rarity or Chivas Regal. "Never," he warned, "let me catch you drinking Seagram's Seven or Johnny Walker." Frank Fowler was operating on the forged documents of a pseudonym, having decided to call himself Borden (after the milk of Elsie fame) Chase (after the bank of bailout fame). He actually took the time to read a few of your things, giving you such helpful advice as reframing classic stories as he had reframed his most durable work, Red River. "Where the fuck," he asked, "do you think I got the idea for this story?" You waited a beat too long, hopeful for an impressive answer, which meant in those days a show-off answer. "It's fucking Mutiny on the Bounty," he said with triumph, "set on horseback." You will not do well in Hollywood, he said, until you learn how to copy and disguise the traces. In later years, you came to realize, having read much of his work, that he did considerably more than copy and disguise, but then, as you'd taken to vodka collinses and Pimm's Cups, you were sure that the future was paved with formula. Even though you could recite many of them, such as the formula for confessions (sin, suffer, and repent), of the formula for general fiction (a likable character struggles against great odds to achieve a worthwhile goal), you had the same problems with them that you had with geometry, back in high school. It was only when you had a tangible, practical use for geometry, such as designing books, that it made sense, an extrapolation you eventually took to heart in the way you came at story.

Formula for story is a kind of shorthand in which the observations of Aristotle's Poetics, which are copied and disguised. They are recipes, leading one in the right direction, toward a desired result, but after a life invaded by Chuck E. Cheese, McDonald's, Agatha Christie, and Motel6, you want to add your own ingredients.

"Not know the Confucian Odes?" Ezra Pound once suggested. "Then you cannot know poetry." When you showed this to a musician, he knew what you meant immediately. If you knew blues, you were launched into jazz.

From time to time, in a gathering, you meet up with Formula, and you wave but do not offer to shake hands.

To this day, the best formula for you is the one that goes, In a story, every character believes he is right.

The How and Why of the Synopsis

synopsis--a summary or abstract of a short story or novel; a compressed outline of the basic plot points and motivation; a guide to the behavior and attitudes of characters in a story.

A writer in search of a literary agent and/or publisher is still beset with a raging enthusiasm for the finished work. The writer wants to see the work in print, to know others, readers, will now have the opportunity to read it. Thus the first roadblock: said literary agent or publisher wants a synopsis--even if said publisher has already heard about the work in a pitch session, then encouraged its submission.

Why, the writer wonders, do they want a synopsis? Why not simply read the manuscript? The answer to these and other publishing-related questions are not rational. For instance, few individuals in publishing (writers included, by the way) have risen through the ranks to at least a journeyman level. Many in publishing have come from business-related areas, their degrees actually MBAs instead of, say, MFA. It is true that acquisitions editors should be able to determine the inherent value of a manuscript, and indeed, many of them can, but there is another truth at play here, which is that the editor has to produce the prospectus for the work before--in most cases--the work goes to the contract stage. In theory, the editor could write the synopsis. In further theory, it might make sense for the editor to do so because the synopsis would reflect the editor's enthusiasm for the work.

In fact, the author is the better person to write the synopsis because the author's intent and enthusiasm emerges, and because the author, however much given to grumbling about the chore of the synopsis, is more likely to produce an emotionally charged work than the editor or literary agent. Look at it this way: Even though you hate writing synopses and can see no purpose for them, who better than you is there to synopsize your novel?

Onward to the outline: Get some practice. Start by writing fifty- and a hundred word abstracts of short stories. Pick two out of any best-of-the-year collections, settling on one you like and one you don't. You're already halfway to the goal because the stories in either of the three major best-of collections have appeared in prestigeous publications, their validity ratified by a number of critics. Your own sense of liking or not liking particular works allows you to see what the critics may have seen, while offering you the opportunity to disagree with their choices.

After you have the hang of abstracting a shorter work, take a look at the Books Briefly Noted section of any issue of the New Yorker (which covers fiction and nonfiction). Next, take a longer work that is not your own, then imagine yourself attacking a similar hundred- to hundred-fifty-word critical apercu. Now you're almost ready to begin.

First step: decide who the principal teller of the story (point of view) will be. If there is more than one narrator, make a note of all. If there is only one narrator, put the initails POV in parens after that individual's name the first time the character is cited. For instance, "Mary (POV) was adopted when she was one year old." If there are other narrators, allow a speace break between Mary and the next narrator, say Fred.

Thus, "Fred (POV) is her older brother, adopted previous to Mary's adoption."

Next step is to introduce what the novel is about, what its primary goal is. Example: "Mary wants to learn the identity and locale of her biological parents." Note how this is done in the present tense regardless of the usage in the actual text of the novel.

The next step is to introduce some potential for early disagreement or outright opposition. "Fred knows who his biological parents were and where they live. He does not want Mary to learn either fact."

Now we have opposition and some conflict, which may demonstrated with: "Although Mary loves and respects her adoptive parents, Fred, relishing the big brother role, is constantly taunting Mary by questioning her loyalty and devotion to her adoptive parents.

The conventional pattern for the synopsis is to keep it at about three single-spaced pages, but this brings us to a fork in the road regarding the ending. Some synopsis writers "end" the summary with the lead-in to the climactic scene, where the tensions and pressures weigh heavily on the characters and they must face some kind of decisive action. How specific must the ending be? Is it possible to keep the reader(s) of the synopsis in suspense with mere outline and occasional bits of dialogue? On the other hand, if the final confrontation/denouement is left unresolved, won't the literary agent or publisher "have" to read the entire manuscript to see the ending?

This is a critical point for all concerned. If the outcome is too detailed, the writer may be stuck with that ending because the editor will have been sold on it ending that way. If the ending is not rendered with enough detail, the editor may become put off, not trusting the author. Thus the trick is to tell just enough to allow the editor to infer what happens, yet continue to hold the editor curious enough to want to read it all the way through to relish the details.

Knowing all this lead-up background, think of the synopsis this way: Your book will be taken on by a publisher, printed, bound, sent forth to appropriate reviewers and subsidiary rights agents, along with several thousands of other titles, there to compete in the metaphorical crowded drawing room that is a book store. Someone will provide Wikipedia and possibly even Amazon dot com with a description of your book, possibly even spoiling the ending to the point of obviating the reader's need to see how things worked out. Your synopsis can get there first, influencing how your novel will be seen.

Repeat slowly: Synopses are not nuisances, they are incentives. Synopses are not...

4

denouement--the stage in a story directly before the resolution begins; moments in a story when the protagonist appears to be overwhelmed by conditions and forces contrary to the main goal and relevant interests; the equivalent point in a prose narrative of the end of act two in the three-act play format.

The denouement is the critical zenith in a story where the outcome is uncertain, although the clues and prompts leading to its resolution have been set into the narrative. Taking the Latin and French origins of the word into consideration, denouement is literally the unknotting of complications and obstacles. Now removed or ameliorated to sufficient degree, the ending can be set in place. The next questions become, will the resolution please the characters and if so, how do they show it?

Denouement in novels is more detailed than the resolution of a short story; there is more at stake in a novel and some change in attitude, fortune, and world view are often considered necessities by readers. For better or worse, Charles Dickens felt the need to return to his memorable novel, Great Expectations, changing the attitudes and worldviews of two of the major characters.


edge--a feeling of resentment, impatience, or frustration resident within a character, causing that individual to respond accordingly and in unconventional ways; a resident nature inherent in a character that seems to nudge or shove that character into action; a notable impatience with the status quo. Edgy characters are not necessarily negative, merely wanting to do something about a circumstance, condition, or situation. The presence of edge in a character is an implicit promise of heightened responses and activity to the reader and to other characters.

Wizard of Oz, The--an ideal narrative to examine for its thoughtful inclusion of basic elements supportive of story integrity. There is never any doubt of the answer to the question, Whose story is it? (Dorothy Gale) There is no doubt about the goal or prize of the story. (For Dorothy to return home.) The obstacles are laid out carefully before Dorothy, and the discovery she makes (the Wizard is a good-natured humbug) is a learning experience, as is the awareness, There's no place like home.

characters--the individuals in dramatic narratives about whom the story revolves; persons who by their actions and responses to events drive the story beyond its point of engagement, toward a resolution.

Front-rank characters are protagonists, those who cause things to happen; and antagonists, those whose agendas collide with and oppose the protagonists. Messenger characters are those who bring information on stage, anything from "The red coats are coming," to a "Guess who the high school hunk has a crush on." Pivotal characters are present as backup and support for the protagonists and antagonists, possibly switching sides during the course of the story. Exemplary characters appear to have things happen to them that serve as warnings or examples to the protagonists and antagonists. In a teen-aged romance, an exemplary character becomes pregnant and serves as a warning to the protagonist. In a mystery novel, an individual from the same organization as a front-rank character is found murdered, making the front-rant character fear now for his life.

Characters at all levels come on stage with some degree of expectation, which will effect the agenda and vocabulary the writer uses in dealing with the character, the way the character speaks and behaves. Even the lowest-level walk on has some agenda, even if it is just to get home. All characters come on stage having just been where they were previously, imparting a history of behavior and, thus, a greater reality to the reader and to the other characters. Accordingly, shadow characters are those whom the writer needs merely to open a door, clean a room, deliver a pizza, or get a signature for a package. The shadow character may be on stage for a matter of seconds, but may come to visible life with the difference in a verb.

All characters have some features, the front-rank characters having the biggest tool kit. Important hint: giving any character too many details, whether descriptive or motivational, signals the reader to expect a greater role from that character. Thus the details for each character should be thought out during revision, then managed carefully.

I Have Said It Thrice

"Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried,
As he landed his crew with care;
Supporting each man on the top of the tide
By a finger entwined in his hair.
"Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:
What I tell you three times is true."
The Hunting of the Snark
Lewis Carroll


Being the person I am, tidal in nature, certainly as mercurial as my September birth would indicate astrologically, I would nevertheless try to give as concrete, earth-bound answer as I could were you to ask me if I knew where, at a given moment, I was. High probability of an I-don't know answer, equally high chance of exact coordinates or some similar sense of exactitude. Almost no chance you'd get an it-all-depends answer. Travel with me has certain risks involved. If you are the sort who insists on knowing your destination and arrival time in advance, whether the travel is automotive, ambulatory,or in such literary excursions as essay or story, we are probably going to experience certain friction.

I am most likely to stop and ask for directions if involved in a story, proportionately less likely if engaged in an essay, bordering on surly if forced in real life to ask. Previously involved closely in the lives of three Blue Tick Hounds (the second-best nose in dogdom), and currently partnered with Sally, a compact mix of Aussie Cattle Dog and Aussie Shepherd, I have come to recognize the ease with which scent hounds become distracted, drawn off task as they say, by an interesting smell. My own life has become a fond imitation, drawing me off the lesser scents to the scents less traveled.

Accordingly, I have been drawn off scent by such recent distractions as denouement and roman a clef, finding myself drawn even farther afield by blog chum Marta's meme for willing suspension of belief, our collective token tossed into the collection bin at the phantom toll booth we have come to think of as story.

In the real sense, story is an impossible construct, a hopeless and helpless bystander to the formulas of quantum physics, those no-nonsense depictions of how things behave in the universe, how they combine or not, how they influence or do not, where they go, how much they weigh, and what they'll do if cornered. From observation, we know a certain amount about how our species and others will behave in many situations, but not all situations. The quantum persons are working on articulating how it all began, a seemingly impossible story to articulate, which makes the comparison between story and physics formula lass tenuous than it might seem.

Story is a systematic accumulation of cultural and mythic data, personified, placed in the laboratory beaker of the imagination, and subjected to the heat of conflict, tension, suspense, and agenda. The storyteller applies enough heat to cause combustion, then reports the results. My chum and collaborator Digby Wolfe visualizes the dramatic big bang as a riddle:


"The core [or plot ] of the riddle should be cleverness – hiding that which is in plain sight.

The tension of your riddle should come from the conflict between what happens as opposed to what seems to have happened."

We begin the process of buying into the riddle--suspending disbelief--when the individuals involved become human enough and vulnerable enough to cause us to feel--repeat, feel--concern for them, to become curious, even worried about what will happen to them. Rational, scientific, practical as we are, we want to push the boundaries of physical behavior on their behalf, extending our own wish to supplement with magic our impatient desire to cause things to happen or to withstand impending events on our own behalf.

And there it goes; we're in. To a degree, we're more than in; we're in love, we're smart, we're powerful. In the accelerated process of identification with characters and rooting for them, we experience the sensual thrill of running, swimming, moving briskly and efficiently through more than air and water; we move instead through obstacles, limitations, problems, physical and mental conundrums.

Only one problem: we have to give our fantasy legs, make it seem do-able, bring the miracle from the macro to the micro, and the starting point, the big bang for this process is to feel the inherent life and possibility of our fantasy with such clarity that we are able for just enough time to see the miracle in everything.

The Key

There are a number of keys to be found in my desk, most of which have a purpose I readily remember, but among my trove there is a key that unlocks no recognition or memory whatsoever.

There are two basic approaches to cleaning house, the guilt-driven approach, which is perfunctory in nature, usually involving a quick vacuum and shifting piles of newspapers and magazines from one room to another; and the writing approach, which is more intense and thorough as the writer considers the implications of the current writing problem and accordingly processes or denies it.

I was in the latter, methodically cleaning my desk, when I came upon the key. Still no clue, and so I moved it to another room, which is a step taken toward discarding it entirely, avoiding future embarrassments of recognition.

The image of the key has remained however to trigger by association its literary association the roman a clef, which is the second of two French words having literary significance. The other, of course, is denouement or unknotting, a term we learn early on in our attempts to claim the more formal tools of writing fiction for our own toolkit.

Roman a clef is a novel with a key, meaning that the characters and incidents are slightly changed but not so much that knowledgeable readers will mistake the intent that they relate to real persons in real situations. In recent years the roman a clef has been given the wax job of cynicism whereby its contents must be truer than the biography because the identity and circumstances needed to be altered.

One of the more famous of romans a clef is Summerset Maugham's The Moon and Six Pence in which the Maugham character Charles Strickland bears more than passing similarity to the post-impressionist painter Paul Gauguin. It is a compelling enough story although far from the polished technique of other Maugham novels and, particularly, the gem-like hardness and clarity of his short fiction. Nor does it compare well to another Maugham roman a clef, Cakes and Ale, which takes its title from a memorable line in Twelfth Night. Cakes and Ale, which Maugham stoutly denied was based on real people and real events, is argued to be an accounting of the final years of the poet and novelist Thomas Hardy, his widow, and her subsequent romantic liaison with another novelist, Horace Walpole, best described as the Tom Clancy of his day. The Walpole-like character was mercilessly skewered, rendered as a feckless bumbler, and by indirection the widow of the late great novelist was added to the shiskebab skewer, her taste in taking up with such a man placing her somewhere between the onions and tomatoes. The matter actually came before an English court, which found Maugham's protestations interesting, given that there was another character in the novel, a medical doctor named William Ashenden, who spoke with a stutter, walked with a limp. Maugham, you see, had a medical degree, spoke with a slight stutter, and walked with a slight limp. Maugham also went on to write a novel called Ashenden, or The Secret Agent. Maugham was known to have had a deep reverence for Thomas Hardy. Thus the delicious gossip and speculation attendant on the roman a clef.

Another of my favorite romans a clef is Aldous Huxley's Chrome Yellow, in which one of the important characters, Mark Rampion, rings true to Huxley's friend, D. H. Lawrence, while another character bears comparison to John Middleton Murry. Scott Fitzgerald's Tender Is the Night is widely recognized as a prism refracting the lives of two of Fitzgerald's expatriate friends, Gerald and Sara Murphy, and I still recall one of my undergraduate professors at UCLA inducing me to read the novels of Thomas Love Peacock because they contained so much, as he put it, delicious and accurate scandal. In my dear friend Barnaby Conrad's novel, Matador, the protagonist, Pacote, bears an eerie resemblance to the famed Spanish torero, Manolete. Indeed, Conrad and Manolete were friends. Yet another UCLA prof, knowing of my interest in Hawthorne, urged me to read The Blythedale Romance in order to get a sense of the individuals with whom Hawthorne lived and worked while in residence at the Utopian society called Brook Farm.

True enough, the roman a clef is a kind of historical core sampling. I first picked up and read Robert Penn Warren's All the Kings Men knowing it was based on the legendary Louisiana populist, Huey Long, thinking to get flavor rather than actual fact, because at that time I was more interested in flavor than actual fact.

The point I raise here begins in the form of a rhetorical question: Don't we all write romans a clef at some point in our career? We pull characters in from the sidewalks of our memory, subjecting them to casting calls as we prepare the dramatis personae of our novels and short stories, luxuriating in the convenience of being able to borrow a trait from one character, add it to the physique of another, and the ethnicity or lack thereof in yet another. We reset frustrating events in our life so that there is no longer the frustration of missed opportunity but rather instead the challenge foaming forth from met expectations. We return to fond memories, sometimes those involving persons no longer alive, rewriting them with the same tantivy we used in signaling a bartender for another round at some magical gathering. Years after the fact, I set down convivial events in a variety of places, but so many of them really began in The Old Spaghetti Factory and Excelsior Coffee House on Green near Grant in San Francisco, or in the Brass Rail on C Street in Virginia City, Nevada. Having got their essence to my liking, I lift them out of time and place and context and place them where they will do me the most good, in my current work, with a quick nod to the real individuals and events and places of the past.

Roman a clef. Novel with a key. The key opens the door to the inner landscape where all truth had its big bang at the moment of the individual writer's birth, spinning, expanding ever outward toward a common human destiny.