Do the Endings Justify the Meanness?

ending--the point at which a dramatic narrative delivers its payoff emotion; characters in a story being led from a precipitous brink to a more comfortable landing spot; the arrival at an offered solution to the major dramatic issue.

As in all events where humans are involved, story endings are at best temporary because one or more of the characters involved will quickly become caught up in another strand of activity--even if it is only a return to some old conviction, habit, or pattern, where a new chapter will begin. Ending is a sense that things are over for the moment. At the final curtain of Hamlet, with so many of the dramatis personae dead, only Fortinbras and Horatio are left to deal with the energy of the previous activities, but just as playwright Tom Stoppard saw possibilities for a spin-off in which Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern had their own show, Horatio could challenge Fortinbras after his final tribute to Hamlet, working himself up to wonder why Fortinbras hadn't done anything sooner, to which Fortinbras could have wondered a similar wonder to Horatio, whereupon the two would get into the exchange of blows and a sequel to Hamlet would have been in the making. Huck Finn could have done quite nicely in the territory ahead, but Tom Sawyer, fed up with the heavy responsibilities of family life, civic affiliations, and the weight of The Social Contract heavy on his shoulders, could have come looking for Huck and, once again, became caught up in Huck's life style.

Endings are a sign to the reader that things are over for now--not necessarily solved, but done until the next defining moment settles upon the characters.

Reminder: not ending soon enough may produce anticlimax.


layer--a stratum or single element manifest within a story; a subplot, thematic, or character-related motif found in a dramatic narrative.

Stories, even shorter ones, tend to have more than one layer of activity accompanying the main thrust of the story, perhaps extending to a remote past or possibly not quite as recent as the present moment. Layering often takes form in the interaction between two or more characters, relying on attitudes related to past experience or experiences between them. Results from conflicting or disappointed expectations among characters may also add layers of complexity to a narrative.

The conventional wisdom for layering holds each tier responsible for some enhancement of story line (plot), character development, subtext, or an enhancement of theme.

Thus may a story be seen as an archaeological dig in which the reader discovers more about the individuals involved in the narrative, their social make-up, artifacts, and attitudes as each layer is excavated. In general, plot-driven stories tend to have fewer layers than literary, but as with all generalities related to story, the writer must take care not to be driven by them to the point where imagination and inventiveness are overridden.

Goal-oriented Charactrers, Loitering with Intent

goal--a desired achievement or destination for a character; an ability, excellence of performance, or arrival at status desired and striven for by a participant in a story; recognition or reward for performance.

Goals cover a wide variety of targets, a reminder that their very existence imparts attitudes and judgments about those who strive; in story, they are particularly visible in their absence. Characters need goals to gain admission into the terrain of story; a character who wants nothing or who says he has everything he wants needs to either reconsider or get used to an undramatic life. In Walter Tevis' The Hustler, Fast Eddie Felson set for his goal being acknowledged as the best pool hustler in America. Eric Stoner wants to be the best draw poker player in Richard Jessup's novel, The Cincinnati Kid. Becky Sharp wanted to rise up the social ranks in William Makepeace Thackeray's Vanity Fair; Dorothy Gale wants to get home in L. Frank Baum's The Wizard of Oz. All of these goals completely recognizable, primal in their nature.

A character with a goal is a character that readers can root for or against, either option being a method for drawing the reader into the story and its outcome. The reader may be overwhelmed by Ahab's goal of revenge upon the whale, but certainly the implications of Ahab's vendetta propel the reader deeper into the murky consequences of Moby-Dick. Similarly, the reader of Les Miserable is drawn along by Inspector Jaivert's obsessive goal of returning Jean Valjean to prison, while Caspar Gutman's goal of securing the alleged riches of the statue in The Maltese Falcon sets a swirl and eddy of consequences that cause murder, duplicity, and betrayal.

Goal is the capstone of story. What do the characters want? What are they willing to do to get what they want?


intent--dramatic inertia; a character's plan to perform or not perform a specific act; the desire or need to do or not do a specific thing.

All characters come on stage with some form of intent, which is either abetted, challenged, ignored, misunderstood, shunted/deflected, producing a spectrum of possible responses which will either become apparent or submerged in subtext. Without intent, the character's dramatic purpose is left undefined. One character may intend staying at a party only for a few moments, another may come with the intent of seeing another character, yet another may intend to ask a particular favor of a particular person known to be attending the party.

What happens if the character's intentions are blunted or overcome or perhaps shift because of some surprise or reversal? For the writer, knowing a character's intent in a particular scene or situation is similar to broadcasting an aura about that individual, an aura that contacts and collides with the intentions of other characters.

See agenda.

Stand and Deliver

emotion--a feeling or combination of sensations which lead to a mood or an attitude; the result of events, stimuli, and interactions; possible results of memory, thought, or association which may be pleasing, distasteful, or ominous.

Emotions are triggered by experience, whether the result of direct action, contemplation, or analogy. These sensory and perhaps sensual results are among the principal goals to be achieved in story; a story that does not evoke emotion is placing itself in the metaphorical third balcony, some distance away from the performance.

The fact of a reader seeing or understanding the intended emotional content is not sufficient; the reader is entitled by having read the story to feel the resident emotional tones.


rejection--an arbitrary condition arising when a publisher declines an offered work; a situation wherein a writer loses enthusiasm for a project and either shelves or discards it; a work that has been denied entry for idiosyncratic, judgmental, or technical reasons. The experiential sense achieved by an author that certain publications, publishing individuals, and random other individuals are not moved by his work. An author, editor, or publisher in a state of denial.

It is the rare writer who has no experience with having a work refused, either in terms of representation by a literary agent or publication from an editorial representative of a publishing venture; rarer yet is the writer who has had no work returned with a memo of notes for revision. Rarest of all is the writer who has not of his or her own accord set a manuscript aside as being unworkable or uninteresting. All these are examples of rejection. Similarly, a note from a publisher's representative expressing great admiration for a work but nevertheless returning it because of its thematic resemblance to a recently published work is still rejection. A note from a publisher accompanying a rejected manuscript and as well inviting the writer to submit more work is--rejection.

An author, standing in a book store while watching a prospective reader pick up his or her book, thumb through several pages, then set the book back on the shelf, is witnessing rejection of yet another sort.

"There are fifteen types of rejection in connection with writing," Santa Barbara Writers' Conference Director, Barnaby Conrad said, addressing an auditorium filled with attendees. From the voluminous depths of his blazer pocket, he produced an index card from which he was about to read examples, but before he was able to begin, a voice from the rear boomed, "Sixteen."

Ever the polite one, Conrad smiled, nodded. "As I was saying, there are fifteen specific types of rejection." Squinting at the index card for a moment, he continued. "The first instance of rejection is when a writer submits a manuscript electronically or by postal mail and it is subsequently rejected."

Once again the voice from the rear of the auditorium blared forth. "Seventeen!"

Rejection is a living presence in every writer's calculus; even if the writer were to forswear submissions, it could be successfully argued that the writer was rejecting himself. Responses to rejection vary from anger to mild annoyance to conspiracy theory; all of these conditions may or may not be justified but they may all produce the side effect of listening to and agreeing with the Inner Critic, the symptoms of which prevent the writer from writing.

There probably are successful writers who believe their abilities have evolved enough; they accordingly do not worry about becoming better at their craft. The greater number of writers burn off considerable calories with concern about their developmental progress. This is as it should be.

Some letters or notes of rejection address flaws as seen by the rejector. Unless you, the writer, see some way to enhance the effectiveness of the work, or unless a particular editor offers publication of your work if a specific change is effected, a four-letter Latin word, common to publishing, obtains. Stet. Let it stand.

For Openers

opening velocity--momentum and pacing of events surrounding characters as a story moves into dramatic inertia; the conditions, forces, and desires resident in characters which become apparent to readers at the onset of dramatic narrative; the tipping point between stasis and story.

Life before the story begins is static; as some animals are said to sense the beginnings of earth quakes, readers begin to sense the arrival of story into the stasis of characters, become concerned for their safety or curious to see how the characters will respond to conditions that have long baffled or taunted the readers. Opening velocity is the gathering of inertia that propels the story forward into its labyrinth of reversals, regrouping, and subsequent plans.

How to achieve it in a functional matter? Try an unexpected discovery, or the delivery of an intractable deadline, or some likable character being given an odious choice, or some unlikable character being given a choice; any event or series of events that produce a consequence that may be felt on an emotional level.

Opening velocity is not always achieved in a first draft, but during the revision process may emerge from within the text. Several prolific authors (Louis L'Amour, Frank Gruber, Ray Bradbury) are quotable on their variations on the theme of ways beginning writers tend to start their stories too soon.

More often than not, successful opening velocity comes with a character on the cusp of recognition of a potential problem. One immediate variation resides in the character proceeding to ignore the problem, another variation is seen in the character over reacting, while yet another has the character under reacting.

The experienced reader is used to eighteenth-, nineteenth-, and twentieth-century conventions in story beginnings, is respectful of them, and may even have a preference for an older, seemingly more leisurely build up to the events that define the conditions of a story and provide clues to its outcome.

As a novelist, Thomas Hardy fell on the cusp of the nineteenth and twentieth century, easing the longform story toward modernity. Most if not all his novels begin on a country road, where one or more characters move along a landscape on their way to some event or condition, allowing the reader to become gradually immersed in Hardy's social, ethical, and conflict-laden scenery. A splendid example is The Mayor of Casterbridge, which is extremely slow-starting by twenty-first century standards, but which remains one of the most stunning openings of all time. Nevertheless, a twenty-first century version of the same novel could become equally effective simply by rearranging the chronology to the point where one of the front-rank characters, Michael Henchard, was already the mayor of Casterbridge, a well-loved politician with a secret--the secret of the original opening chapter--that would not be revealed until later.

The modern story more often than not begins in the present moment, long enough to define its characters through their behavior and goals before pausing to spoon in background.


degree of intimacy--the extent of awareness and connection between characters; an implicit or explicit recognition between characters of status, a recognition available as well to the reader. Characters who are childhood friends, college room mates, lovers have a greater awareness of the details each in the life of the other, have shared experiences, a mutual understanding of likes, dislikes, philosophies, etc. Such characters will speak in a kind of shorthand, where common experiences need not be explained. It is unlikely that Mary, married to John for ten years, will serve John a steak for dinner, knowing he is a vegan. This scenario obviates the narrative strain of John saying, "As you know, Mary, I do not eat meat." On the other hand, there is some opportunity for dramatic energy were the same vegan John to come home hungry after a day at work, only to see a steak on his plate. "Are you," John might say with a touch of irony, "making some sort of statement here?"

Strangers are more tentative and reserved with one another, although a character might properly betray suspicion toward a complete stranger who affects great concern or loyalty.

Imagine yourself on the receiving end of a telemarketing call, being greeted by a complete stranger, called by your first name, then asked how you are feeling today. Your immediate suspicion is that the individual wants you to buy something, wants you to donate to some cause, or wants you to buy a relatively useless object from which sale the profits will to to some charity.

Characters behave and speak toward one another according to their agendas, their degree of intimacy, their expectations. Characters respond to strangers in accordance with their social prejudices, their ambitions, their cautiousness until they have a better sense of who and what the stranger is.

Take Your Inner Critic Out to Lunch--and Stick Him with the Check

inner critic, the--a voice that repeats and repeats in the writer's ear,"You can do this better;" an interior conviction that a particular work under way is doomed because of its inanity; a self-inflicted editorial wound; setting the first-draft bar high enough to guarantee failure.

The inner critic's most powerful hold is on the ego of the writer, reminding the writer of all the truly gifted storytellers the writer must outperform in order to be noticed in the first place. The inner critic's second most severe hold is with the incessant warning that one must not proceed until all the previous work done on a project is in absolutely glowing condition, resonating access, success, and pellucid clarity of artistic intent.

Simply put, the inner critic thinks too much, is allowed too much critical leeway, and all the while insisting on his desire to make the work as perfect as possible, managing to render the work beyond completion. Whatever the work wants to be, haiku, short story, trilogy-level novels, the most effective means of heeding its call is to get it down on paper or screen as quickly and expeditiously as possible, comforted all the while with the notion that it can and will be revised. The most effective way to reach that point is through the expedient of turning off the thought process, comforted all the while with the notion that you are building your individual muscle memory for reaching as far as possible without thinking, then being called back into the creative velocity of capturing the essence of the project, from which comes subsequent drafts bringing the work into yet sharper focus, followed by a fiercely protected revision strategy, which does involve thought, creative thought.

Somewhere out on the myriad urban myths web pages is the trope of "real" writers, "natural" writers being distinguished from amateurs and wannabes by the fact of their being able to "get" a work down pat by the first draft, a few crossed-out words, perhaps, but not many. These literary elect are not plagued by inner critics because they already know the worth of their project and simply do not require inner critics, were in fact born without them.

Thus did inner-critic-less Mark Twain approach the end of his mortality with the belief that his best work was a biography of Joan of Arc; thus also did Twain frequently stop work on his most remarkable and honest work of all, Huckleberry Finn, losing several battles with his inner critic until the work was finally finished.

To get the better of the inner critic, listen to the tone of the inner voice that prompts a particular work, then carefully note that tone, whether humor, tragedy, romance, adventure or irony. The next step is to set forth with the goal of defining to yourself what that particular emotional compass means to you. In speaking of the difference between lightning and the lightning bug , Mark Twain made an effective comparison between the right word and the almost right word. Similarly, the difference between defining the intended tone of a work of your own and the close enough tone is the difference between locking out the inner critic or inviting him in with the sure knowledge that he will steal the silverware.

A Nigerian Bank Has Designated You

flashback--a narrative device in which the forward movement of a narrative comes to a halt and the action shifts to a past time, in which a relevant scene is replayed; a technique for using a given narrator's sensitivity to reflect back on a past event as though it were taking place before the reader.

Largely archaic because of the universal discovery of the two-line space break separating one scene from another, the flashback is no longer necessary; the dramatic unities (See) to the contrary notwithstanding no contemporary dramatic decree or convention argues the need for a story of any length running in absolute chronology. Scene B, directly following Scene A, may have taken place fifty years in the past, a shift the reader can easily accommodate provided the writer give a simple, basic clue of when and where Scene B is in progress.

True enough, the contemporary novel or short story ought to take place more in the present than in the past, but such is the nature of so-called rules of composition that in any given venture, a novelist or short story writer could make quick work of that dictum.


verisimilitude--an overall sense of believability in the dramatic rendition of a person, place, or thing; a convincing sense of authenticity about a narrative; an override on the reader's skepticism and sense of disbelief.

In spite of some writers' defensive "But it happened that way in real life," verisimilitude makes the reader forget about such quibbles and settle directly into the story; it is a quality, almost pointillist in nature, of small, significant details that convey authenticity to the reader.


you--the unique persona of the writer; the experiences, opinions, tastes, and prejudices of the writer; the attitudes, curiosities, and fears of the writer emerging through portrayal of character, theme, and resolution of stories. The totality of the resident writer within as it emerges in the writer's stories.

In similar fashion to a wide range of actors taking on the same dramatic role, each writer brings to story a particular set of sensitivities, sensory awareness, and attitude. Could we imagine James Dean playing Hamlet? Could we imagine Norman Mailer capturing the angst and wrench of "Brokeback Mountain? Similarly, could we imagine Mel Brooks doing Lear or Dustin Hoffman doing Rocky Balboa? The question for the writer on any given story is Why you? This question is not by any means in the sense of How dare you? but rather what do you bring to the story that gives it the ridges and whorls of your own writer fingerprint? Would you bring Mel Brooks's antic humor to Lear or would you bring his incredible sadness from his personal life over the loss of his wife, Anne Bancroft? Possibly a hint of both? What could make Dustin Hoffman want to do Rocky Balboa? What could possibly have made Philip Seymour Hoffman, a large man, want to portray Truman Capote, an elfin presence? There are no right answers as long as there are indeed answers, specific answers reflecting the reasons you were drawn into writing and find resonance in it. The answers may come from anywhere within you, reflecting a spectrum of human emotions such as revenge, envy, proprietary power, exuberance at being alive, desire for respect or being noticed at all, wanting to share a vision, wanting to take down a vision, anger...

Think of it this way, you are a writer invited to contribute to an anthology, the literary equivalent of a pot luck dinner. What do you bring? A chunk of a novel? A short story? A poem? An essay? What says you? Why?

You're Getting to Be a Hobbit with Me

Golem, the--a fictional being, made of clay and other elements, called into being in order to correct a moral, social, or social injustice, usually associated with Jewish folklore and tradition; often a servant of a prominent and learned rabbi; a series of servant-beings beginning with Adam, intended for a serious, life-affirming task before being deactivated, stored for future use should it be necessary.

The best-known Golem was a sixteenth-century creature, created by the chief rabbi of Prague from clay of the banks of the Vitava River, brought to life with incantations and a seal placed on its forehead bearing the Hebrew word "truth," its job to protect the inhabitants of the Prague ghetto from anti-Semitism.

The Golem bears an interesting analogy to Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus, a farmer who was appointed as dictator of Rome by the Roman senate when the Romans were engaged in warfare with the neighboring Aequians. Cincinnatus quickly took control, organized an army and a campaign to defeat the Aequians, returned the powers of dictator to the senate, whereupon he returned to being a farmer. Another comparison might be argued for the creation of Dr. Frankenstein, particularly since the word golem in Hebrew slang can also be interpreted as a witless hulk.

Over the rural and urban mythology surrounding various golems, a disturbing side effect of their powers indicated a usurpation of power after it was granted them, in some cases resulting in violence, selfishness, and hitting on the rabbi's wife. In most cases the tide of admiration and support for the golems turned to a tide of fear and revulsion.

There is a bit of the golem resident in all heroic characters, thus our need to watch them carefully and their need to watch themselves, This vigil is necessary whether they appear as historically accurate representations or manufactured dramatic quantities, leaving them as Napoleonic, individuals whose sense of mission is trumped by their enjoyment of power for its own sake, thus the need for the writer of heroic characters to be on guard for the side effects of power. The golem writ large is a theme found throughout Western literature, from The Canterbury Tales and Shakespeare to the gun fight at OK Corral.

Cincinnatus remains over the years as a figure who used power wisely, meriting his choice as its recipient. No less remarkable in his own way was Atticus Finch who took up the role of defender with all due seriousness but who knew his own values and his own sense of justice.

P.S. The Hebrew word inked on the seal of the Prague golem's forehead was "emet," the word for truth. To make sure the golem was decommissioned, the "e" was removed, leaving the Hebrew word for death.