Advanced Fiction Writing Blog

Novelists talk about scenes all the time. But not all of fiction is composed of scenes. What is it that makes a scene a scene?

David posted this question on my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page:

I have a question regarding story structure. While I was reading through one of your blog posts about a strategy for writing a synopsis you described how the typical novel has 80 to 100 scenes and that some scenes are more exciting than others so that you get “sequences of scenes” (clumps of 3 to 5 scenes where the tension rises to a peak). Well, what I was wondering is how do you define a “scene”?

According to your article “Writing the Perfect Scene” a scene has either a Goal, Conflict, Disaster or a Reaction, Dilemma, Decision. But what exactly IS a “scene”?

Consider the beginning of the first Harry Potter Book. It opens talking about the Dursleys. Clearly JKR had a goal when she wrote it: to get the reader to buy into the premise that there is a secret world of magic. But where’s the CHARACTER’S Goal, Conflict, Disaster or the CHARACTER’S Reaction, Dilemma, Decision? Who exactly IS the POV character? If it has none of these things, then what makes it a “scene”?

But my question extends beyond that. Where does setting fit in? When I think of the word “scene” I think of a scene in a movie or a play: a specific location at a specific time where a relatively significant part of a story occurs. Using this definition there could conceivably be more than one “scene” per Goal, Conflict, Disaster unit.

When you say a typical novel has 80 to 100 scenes do you mean it has 80 to 100 Goal, Conflict, Disaster/Reaction, Dilemma, Decision Units? Or do you mean it has 80 to 100 of the “movie” scenes?

Randy sez: There is more than one question lurking here. Let’s take them in order.

First, what is a scene? That’s relatively easy, and David got it pretty close to the standard meaning. A scene is a sequence of events that happens at a particular place and time and that moves the story forward. The scene consists mostly of “showing” though it may contain some “telling.” The scene has a particular structure that gives the story motion.

When we say “showing,” we mean that the author is using the following tools:

• Action.
• Dialogue.
• Interior Monologue.
• Interior Emotion.
• Sensory Description.

When we say “telling,” we mean that the author is using the following tools:

• Narrative Summary
• Exposition
• Description

I have blogged often about all of these tools, so I won’t try to define each of them here. Being a selfish money-grubbing author, I’ll also note that these are explained at infinite length in my book WRITING FICTION FOR DUMMIES.

[And by the way, the paper edition of my book is currently selling at half-price on Amazon, and my publisher is giving a $5 rebate, which is a pretty good bargain for those few remaining souls who don’t yet have a copy.]

Second, how shall we categorize the opening of Harry Potter? That’s easy, now that we’ve laid out our tools. The opening page or so of Harry Potter is a brilliant use of exposition to bring the reader up to speed on the incredibly Mugglish Dursley family. We learn that they are all very sorry excuses for human DNA carriers and that they have a secret. We desperately want to know that secret, because we don’t like the Durleys.

That’s the first page of Book One of Harry Potter. The rest of the paragraph uses quite a bit of narrative summary to take us through a day in the life of the Dursleys, the day that Harry Potter’s parents are killed and Lord Voldemort loses his grip on this mortal coil. The day that baby Harry is foisted off on his none-too-willing Dursley relatives.

As the chapter progresses, we see increasing amounts of “showing” and decreasing amounts of “telling.” We really don’t see much of a scene until Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall arrive at the Dursley home and then Hagrid shows up with Harry.

So the second half of the first chapter qualifies as a scene. It’s in fact a proactive scene, in which the goal is to place Harry with the Dursleys. The conflict is that they just aren’t all that suitable, but they’re all the relatives Harry has. The setback is that Harry is left with them and when Mrs. Dursley comes out in the morning, she actually screams when she sees him.

It’s a bit easier to launch a fantasy with this kind of narrative summary, because fantasies are grown-up fairy tales, and fairy tales have a long history of beginning with narrative summary. You’ll notice that very few police procedurals, romances, thrillers, or any other kind of fiction begins with “telling.”

Third, David asks whether a typical novel has 80 to 100 scenes of the type that I define in my book and in my Writing The Perfect Scene article, or whether the novel has 80 to 100 movie-like scenes. The answer is the former, although it seems to me that most movie scenes have a similar arc to novel scenes. I could say more about that, but I think this post has gone on long enough.

If you’ve got a question you’d like me to answer in public on this blog, hop on over to my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page and submit your question. I’ll answer them in the order they come in.

I often hear that flashbacks in fiction are always bad. Is that true? If not, then how do you know if the flashback in your novel is working? And what do you do if it isn’t?

Caroline posted this question on my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page:

I am writing in first person and having difficulty with inserting back story. Currently my dilemma is with flashbacks. To use or not to use them, and if so how much is too much, or when is the best use of them? Frequently when I resort to a narrative in a flashbacks place I think what I have written is boring and stiff. What is your take on the flashback?

Randy sez: A flashback has one thing going for it and one thing going against it.

What’s good about a flashback is that it’s written in “immediate scene”–meaning that it’s shown happening right here, right now, minute by minute, without summary. That’s the most compelling kind of fiction (although if your novel is 100% immediate scene, something is probably wrong).

What’s bad about a flashback is that it’s yesterday’s news. Or last year’s news. In extreme cases, it can be last millennium’s news. It’s backstory. Flashback is a compelling way to show backstory, but it’s still backstory.

If you’re going to use a flashback, a generally good rule of thumb is to wait until the reader absolutely, positively MUST know the information contained in the flashback. Then show as little of the flashback as possible. Then return to the main story.

No reader on the planet ever said, “Wow, I’m going to buy this book because I’m dying to hear what happened before it takes place!”

Nope. Readers buy a book because they’re dying to hear what happens DURING THE MAIN STORY.

Backstory is a necessary part of any story. Strong backstory makes a strong story. But in writing fiction, practice the fine art of withholding information. That creates mystery. It creates suspense. It keeps your reader reading.

Can you hold off on showing any flashbacks until at least 25% of the way into your story? If not, then maybe the real story isn’t your story. Maybe your real story is the backstory and you should have started sooner.

Can you hold off on showing any flashbacks until you’re 75% of the way into your story? If so, you might have a real killer of a story. Remember, as long as you’ve got a secret, your reader wants to know it. Once you’ve told the secret, your reader no longer wants to know it.

Delay, delay, delay on that pesky backstory, whether it’s a flashback or any other kind.

If you’ve got a question you’d like me to answer in public on this blog, hop on over to my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page and submit your question. I’ll answer them in the order they come in.

Blog of the Day: Barry Eisler recently turned down a two-book deal for half a million dollars with a major publisher in order to self-publish in e-book format. Is Barry crazy? Not hardly. Read a mammoth 13,000 word dialogue between Barry and his buddy Joe Konrath on e-books, legacy publishing, agents, self-publishing, and money on Joe’s blog, A Newbie’s Guide to Publishing.

In every scene of your novel, you have a lead character, and you can get inside this character’s head. But how do you handle the supporting characters? How do you work them into your scene?

Kyle posted this question on my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page:

I am a little confused with how non-POV characters are supposed to be properly included in the magical “motivation-reaction unit”. If the reaction part must include reaction from the POV character, where does a different character fit in? An antagonist character will fit in the motivation part, but what about a supporting character that is helping the POV character? I don’t want to swith point of view too rapidly for fear of confusing the reader, but I’d also like to include secondary characters in my scenes more often.

Randy sez: For those of you who are just joining us and aren’t sure what a “motivation-reaction unit” is, you can get up to speed instantly by reading my article, “Writing the Perfect Scene.”

Just to clarify Kyle’s question, the “reaction” part of the MRU is everything that the point-of-view (POV) character does, says, thinks, and feels. The “motivation” part of the MRU is everything else that any other character does or says and everything happening in the environment.

So both the antagonist and any other supporting characters are classified as part of the “motivation.”

This of course seems very weird, because aren’t motivations supposed to be thoughts of the POV character? The answer is yes, they are in a different context, which is why I’ve never liked the term “motivation-reaction unit.” The word “motivation” has multiple meanings, and in this context, it means “anything other than what the POV character does, says, thinks, or feels.”

My rule in writing is to show each character in a separate paragraph. If the paragraph is focusing on the POV character, then the paragraph is a “reaction”. If the paragraph focuses on anyone else or anything else, then it’s a “motivation.”

It really doesn’t matter whether a character is the antagonist or merely a supporting character. Either way, anything they say or do is a “motivation.”

Just as an example, let’s make up a few snippets of an imaginary scene involving three characters whom I’ll give the random names, Scarlett, Ashley, and Rhett:

Scarlett grabbed for Ashley’s hand, wondering how she could convince him. “Oh, Ashley, darling. If you marry me, I’ll be the happiest of women!”

Ashley stepped back. “No. I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m the wrong guy for you. You’re a miserable, greedy, grasping, selfish bitch, Scarlett! You deserve somebody like . . .”

“Like me,” Rhett said. “I’m a miserable, greedy, grasping, selfish jerk. Scarlett and I would be perfect together.”

Scarlett blushed scarlet. “Oh, no, Captain Butler! How could you say such a thing?”

Randy sez: Scarlett is the POV character. This is obvious from paragraph 1, where we hear her thoughts. The first and fourth paragraph are “reactions” because they focus on Scarlett.

It’s hard to say whether Ashley or Rhett is the antagonist in this scene, and it hardly matters. All that matters is that neither one is Scarlett. Paragraphs 2 and 3 are “motivations.” One focuses on Ashley, the other on Rhett. It’s quite fine to have two or more paragraphs of “motivation” in a sequence, each focusing on a different character.

Fiction is like a game of ping pong as seen from one side of the table. The action switches from the camera side (the POV character) to the opposite side (any of the other characters). When the ball is on the camera side of the net, we call that a “reaction.” When the ball is on the other side of the net, we call that a “motivation.” It really doesn’t matter how many players are on the other side of the net. All that matters is that the camera side only has one player — the POV character.

If you’ve got a question you’d like me to answer in public on this blog, hop on over to my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page and submit your question. I’ll answer them in the order they come in.

So you’ve got a GREAT Storyworld for your novel and you can’t wait to tell your reader all about it. How and when do you do that for maximum effect?

Dre posted this question on my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page:

I have a problem transferring vast amounts of information to my reader in an interesting manner, like the history and the natural laws of a Storyworld.

-Footnotes seem a cheap way to do this.

-I’ve considered excerpts from made-up chronicles or study books, but typical for such texts is that they’re not compelling.

-Simply interrupting the narratives with informative lectures gets disturbing and is a violation against the MRUs.

-And weaving the information through a dialog doesn’t always make sense.

So I’m lost. How do other writers cope with this?

Randy sez: Writers always believe that the reader is dying to know the entire life history of every character and the full history of the Storyworld and exactly how the Storyworld works in all its infinite complexity.

The reader is and she isn’t. Let’s take those in reverse order.

When you pick up a book, you’re looking for a story. Something happening here and now. Characters doing things that matter right now. If you don’t get that right away, you’re going to put the book down. You just will. And your reader is just like you.

As you get into the story, you begin to realize that these characters weren’t born yesterday and the Storyworld in which they live has a long history. Some things in the story just don’t make sense unless you have some context–some backstory or some description of the present world.

So when do you put in that context and how much do you put in?

The answer is simple: Just when you need it and no earlier. Just as much as you need to make sense of the action and no more.

You have many tools to do this:

• Exposition or Narrative summary. A block of it to fill in the past.
• Dialogue. One character explaining the past to another.
• Interior monologue. One character thinking about the past.
• Flashbacks. A scene set in the past, connected to the present.
• Diaries, chronicles, or other written texts found by a character.
• The Pensieve. Works if your name is J.K. Rowling. Works very well. Essentially a flashback.
• Description. Works best if it’s filtered through the senses of the viewpoint character.

Those are your tools. You can even use footnotes, as Stieg Larsson did in his Millennium Trilogy, although this is pretty rare for a novel.

The important thing is to not give backstory or description to your reader until she’s begging for it. She’ll be begging for it when the main story gets confusing and can be easily clarified by a few snippets of backstory or description. Give it to her then. Just enough to answer the questions, and NO MORE.

You may believe that you are the amazing exception to this rule, and that your readers will find you uniquely gifted at telling backstory or description and therefore you can heap it on and let the pace of your story go to zero.

No you can’t. No more than your brother-in-law the tax accountant is amazingly gifted at explaining arcane 19th century tax laws to his enthralled friends. He isn’t. You aren’t. Don’t do it.

Tell your story. Save the backstory until it’s screaming to be told. J.K. Rowling held off on giving her readers the full backstory of Severus Snape for thousands of pages — until that information was desperately needed late in Book 7 in order to advance the plot. Take a lesson from the master. Tell no backstory before its time. Less is more.

If you’ve got a question you’d like me to answer in public on this blog, hop on over to my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page and submit your question. I’ll answer them in the order they come in.

If you’re writing a novel, how many storylines should it have? How many is too many? How do you handle them all?

Josey posted this question on my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page:

I’ve been using your Snowflake method to organize my idea for a fiction novel. (I really like it by the way). My question is this: In the process of character sketching and writing the synopsis, it has occured to me that each of the main characters could possibly have their own story. Is that normal? And should I consider doing that or keep going with the story I’ve planned?

Also another question. (I hope it’s ok to ask two) If your category is mystery, does the snowflake method still work? I have a few ideas for a mystery type of story, but in thinking through the snowflake method I’m finding it hard to work the story into that model. I haven’t actually sat down and written anything out yet so I don’t really know if it will work or not. I’m just curious right now. The idea is in it’s beginning stages and I haven’t thought it completely through yet.

I have Writing Fiction for Dummies and I think it is great!

Randy sez: It’s normal for each of the main characters in a novel to have their own storyline. In fact, if you don’t, the novel is going to feel very thin. It’ll feel like the characters are tacked on to play some role in your story.

In real life, everybody thinks they’re the lead character in the story. Think about it. You’re the lead character in your own life, aren’t you? You don’t exist merely to play the role of “humble minion” in your boss’s story. You don’t exist so as to be the “spouse” in your spouse’s story. You don’t exist to play the role of “wicked step-mother” for your step-daughter Cindy.

It’s possible that you do actually play one or more of those roles in other people’s stories. But those aren’t your main role. Your main role is to be the hero or heroine of your own story.

Likewise for every one of your characters. Each of them is the lead character in the novel of their life.

So Josey, what you’ve found is that your characters are real people, and that’s good. I’m not sure I understand part of your question, however. There’s an ambiguity in your question, “And should I consider doing that or keep going with the story I’ve planned?”

If you’re asking whether you ought to write a separate novel for each of those characters, the answer is no. If you do that, you’ll have a cast of main characters for each novel. Each of those main characters will have his or her own story. Then you’ll want to split out separate novels for each of them. And that process will never end.

If you’re asking whether it’s okay to have multiple storylines in your novel, then the answer is yes. That’s good. That’s the right way to do things. Your primary storyline will belong to your lead character. But each of the other main characters will have a storyline, and you’ll assign some amount of space in your novel to develop that story.

But your novel is NOT six different novels in one book. Your novel should be one novel, with separate threads for each of the main characters. You can have as many of these as you have main characters. The amount that you write for each one will depend on how important each thread is to your main thread — the storyline of your lead character. If a thread is closely tied in to the main story, then it should get a lot of airtime. If it’s a peripheral thread, then it should get a little. If it’s not related at all, then yank it out of your story, because it doesn’t belong.

As for the question of whether the Snowflake method works for mysteries, the answer is yes. The Snowflake method is designed to be useful for any kind of story. I’ve never written a mystery myself, but I have some ideas in mind for stories that might be mysteries. I would use the Snowflake method to design those stories, just like any other novel I’d write.

If you’ve got a question you’d like me to answer in public on this blog, hop on over to my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page and submit your question. I’ll answer them in the order they come in.

Quick, take a guess: Where is the most unlikely spot on earth? And what might this have to do with writing fiction? My own answer to the first question is, “I have no idea.” My answer to the second question will take a bit of unpacking.

Chris posted this question on my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page:

I started by story using your snowflake method, and love your critiques of one-sentence storylines. Don’t know if you get fed up with them, but here’s mine just to push you almost (but not quite) to the edge:

A confrontation-shy ex-cop battles plots and doublecrosses to save crash survivors marooned in the most unlikley spot on earth.

I’ve gone thru maybe 30-40 different variants as I try to hone in on the crux of my story. This is my best so far. How can it be improved? What do your readers think?

I’m trying to emphasize the unique hero at the start and mysteriousness (of the crash site) at the end.

My protagonist is a korean-american raised in Texas (so he has a drawl, of all things). My villain is an English ex-soldier and newbie member of parliament who’s an accomplished bully like the hero’s (hated but rich) father. You can probably guess where the extra fuel comes from in their conflict.

Randy sez: This is a promising storyline, like the one we analyzed in my last blog post. And like that one, this can be improved by making things a bit more specific.

First, let’s start with that “most unlikely spot on earth.” I can think of plenty of places that are unlikely for a plane crash. The South Pole. The peak of Mount Everest. The Bikini Atoll. My back yard. (I’m hoping a plane crash in my back yard is unlikely, because flying airplane parts can play havoc with a greenhouse.)

This sentence would grow dramatically in power, Chris, if you were to specify exactly where it is. Don’t TELL us that it’s the most unlikely spot on earth. Show us and we’ll figure it out.

This seems to be a general rule to apply to those pesky one-sentence storylines. Whenever you find yourself writing “most” or “best” or “biggest” or any other superlative, ask yourself whether you might be telling something that you could be showing. If so, then show it and see if that makes it stronger.

The second point where I see room for improvement is in the “plots and double-crosses” that our ex-cop hero is facing. In a thriller, you expect to see plenty of plots and double-crosses of all sorts. Those are generic words that don’t really get the blood pumping because they’re generic.

Instead of using the words “plots and double-crosses,” Chris, I’d recommend that you show us ONE of those. Maybe our hero’s girlfriend is secretly on the villain’s side. Maybe whoever pays his expenses cuts him off while he’s in Ulan Bator with no cash. There are any number of ways to be double-crossed. Pick one and sketch it for us in a few words.

Which one? That’s easy. Pick the big one that happens at roughly the one-quarter mark in the book. It should be the one that will pretty much define the conflict for a big chunk of the book.

That’s another general feature of many one-sentence summaries. If you show how your main character gets into serious trouble that will last for a major part of the book, then you really define the conflict. And conflict is essential to your story.

One thing that’s working nicely here is the description of your lead character as a “confrontation-shy ex-cop.” It’s always possible that you could improve this slightly, but it’s strong enough to work with.

The other thing that’s working well here is that our hero is working to save those crash survivors. You don’t have to tell us to root for him. We know that automatically. (Another lesson that has been known for a very long time: Fiction is moral. Readers instinctively root for the good guy. It’s a very rare story where we find ourselves, against our will, rooting for the bad guy.)

Well, Chris, take that and run with it. I’m betting you can sharpen your storyline substantially by adding in a couple of specifics.

If you’ve got a question you’d like me to answer in public on this blog, hop on over to my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page and submit your question. I’ll answer them in the order they come in.

Blog Post of the Day: I regularly read a boatload of blogs. One that made me laugh today was this one by Michael Hyatt, CEO of Thomas Nelson Publishers. The title of the post was “Put The Big Rocks In First.” That’s good advice, and you’ll see an unforgettable demonstration of what that means in a video clip where Stephen Covey asks an assistant to try to put the little rocks in first. Have fun!

Today, we’ll analyze the one-sentence summary of a novel submitted to me by one of my Loyal Blog Readers. Along the way, we’ll cover two important principles that make the difference between a storyline that sells and a storyline that doesn’t.

Jennifer posted this question on my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page:

This is the one story line of my pending novel. Can you analyze it for me.

The investigation into the brutal murders of city officials threatens to bring the city to its knees.

Here is a longer version:
Amidst a heat wave of political corruption, scandal and local crime, homicide Detective Spalding must investigate the brutal murders of city officials that once solved threatens to bring the city to its knees.

Randy sez: The short version needs a bit more detail and the long version is too long. But together, there’s enough here for us to work with.

There is certainly an interesting story here. The first question is: Whose story is it? In the short version, the noun of the sentence is “the investigation.” This is fairly impersonal, but Jennifer instinctively knows this, because in the long version, she personalizes it around the lead investigator, homicide Detective Spalding.

A great storyline almost always focuses on a person. So our first improvement will be to put Detective Spalding into the short version in some way. Note that his name really doesn’t tell us much about him, so we won’t need his name. His job is far more useful to us. He’s a detective. This tells us right away that the novel is either a police procedural or very close to it. That’s a standard category in fiction.

But we need to do more. How is Detective Spalding different from all other detectives? Or more importantly, how is he different from all other people on the planet? If you can find a way to answer that question in no more than four words, then you’ve got a really powerful lead. Jennifer, even if you can’t define him that specifically, any details you can give us about Spalding that make us like him or make us curious about him will put you ahead of the game.

Now we’ve got a series of brutal murders, always a good thing in this category, so let’s look at the consequences of those murders. They aren’t just a series of random murders. They threaten, in some way, to bring the city to its knees. That’s good, but that’s also pretty vague.

Here is the second main improvement I would suggest: Give me enough details about the circumstances of these murders so that I’ll see for myself that the city might be brought to its knees. Don’t TELL me the city is at hazard. SHOW me the hazard and I’ll figure it out.

There are lots of ways to bring a city to its knees. We need some specifics here. Was the mayor murdered in bed with his girlfriend? Was the city attorney murdered with his personal safe open — revealing that he’s been embezzling the city funds? Was the chief of police whacked in the company of the local mafioso? Each of these might conceivably bring the city to its knees, but each would do so in a very different way. Get specific here — in ten words or less.

Jennifer, you’ve made a good start. Get more specific with your lead character and with the consequences of the murders and you’ll have a strong storyline.

If you’ve got a question you’d like me to answer in public on this blog, hop on over to my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page and submit your question. I’ll answer them in the order they come in.

Ever worried that the kind of novel you’re writing will suddenly hit market saturation and you won’t have a market for it anymore?

Carrie posted this question on my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page:

I have a number of ideas snowflaked to one degree or another. While they represent a number of genres (literary, mystery, cozy, etc.), a lot of them involve conspiracies or one kind or another and most of those are set in the near future, with the government or some arm of the government being the primary conspirator.

Perhaps it’s a sign of the times, but it seems like a lot of people are doing ‘conspiracy theory’ novels, from Joel Rosenberg to Seth. Even me.

Can as broad a topic as ‘conspiracy theories’ reach the point of saturation with readers, editors and publishers?

If so, are we anywhere near that point with conspiracies?

To rephrase it, how do I know my story will not be ‘just another kook fringe story among millions’?

Randy sez: Conspiracy stories have been around for a good long while. Robert Ludlum was writing them in the 1970s. I suspect people will still be reading this kind of novel a hundred years from now — as long as people don’t trust big corporations, big governments, big media, or big whatever.

While there are ups and downs in every category, some things just don’t go out of fashion.

Romance, the last time I looked, was still in vogue. Simple reason for that. Real people still fall in love.

Ditto for thrillers. Ditto for horror. Again, a simple reason. People like to be scared.

Likewise for mysteries. People like to figure out puzzles and admire the detectives who do it better than any real person could.

Same goes for fantasy. People like to imagine other worlds. The fantasy genre goes back a long, long way, if you remember that fantasy in the 20th century was begun as an attempt to return to what people called “fairy tales” or “myths.”

Science fiction will be around as long as there are people who like to wonder what the future is going to be like, and as long as science looks like it has the capacity to make our lives amazingly better (or amazingly worse).

It’s true that certain subcategories have dipped in popularity. I gather that westerns aren’t as popular as they used to be. Chick lit had a rapid rise in the late 1990s and has taken an equally rapid dive, but the same kind of book is still being written — they just quit calling it “chick lit” when the cutesy term quit being so cutesy.

As for those pesky conspiracy thrillers, I’m pretty sure we’ll have them as long as people don’t trust the government. Of course, if They ever do actually take over, They will probably crush the authors who write conspiracy novels, and then this genre will suddenly disappear. So the existence of conspiracy thrillers is actually pretty good evidence that they’re overstating the case. (Unless They decide to allow conspiracy thrillers to still be written, as a way of keeping us in ignorance that They have already taken control. In which case, the existence of conspiracy thrillers is very subtle evidence that They are already pulling all the strings.)

If you’ve got a question you’d like me to answer in public on this blog, hop on over to my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page and submit your question. I’ll answer them in the order they come in.

Is it OK to write in present tense? And what do you do if you don’t have a title for the novel you’re writing? I tackle both questions today.

Grace posted this question on my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page:

I have a question regarding the tense used in writing fiction. I write in third person present tense. I was told this style of writing makes it harder for the reader to follow.

Randy sez: It’s no harder for a reader to follow present tense than past tense, unless she thinks it is. Unfortunately, some readers really dislike present tense, which means that if you choose to use it, you’re going to alienate these readers.

Personally, I like present tense when it’s done well. Some examples of books where it’s done very well are THE TIME TRAVELER’S WIFE by Audrey Niffenegger, THE HUNGER GAMES by Suzanne Collins, and THE SPEED OF DARK by Elizabeth Moon. If you want to see how it’s done well, check out these books.

That was a short answer, so I’ll take on another question today.

Cathi asked:

Hi! I have a follow-up to the question about publishers changing book titles. How bad is it is you don’t have a title in mind at all? That is my situation…five years in to a nearly completed manuscript ready to be thrown into the market, and a title evades me. Thanks!

Randy sez: Five years is a long time to go without a title. I’d start working on that, because it’s going to be a lot harder to sell your novel without a title. It sounds like you’re blocked on this title thing, Cathi, so maybe it’s time to enlist some help.

I’m assuming you know the category of your novel (your genre and sub-genre) and your target audience. I also assume you can summarize your novel in 25 words or less. If all of the above is true, then it’s time to start asking your writer friends for some ideas. Tell them your category, your target audience, your one-sentence summary and then ask or beg or threaten people for ideas on titles.

Cathi, if you’re feeling brave, you can even send the above information to me and we can run a “Name Cathi’s Book” contest here on this blog. That could be fun.

One reason writers get blocked sometimes is their perfectionist streak. It’s easy to refuse to take any title except the absolute best one on the planet. Unfortunately, there can be at most only one of those. Even more unfortunately, nobody agrees what it is. So you aren’t going to get perfection. Pick a title that fits your book. Even if it’s not perfect.

Odds are fifty-fifty that your publisher is going to want to change it anyway. As soon as they start telling you the title their geniuses dreamed up in committee, trust me, you’ll suddenly be Xtremely motivated to come up with a better one.

Some thoughts on titles, in random order:

Don’t tell the ending. SAMANTHA GETS THE GUY is a terrible title for a romance. RAMBO SHOOTS UP 200 COPS is also not so great.

You don’t need a gimmick. HARRY POTTER AND THE X works pretty well for just about any value of X. No gimmicks there. Good writing trumps gimmicky titles every day of the week.

One word titles can work well. Some of my titles have been OXYGEN, TRANSGRESSION, PREMONITION, and RETRIBUTION. The first three of those were not my original titles. The original title of OXYGEN was O2. (Our editor showed good sense in changing that one). The original title of TRANSGRESSION was AVATAR. (I still think AVATAR was better, but I have no idea what I’d have named the sequels if my publisher had kept that title. It took me a while to realize that using similar words as titles for a series can make a lot of sense.)

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The Three-Act Structure works well for single books. But how does it work in a series of novels that functions as a single story?

Amadeus posted this question on my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page:

I’ve got a question about the Three Act Structure. I’m about 29-30,000 words into my first serious attempt at writing fiction (I write fantasy), but it will be the first book in a series. Of course, a whole series would be way too big for one Three Act Structure, but should every book in the series follow it? The Three Act Structure isn’t necessary, of course, but do writers of fantasy series usually use it? Is there a Three Act Structure in Inheritance, Lord of the Rings, or any series that must be taken as a whole?

Randy sez: I’m not a huge consumer of fantasy, so I don’t know exactly how it’s done in most series. However, we can look at a few series that I know well and see how the Three-Act Structure is handled.

If you’re not familiar with the Three-Act Structure, I’ll refer you to my book Writing Fiction For Dummies for the details. In a nutshell the first Act (the beginning) introduces the characters and the conflict and ends in a disaster that forces the leading character to commit to the story. The long second Act (the middle) takes the lead character through a long series of adventures, typically with a major disaster at about the midpoint that takes the story in a new direction. The second Act ends with a third disaster (the worst so far) which forces the lead character to commit to a final showdown. The third Act brings our lead character safely (or unsafely) through the final showdown to a climax, then winds down.

In THE LORD OF THE RINGS, a three book series which was intended by Tolkien to be a single large book, there is a single structure for the entire series, but it’s not a very typical Three-Act Structure. There is a clear first disaster, which comes at the Council of Elrond when Frodo realizes that he can’t give the ring to Gandalf or Elrond or anyone else to destroy in Mordor — he must go himself. This commits him to the rest of the story. There follows a long series of adventures. It’s a bit unclear what one would call the second disaster, because the middle of the book is uncommonly long. However, in my mind, the third disaster is clear — Frodo is poisoned by Shelob and then carried away by orcs, leaving Sam alone with the Ring. Sam commits to following his master to rescue him, if possible. Since Frodo is unconscious at this point, Sam’s commitment is Frodo’s commitment.

In the Harry Potter series, each book stands alone as a story with a well-defined Three-Act Structure. Yet the books all work together to form a larger story. I suspect that you could organize these into some sort of a larger Three-Act Structure if you tried. Let’s take a stab at it:

Act 1: This is all of Book 1 and Book 2, where we get to know Harry and his magical world. At the end of Book 2, Harry destroys the diary of Tom Riddle, which he later learns is one of Riddle’s horcruxes by which he clings to life. This qualifies as the “first disaster” of the series, since it really commits Harry and Riddle to an all-out war for the rest of the series.

Act 2a: During Books 3 and 4, Harry is becoming a powerful wizard and maturing rapidly. He makes a decision at the end of Book 3 to show mercy in a situation where most people would take vengeance. At the end of Book 4, Lord Voldemort returns to life by taking the blood of his enemy Harry in an epic scene in a cemetery. This is the second disaster for Harry, and now the story takes an entirely new turn because for the rest of the series, Voldemort is alive and is doing his best to kill Harry.

Act 2b: In Books 5 and 6, Harry continues to be drawn into more and more difficult confrontations with the minions of Voldemort. At the end of Book 6, Harry’s mentor Dumbledore is killed, leaving Harry with the unfinished task of finding and destroying Voldemort’s horcruxes — which keep him from being killed. I’d call Dumbledore’s death the third major disaster for Harry, and it’s the end of Act 2.

Act 3: In Book 7, Harry (with substantial help from his friends) is on his own to complete the job; he’s committed to the task in a way he never could be when he had Dumbledore to depend on. He no longer has any adults who can give effective help. Harry has grown up and is ready to do battle as an adult. The final book brings us to the final confrontation between Harry and Voldemort — which only one of them can survive.

So I’d say that the Harry Potter series not only has a clear Three-Act Structure in each book, but the series as a whole has a larger Three-Act Structure.

The Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer also has a clear Three-Act Structure for each book. It’s not clear to me that the series as a whole really functions as a Three-Act Structure.

What do my Loyal Blog Readers think? Does the Twilight series have a Three-Act Structure or are the books really just separate episodes? Leave a comment and tell us what you think.

If you’ve got a question you’d like me to answer in public on this blog, hop on over to my “Ask A Question For My Blog” page and submit your question. I’ll answer them in the order they come in.