If the middle of my
cake is soft, I know I should have left it in the oven longer. If the clothes
come out of the dryer damp around the seams, I know I pulled them out too soon.
In other words, if I don’t finish my task, I have more to do. It’s easier to
understand than nuclear fission.
Life is too short to
waste on mediocre anything, and I apply this mantra to my own writing. How can
I expect others to overlook a half-baked center in what I serve?
Recently I started reading
a second novel in a series that attracted me with the dynamics between the main
characters. Whoops! Something happened before the main conflict that changed
the focus of the lady detective. She gave her dinner time with teenage kids
more value than her murder investigation. I quit reading because the characters
were boring. The first chapter promised intrigue that was too long in coming. I
was bogged down in mundane details that felt like quicksand.
I am willing to spend
time with the thick intricate tales told by Elizabeth George when the
complexity of a character is revealed slowly one layer at a time, like real
neighbors. But I don’t want a minute description of activities or relationships
like those I have endured in my daily routine. There is no tension. There is a
reason for the popular saying, “Skip to the chase.”
In other words, a
writer risks losing readers when a cooking segment is too long and with no purpose.
Or when an inclusion of a parent-teacher meeting has no vital information for
the plot, or a long rant on clothing or music reads like a Wikipedia entry. The
characters seem to be searching for a plot. That’s when a reader’s eyes glaze
over. She does not turn the page. As a writer, I don’t want that fate for my
stories.
Some pros advise
putting a conflict on every page, like a collection of scenes showing cause and
effect, a string of dominoes falling one by one. I think that each scene should
move a reader toward a goal, an obstacle, or the stakes.
Literary agent Donald
Maass suggests in The Fire in Fiction
that the middle of a good story has an outer turning point and an inner turning
point. The main character’s acceptance of the challenge and the stakes of pursuing
a goal is an outer turning point. An inner goal of a major or minor character can
change and become a turning point that sets up a larger conflict. An inner goal
keeps the story moving on a secondary level.
For example, in my
short story “Dead Man Hanging,” a gentlemen farmer is discussing with the
sheriff the possibility of a scam on his houseguest when a body is found at a
hotel. In the first scene, the farmer has no intention of getting involved in
law enforcement, but the circumstances yield to the great flood of 1916. The
sheriff needs deputies. As the investigation proceeds, their philosophies
tangle, and the farmer’s perspective changes. (This story was published in
January in the anthology History
and Mystery, Oh, My!)
Screenwriter Blake
Snyder gave excellent advice in Save the
Cat. He insisted the turning point in the middle is preceded by fun and
games. He considered this a back door to the premise of the story, a related
tangent. Snyder pointed out that often the subplot carries the theme, which is
a debate on the pros and cons of a particular issue. In the movie, Miss Congeniality, the premise asks and
answers the question: Can a tomboy win a beauty pageant? (See the Buddhapuss
Ink March 4 blog post about format by writer Selaine Henriksen.)
I nurture the growth of
my characters on the theory that their changes will influence the direction of
the story. I imagine a writer making choices like Goldilocks. Too much change
and the reader is lost in a flurry of hot events (like bar hopping). Too little
and a reader is lost to cold boredom. We can’t please all of the readers all of
the time, but we can make an effort for a happy compromise. A comfort zone is an
elusive target, isn’t it!
I try not to be engrossed in details that are
superfluous, embroidering my sentences with fancy words and phrases like a
literary art project. A verbal Renoir. When the heat is turned down, the center
of the story becomes mushy.
Beware! When we promise
chocolate, we can’t serve mud. Yuk! How rude!
© 2015 Georgia Ruth
Georgia Ruth lives in
the foothills of North Carolina. Now retired, she managed a family restaurant
for ten years and worked in sales for fifteen years. Both experiences produced
rich soil for her fertile imagination. Georgia is a member of Sisters in Crime
and Short Mystery Fiction Society. She has stories published online for
Stupefying Stories and Bethlehem Writers Roundtable, and in print, Mystery
Times Ten 2013 by Buddhapuss Ink. Her story “The Mountain Top”
will be published in a Sisters in Crime anthology in 2014. Her website is
http://georgiaruthwrites.us
Thanks, Georgia, for a great piece! Avoid the “squishy middle,” no
one wants to read something that's half-baked. We're looking forward to seeing
more from you soon!
READERS: We hope you enjoyed this week's edition of our #WW Writer
Wednesday Series. We will be taking a short hiatus for a few weeks. Until we return, Butt in chair, WRITE!
~ The Black Cat
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readers with brains, by authors who have more than just one book in them.
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