Even on a boat, a gentle breeze goes by.
Sailing Breeze
The Eight Deadly Words
In every kind of media, there are eight words you don’t want to hear from your audience: “I don’t care what happens to these people.” This means a potential audience has lost interest in the story because, for whatever reason, they’ve lost interest in the characters’ fates. Someone saying words along these lines indicate you’ve written something either too bland or too dark. It may be too finicky to figure out what constitutes “too bland” since every individual has their tastes. We can, however, figure out what constitutes “too dark,” so let’s examine that.
You may have heard of the term “grim dark,” which means the story is very moody, very bleak, and very intense. Dark and edgy to the extreme, basically. What might this look like? Perhaps every character, protagonist and antagonist alike, backstabs anyone who helps them get ahead. Perhaps any character we identify as good-hearted and kind dies in some fashion, whether in a violent scene onscreen or told to other characters after the fact. Maybe that sends our designated protagonist on a self-destructive path, and whether they take the antagonist down with them or not, they die.
If I’m being generous, there’s a chance the ultimate tragedy described above is the point. Among the myriad stories we’ve had throughout history, tragedies are among them. Strictly speaking, there’s nothing wrong with them. They just also stand a good chance of being too dark and tragic for their own good, leading to an audience to say the eight deadly words. Even if you hear the story has an interesting look at how, say, a propaganda machine works (e.g. George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four), would you still want to dive into it when you know the protagonist will lose and fail at everything in the end?
If you answered no to that question, then you get my point.
Of course, the above is just one example of how a work can turn too bleak to keep an audience. For instance, a work may provide some hint of hope that the characters will overcome their challenges, but then—psyche!—something squashes that hope before their eyes. Once is already crushing enough, but three times? Four? Audiences are more likely to roll their eyes at this point, assuming they haven’t already left the work behind. As another example, I know I can’t really get into Warhammer 40k because not only is each faction evil, but they’re all facing inevitable, hopeless doom. What’s left to care about then? I know the franchise has fans, but it’s not for me.
So how do we prevent audiences from thinking the eight deadly words and leaving? Let’s take a little bit from cooking: Add too much of a flavor, even a desired one, and the result won’t taste good. Sure, people may like to try out a super spicey dish, but they’re not clamoring for it all the time. In this vein, we can look at building a dark story the same way. So, does everyone need to be a jerk to illustrate how dark the setting is, or is it enough to show one or two and do the rest with dim lighting, rainy weather, or the protagonist feeling uneasy? Similarly, you don’t have to dangle a spot of hope in front of the audience and rip it away a bunch of times. Once is usually enough for maximum impact.
In other words, however grim of a story you write, be aware that you don’t need to be excessive with its darkness. It’s tricky to know when you have too much and when it’s best to dial back, especially without input from a beta reader. However, finding that balance will help a lot in making sure you never go full grim dark. More often than not, you won’t need to reach that extreme for your story to work.
Kitten at Play
A tabby kitten fascinated by a shiny toy.
Avoid Talking Down to the Audience
I’ve seen different forms of media over the years try to convey lessons of some sort. While it’s been more overt in a few works aimed at children, the desired effect can feel forced or grating regardless of target demographic. Sure, it’s a good idea to provide explanations sometimes, but doing the same with a moral or life lesson stands a good chance of falling flat. Why is that?
In short, it boils down to how conveying a message can sound like you’re talking down to your audience. Even if it’s an important lesson, poor delivery of it can feel a little too on the nose and take people out of the story. For children’s works in particular, one can become so wrapped up in making sure the intended audience “gets it” that even the kids will roll their eyes. So how do we give these messages without talking down to the audience by accident?
One way is through showing it through the ways the characters act. For instance, in Avatar: The Last Airbender, we see in Ozai’s actions how his treatment of Zuko and Azula is terrible parenting. Not only does Zuko have to show utmost formality and respect when speaking to Ozai, he must also hide any hint of dissenting thoughts. Meanwhile, when Azula grows desperate for approval, Ozai hands her a metaphorical cookie before glorifying himself. The end result? Zuko can never be himself and runs off, and Azula never learns of unconditional love.
Keep in mind, none of the above is told to us through another character or an anonymous narrator. We see the characters in action, and we see how Ozai’s influence shackles Zuko and Azula to their detriment, especially the latter’s by the end. The show demonstrates what an abusive family relationship they all share, and it’s enough for us to understand it. We also witness how a positive influence—namely, Iroh with Zuko—can help the abused in the long run.
Of course, there have been shows where conveying some kind of lesson at the end is part of the point. An episode of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic features Pinkie Pie babysitting a pair of baby twins. She finds out quickly that taking care of babies involves more than just playing around with them—they also have to be fed, changed, cleaned, and picked up after. It’s a lot for her to take in, but she finds out how to manage it all on the way. Pinkie Pie discusses her experiences at the end of the episode and admits that yes, she needed assistance.
Sure, the lesson is apparent. The thing is, Pinkie Pie’s monologue serves as both a summary of the things we’ve seen all episode and her personal reflections on it. It’s also framed as her writing about her experiences to a friend. Finally, it fits in the general format of the show, where the focus character talks about what they learned at an episode’s conclusion. Altogether, it allows the episode to relay its message in a way that sounds natural rather than condescending.
The point is that, yes, stories can and often do have lessons to impart. The key is to make sure it’s not delivered in an obnoxious, direct-to-the-audience fashion that breaks immersion. There should also be consistency between what your story shows, the general tone of it, and the lessons it wants to deliver. Showing the lessons through the characters will help it feel like a natural fit, especially if it looks like logical things they would do or say. Done right, and people will understand the lesson without even realizing it.
Meditating
With steady concentration, she focuses her power.
(Yet another illustration of my Tenno Operator in Warfame.)
One of My Impromptu Research Sessions
I was in the middle of a writing session one day when it occurred to me that I would have to describe a type of boat soon. Not just any ol’ boat, either, but one based on old sailing vessels from China. I had to stop writing do my research, but I admit it wasn’t very thorough at the time. I just wanted some rough idea of what kind of vessel I’d describe in my story and move on.
Of course, I realized I was far from done when it came to research. A bunch of questions hit me at the same time. How big is this vessel I’m featuring? What’s the layout of its interior? How do I extrapolate what I’ve learned so it applies to my story’s fantasy setting? I wasn’t even sure if this was quite the right ship I wanted for my main characters, but I was iffy on the other ships I learned about, too. That said, I thought I could make use of the extra info in different parts of the story should the chances present themselves.
Here’s how I narrowed down what I needed. First, I considered how many people would be on board at a time—in this case, a small crew of twelve and the main character’s party of five. The ship would need to not only the room to hold those individuals, but also the supplies to let them stay aboard comfortably for a few weeks or so. The ship would need room for a couple horses and a wagon, too. Second, I considered that I had what amounted to a trade ship, but one that could defend itself if need be, meaning it would need space for cannons and the necessary ammo.
Having these specifics in mind meant I didn’t have to look up every type of ancient Chinese sailing vessel, only the ones that seemed to fit my story best. Sure, I didn’t find exactly what I needed right away even with all this in mind, but it was still a starting place. For example, why look up warships if I’m not writing about one right now? So I filtered those out and focused on trade ships instead. In the event I do need to look up warships, I’ll know what to hone in on and what I can skim over.
Did this mean I didn’t write a whole lot in that day’s writing session? Yeah. However, I did consider the research important to do for my story. Plus, I can always make up the difference on another writing day, especially if I dedicate some time to researching information before my actual session.
Of course, I wouldn’t recommend replacing a whole writing session with research endeavors all the time. It’s better to do the research sometime before the writing session if possible. That way, you can use your session entirely for writing, and your research will be off to the side for you to look up when necessary. It just so happened that, for me, I wasn’t sure what I had to research until I hit a certain point. I’m glad I got it done when I did, though, rather than winging it with no information whatsoever.
The bottom line is, when you go into your own research sessions, always remember what your story needs. It’ll serve as your guide and help you find information that’ll help and filter out anything that won’t. You’re likely to find a lot of maybe-useful info, too, but that’s okay. Write it down anyway in case you can use it later, be it in your current project or a future one—or even because you thought it was a fun factoid you’d like to remember. Whatever the case may be, know that it’s all part of the process.
Portrait of a Leader
A quiet moment for the woman who once led the world.
Trope vs. Cliché
Thanks to trope archives on the internet, we’re more familiar than ever with the concepts—these building blocks of stories, in a sense. On the other hand, we’re also more aware of clichés and the rule to avoid them as much as possible. But what exactly separates a trope from a cliché? The terms fly around so much these days, they start sounding the same after a while except that one is “bad.” But how can we use one but not the other without knowing what the differences are?
Let’s start with what a trope is. Tropes are like archetypes. They’re universal and often encompass intrinsic parts of a story. You’re not likely to find a hero’s journey story without a hero, for instance. Neither is a pirate tale without ships and captains, a romance without a love interest, or a martial arts story without an old master. A lot of times, the tropes help the story they’re a part of, especially when a writer puts their own spin on them. There’s a reason why the hero’s journey is used so often throughout media—and if you want proof, look no further than The Odyssey and Star Wars.
So what is a cliché? In effect, a cliché is a phrase, a plot point, or even a trope that’s been overused. Think of how many times you’ve heard someone avoiding a thing “like the plague” or this other thing is “old hat,” or calling a baby “a bundle of joy.” Think of how often a love interest is kidnapped or murdered to further the angst of the hero. And in all fairness, any trope that shows up in a popular work will show up in everything, and will start feeling cliché as a result.
But tropes aren’t necessarily bad. Wherein lies the difference, then?
The difference is that a story doesn’t need clichés to work, but it does need tropes. In fact, certain kinds of stories that lack specific tropes might receive criticism for betraying their genre or essence in some way, as my list above alludes to. Using a trope or two for a character can serve as a starting point for writing them as a more fleshed-out person; e.g. the big guy in the five-man-band is his team’s main muscle, but maybe he knits as a hobby. However, the big guy doesn’t need to say things like, “I’ll grind you into dust!” for the audience to get the point of him. Just seeing him act as the team muscle when needed is enough.
So how did we come to conflate trope with cliché? As stated above, a trope can feel like a cliché if it’s used enough times—but in truth, it’s just oversaturation of the trope at work. Combine this with how readily people can throw up articles or videos about tropes and clichés, and you’re bound to find many who’ve simply mistaken one for the other. For example, if someone’s going on about how they dislike romance’s penchant for having a heroine and a brooding love interest, they’re likely talking about the tropes the characters embody, not actual clichés. By comparison, starting a story with a chase scene that flashes back to the inciting incident has been used often enough to become a cliché.
All of this is to say, don’t fear tropes as they can help more than you think. It’s also a simple reality that stories have tropes. Clichés, on the other hand, can dilute any uniqueness you bring to your topes; e.g. not every superhero has to sound like quippy Spider-Man or angsty Batman. Thankfully, clichés are relatively easy to avoid.
As for tropes, always remember the kind of story you’re writing first and foremost. It’s a lot easier to think of yourself as writing a story that happens to have tropes rather than tropes trying to tell a story. This means that, once you have the core of what you want, the tropes will reveal themselves. You can tweak and tinker as you like from there.
Fist Pump
A fist pump for victory! A starburst appearing in her favorite color is a bonus.
Writing Lulls in Conversation
Lately while writing, I’ve been questioning a lot how often I need phrases like “for a moment” or “a second later” when describing an action. In prose, it’s easy to disguise the pauses by describing an action or a change in expression a character makes. They’re not fidgeting every which way all the time, no, but phrases like “for a moment” can feel superfluous. Any one pattern that switches between dialogue and narration can also wear out its welcome when used enough.
So what do we do? Mixing it up is the obvious answer, but how do we do this and not break the flow of the conversation too much? In this case, it may be good to ask yourself this: Are character motivations a factor, or just character tics? In other words, is someone trying to find information without being obvious about it, or are they very shy and tend to stutter? Is it both? All these can be in play, which opens a myriad of possibilities.
To help narrow things down, here’s a sample scene. In it, Alice wants to learn the location of a place, and her sister Bonnie is the only person who might know. Alice doesn’t want to explain why, though, leading to the following conversation.
Alice peered into the kitchen, where Bonnie cut vegetables. “Say, Bonnie? Do you know where North Cross Station is?”
“North Cross Station? Hmm…” Bonnie set the knife down and drummed her fingers on the counter, eyes turned to the side. “I think that’s past the alley off Leonine Road. Why? No one really goes there anymore.”
Alice stiffened. Why had not been a question she’d been planning to answer. Her mind flailed for a response, and she hoped to goodness she replied soon enough to sound natural. “Oh, we’re doing reports on some old places in History class, and I got North Cross Station.”
Bonnie nodded, but then she looked over her shoulder at Alice. “Do you need me to come with you?”
“No, no. I know where Leonine Road is, so I should be fine. Thanks.”
An eyebrow rose on Bonnie’s face by the slightest amount. Before the silence grew overwhelming, she gave a shrug. “If you say so.”
Notice how in the example, I don’t use a phrase like “for a moment” at any point. The closest I get is at the “Before the silence grew overwhelming” part, but otherwise, the pauses are apparent just in what the narration says between the dialogue. For instance, when Alice asks her question, I don’t have to say Bonnie stopped to think because the description of what she’s doing makes it clear.
As for the part where Alice answers why, the narration doesn’t make clear how long it actually takes her to form a response. Sure, she “hoped… she replied soon enough,” but nothing indicates she took as long to answer as it did for the reader to read the narration beforehand. Would this be a good time to specify if “just a moment” passed, or could one be satisfied with how it is? To be honest, it could go either way, depending on your preference.
For me personally, if I wanted to specify, I may change a line to, “It must’ve worked because Bonnie just nodded and looked over her shoulder.” Otherwise, I may leave it just so there’s not too much narration between lines of dialogue. Either way, I’d feel like the parts I wanted to convey made it to the page okay.
This isn’t the only way to show a lull in a conversation, of course, with or without phrases like “for a moment.” Whether someone needs time to think of what to do or say, or their actions hint at something, or what have you, a pause of some kind is as natural as speaking. Obviously, outright specifying someone paused “for a moment” isn’t always necessary, but it’s okay if a couple slip in. Just do so with care, no different from any other writing guideline.
Random Short Stuff 