Swain-6-3

Dwight V. Swain
Author
Techniques of the Selling Writer
Chapter 6 – II. How to get a story started.

With this preliminary strategy under the belt, Swain turns his attention to getting the story under way by letting the reader know that there’s going to be a fight, a kind of fight that reader will be interested in exploring; Therefore, the beginning should spotlight three things: desire, danger, decision. Someone wants to attain or retain something. Something else threatens his chances of so doing. He decides to fight the threat. The trick, he says, is to pinpoint the audience’s taste and refrain from attempting to inflict his copy on the wrong people.

Swain then breaks the problem of beginning a story down into six categories;

A. Where to open.

A story can open any place, at any point. Some writers advocate for starting from a landscape, a fist fight, a still life, or the close-up of a character or an object. Other editors say start with an argument, a fight, something that puts the focal character in trouble.

Essentially, a story begins with change, a day that’s different, a change from someone’s accustomed routine, status, or comfort zone. Maybe an unusual arrival, the arrival of a new element—person, place, or thing. But basically a story begins with change, and to do so, there must exist four things:

(1) There must be an existing situation, a state of affairs in which the focal character functions— a placid suburban home, a battlefield, a shady creek-bank. Whatever the situation, the focal character accepts it since it follows an anticipated routine.

(2) Change enters. A new element enters—person, event, routine, or relationship. Whatever the element is, it must change the original situation. The change doesn’t have to be disaster, it could be good news, a promotion, a new friend, a new position.

(3) Affected character. The change somehow affects the focal character by modifying character’s state of affairs. “Honey, I want a divorce.” “You’re going to be a father.” “Stick ‘em up, mister!” “You’re under arrest!” If character is not affected, no change has taken place. But faced with a change, character reacts. How character reacts reveals his attitudes, principles, prejudices, direction, training, or presuppositions. His actions may not be warranted by the change objectively, but how he feels about them, subjectively, is what counts.

(4) Consequences. A change must prove the trigger for continuing consequences. Change must set off a chain reaction. Change must bring character to do unanticipated things. It must start a fire that character fights to put out. Character must find himself in an intolerable state of affairs—anything he finds too upsetting to ignore. Intolerable in the sense that it endangers character’s chances of attaining or retaining something subjectively important to him. If the intolerable element can be personified—given life in an active opponent—that’s even better.

Swain says that an old rule-of-thumb is to begin a story just before the trouble starts—or just as the trouble starts—or just after the trouble’s started. In other words, start as close to change or trouble as possible. Drawing from the previous ideas: Start just before the change impinges, just as it takes place, or just after it takes place. The approach is made by each individual writer and each particular story. However, Swain says there are some important points to consider:

First, opening too far ahead of the initial change carries the chance of boring the reader. Readers are impatient and the book should hook the reader fast, some writers say in the first paragraph. If a fictional story begins with half-page description of the old family manor, it will probably kill the writer dead, dead, dead, Swain says.

Second, opening on the change itself may leave reader feeling like he’s hanging suspended in a vacuum. Reader needs perspective to evaluate the phenomenon. Change coming from nowhere, unrelated to any background or existing situation, may lose most of its impact. Swain says, for example, “The blow struck by a thug in a barroom brawl has different implications—and touches a different reader interest level—than the punch thrown by a preacher.”

Third, opening after the change has taken place may force writer to sandwich in lumpy masses of explanation later in the story. Some skillful writers may be able to begin a story with “I dropped to one knee and fired twice,” but there’s likely the difficulty of incorporating a smooth explanation of precisely how the whole business started.

B. How to open.

The author argues that in terms of actual presentation, a good first paragraph is one that persuades reader to continue to the second paragraph and so on. The fist paragraph should pique reader’s curiosity, raise a question, make him wonder what is going on, what’s this leading up to? Therefore, material should be presented in terms that indicate the story’s leading up to something, which demands that a story state and/or imply:

(1) Uniqueness, without a like or equal. Uniqueness should make reader wonder what the story is leading to. It can be done obviously: “The car had a spoiler painted red,” or subtly: “This night he lay awake.”
(2) The unanticipated. The hero, for example, is also a spy. Grandpa subscribes to Playboy. The sheriff was taking bribes from the mayor. The unanticipated intrigues reader and makes him want to read on.
(3) Deviation from the routine. “The officer stripped off his uniform, hanging it carefully in the locker and donned a G-string.” “Instead of cereal, the wife threw bread and peanut butter on the table.” Such deviations raise questions in reader’s mind, making him want to read the next paragraph.
(4) A change about to take place. “The supervisor call John into the office.” “Mildred opened her purse to make sure the Colt revolver was there.” “Hanes ducked into the doorway.”
(5) Inordinate attention to the commonplace. “Sarah placed her hand on the doorknob, which felt cold to her touch. The glass had been etched in Germany and carried back after World War II by her father. It was made of the clearest crystal she had ever seen, and she constantly dusted it to be sure there were no fingerprints.

These aren’t the only ways to begin a story, Swain says. One can begin with a motivating stimulus, character reaction, the search for a goal, or the struggle to attain a goal. The place where the beginning goes wrong, however, is when writer rides his reader’s assumption too hard—the assumption that what he’s reading will relate to something satisfying and exciting—desire, danger, or a character fighting for fulfillment and future happiness. Reader will not suffer drabness and ineptitude long. He may plow his way through the first page or two before laying the work aside. It’s literary suicide, Swain says, to think the vivid noun, active verb, colorful phrase, intriguing detail, or clever twist will snag reader’s attention. What reader wants is the future, to be reassured that something worth reading about is going to happen—and he wants that reassurance now.

So, the author says, give him what he wants. Show him that the story deals with something special—something outside the framework of routine and day-to-day anticipation. Show him now. Right from the start. The next line, the next paragraph, the next page may be too late.

C. What to put in.

The author says that writers begin stories by creating a “story world” in reader’s blank mind, and then transporting him away from reality to the imaginary world of the story. Begin the story by pinpointing the significant—“that incident or detail which epitomizes and/or symbolizes and/or captures the essence of whatever aspect of the story world you’re attempting to communicate.” In directly, subtly, fashion details that will stick in reader’s mind, perhaps even unconsciously. For example, describing a building as dreary, or a room as cluttered, or a character as disheveled calls attention to that facet, gives it weight, marks it as significant and reader will hold it in his mind as background for the story.

The process of symbolization is so natural that reader will probably not be aware that writer has used this strategy. An office with a cluttered desk symbolizes inattention to detail and slovenliness. A dapper young man with slicked back hair, turned up shirt collar, and skin tight pants, makes one symbol while another young man with a cowboy hat, string tie, and cowboy boots creates another symbol.

The task of a writer is to create a symbol that will be useful throughout the story. Blow up any fragment into any situation, make it close-up, make it fill reader’s attention. The focal character, for example, is left handed, has an eye-twitch, smokes long cigars, drives too fast, she wears skirts too short, has oversized breasts, has long hair, and on and on. Whatever the symbol is, used with skill, it becomes what Swain and others call a “gimmick”—“one of the most useful devices for resolving your story.”

Three story-world questions.
Taking reader into the story world, writer needs to answer three questions:

First, story question is where am I? Reader needs to know where he is and the earlier the better—in the west, in a corporate office, in a classroom, in a board meeting, in a bar. Avoid letting reader made false assumptions that may throw him for a loss later. If reader thinks, for example, that a scene takes place in a New York corporate boardroom only to find out that it is a meeting in the back room of a seedy bar, he will experience story confusion. Swain cautions, however, to avoid excessive verbiage, long-winded explanations and descriptions that bore reader.

Establishing locale can be done by writing a few symbolic fragments into the story to set the locale in the reader’s mind—a fire ablaze in the ornate living room fireplace, the morning light shining through the white drapes of the bedroom, the car winding its way along Route 99 in New Mexico, or the speaker stood behind the podium as he spoke to the shareholders. A few words will be as effective as pages of description about the dirty carpet in the messy office.

Second, story question is what’s up? What’s going on? What’s going on right now? Not what has gone on or what’s in the background or past history. The story should communicate present action, show what’s happening as it happens, moment by moment in strict chronological order. The story certainly has a history; the place for that history is not in the beginning. If there’s a shot, hear it. If he shouts at his secretary, hear it. If he sneezes, hear it.

It’s important to capture the state of affairs on paper with careful language and the selection of detail. “No matter what fragment you need to introduce, you call it to your reader’s attention as an immediate stimulus, a present action.”

Of course, there will be times to deviate from the sense of immediacy, when writer goes into past or future at the beginning of a story; however, it should be a conscious and intentional technique, designed to create a predetermined effect and to solve a specific problem. Venturing out of the present at the beginning of the story should be a conscious act not mere clumsiness, lack of insight, or ineptitude.

Stretching out the question of what’s going on, writer needs to answer the question of what should be going on? And provide a pointed answer to that is conflict. This is basically done by facing focal character with opposition. This can be done by showing what is happening as it happens, moment by moment, in strict chronological order. All that is needed—two people, one person and nature, two objects, one in opposition to the other. The clash can be physical—a punch in the nose—or philosophical—“I object, your honor”—or natural, “The cold was gradually making his fingers so stiff that he couldn’t pull the trigger on the rifle.”

The conflict must relate to the story, so it takes planning to construct a self-explanatory scene that establishes the element of conflict or struggle that will hook reader early.

To establish conflict writer may use a “bone of contention” strategy, some item or event that demonstrates that something’s at issue, even though for the moment your reader doesn’t understand it. The wife refuses to attend the awards banquet, the cabbie has a ducky on the seat beside him, or there’s one cup in the cupboard that on one else may use without conflict. The bone of contention may seem inconsequential, but it symbolizes a relationship, a state of mind, a trigger, or a potential. It objectifies an issue, it creates conflict.

Third, the story involves people, and the place to introduce them in at the beginning. Therefore, the character should be brought in in-character. Character must behave like the kind of person he is in order to let reader know what to expect of him. So a man may carefully tie a Winsor knot, a woman may fasten the top button on her blouse, a boss may lazily chomp on his cigar as he fires his associate.

(A) A character, therefore, must have character—reader must know where character stands, what he’s against or for, what his desires are, what his skill is, or in what direction he’s headed. A successful character must be a living, breathing, human being with drives, ambitions, and attitudes.

(B) The first time character appears, he must perform some act that characterizes him. It’s action that demonstrates his character—show, don’t tell. Therefore, each story person must act so as to reveal their true nature, in action. Each character must act so as to display and establish that aspect of himself that will be important to the story.

While human behavior is complicated, in a story the focus is on a crisis in someone’s life; therefore, a single trait may dominate. While everyone possesses a host of attitudes and behavior traits, not all are equally dominant at any given time. In fact the trait that motivates one today, may not even influence tomorrow’s behavior. In a story, however, Swain suggests letting one trait stay dominant in each character. Sure, there may be some divergence, some contrast, some contradictions, but for the story, keep one trait in the spotlight.

(C) The characterizing act must be both pertinent and characteristic—the characterizing act should match the role. If the dominant character trait of focal character is honesty, he can be shown returning the incorrect change to the clerk. If the woman’s focal characteristic is brashness, she can be shown to curtly deflect her colleagues advances. On the other side, the story should not present a character in an act not typical of him.

Three main points about “how to” introduce characters:

First, introduce characters realistically. In other words, give an impression of the person first, because that is the way we see people. We pay no heed to details until a person and/or detail become important to us. The handiest tool for capturing a first impression is significant detail, so description should center on whatever sticks out about character—his rumpled clothes, his urbane speech, her false eyelashes, her much too tight dress, his large hands. While minor characters need only an obvious, abbreviated kind of label, when one character appraises the person to be introduced more detail may be necessary, but even here, a little restraint ordinarily is desirable.

Second, begin the characters in action. Reader will probably not put up with long-winded, static description of a character, complete with family tree. Today the desire is for focal character to be alive, breathing, doing something—preferably something interesting. So character should be doing something. Prepare reader for their entrance—a knock on the door, the ringing of a phone, a speech at a meeting, or the opening of a door. Character should not simply appear, pop out of nowhere.

Third, don’t bring on too many people at once. True, characters should be introduced in a hurry, but if they are presented in a jumble of names reader will probably not remember them. So a vivid entrance that hooks reader’s interest is more vital than a host of names.

The story question is: Whose skin am I in? In addition to time, place, and circumstance, the story must also have viewpoint—the perspective from which reader sees the story. It’s the position and perspective reader occupies in order to savor the fictional experience. That vantage point is “insider somebody’s skin.” Reader lives through the story as some specific character experiences it. He’ll see, hear, smell, taste, touch, think, and feel what focal person sees, hears, etc., nothing else, no looking through walls, no second-guessing motives, no sneaking around in somebody else’s brain. This may put reader inside the focal character, or make him another major participant, or a minor player or bystander.

As early as possible writer must let the reader know that he’s looking, thinking, and behaving through the eyes of a particular person, living through that person’s skin. Literary view points include: first person, second person, third person limited, third person omniscient, third person objective, stream of consciousness, unreliable narrator, or multiple viewpoints. Writer should establish for reader early on the viewpoint—the skin he’ll be wearing.

Do’s and don’ts

In answering reader’s questions—Where am I? What’s up? Whose skin am I in?—Swain offers two concluding do’s and two don’ts.

(a) Do prepare the reader for what’s ahead. The author suggests that planting and plotting are the easiest yet most effective ways for strengthening the story.
(b) Do establish in action—by this he emphasizes the principle: “Don’t tell, show!”
(c) Don’t give bum steers. A wrong assumption infuriates reader. Careful planning and plotting help reader guess right.
(d) Don’t get too eager, trying to crowd too much too fast, which the author says is a sure short cut to disaster.

D. What to leave out.

In getting the story under way, writer needs to consider things to leave out— what Swain says is past history. After all, reader’s interest centers on the future, not the past. He wants to know what will happen as desire struggles against danger, not what did happen that led to the present conflict. The past is sealed, nothing can change it. It’s over; done. So, what suspense can it possibly hold?

The story beginning should stick to the present, what’s happening right now. There is of course a history, a background to the story, but writer must be careful as to where and how to bring it in.

A flashback is one way to bring in the past, when someone in the present remembers what happened in the past. However, Swain says the point to remember is: “Don’t open with it!” Reader’s interest is fragile in the beginning, it’s a tenuous thing. So boring him with flashback, past history, even briefly, will likely turn him off. Once his interest is aroused, however, it’s possible that reader will desire the background, the flashback, that he’d spurned a page or two before.

Discussion of past action, or verbalized flashback or spoke flashback, is another way of bringing the past into the story. But the caution is the same as with flashback—don’t open with it. No matter where it fits in the story, though, don’t let it drag out and become a bore. To avoid that, Swain suggests three tricks:

a. Figure out a way to show the event itself, instead of having people talk about it.
b. Reduce the content of the comments by consolidating two or three events into one, limiting the number of points to be made, and the like.
c. Reduce the length of the comments by making the speakers talk with normal succinctness, instead of a with phony fulsome quality that marks speech for the convenience of the author.

A summary of past action is another way to bring the past into the story. This amounts to a flashback in writer’s own words. Writer can translate history into action, or stop thinking reader needs to know as much background to read the story as writer needs to know to write it.

Concluding this section, Swain asks if there is anything else that should be left out of the opening, and he answers: “Yes: too much.” Too much, he writes includes too many characters, too much detail, too involved a setting situation, etc. He says that clutter and confusion are the mortal enemies of good fiction. So writer should strive for clean, sharp, simple text.

E. How to introduce needed information.

Writer introduces story content, Swain writes, through exposition, which he defines as whatever reader needs to know about what happened in the past in order to better appreciate what’s going to happen in the future. Writer’s worst enemy here is the literary plague knows as “author convenience,” a term used to describe moments in a story where events, character behavior, or plot development occur not because they make logical or realistic sense within the world of the story, but because they make things easier for the author. In other words, it’s when the integrity of the narrative is compromised for the sake of plot advancement, pacing, or thematic delivery.

To avoid author convenience, writer should make the facts to be presented important to the story—and to the people in the story. Set facts forth in a manner that allows the characters to appear as normal, intelligent human beings. To achieve this end, Swain suggests:

1. Cut to the bone the amount of information writer gives to reader.
2. Break up essential content. Instead of shoving a half-page of past history to reader in one lump, break it up into smaller, natural segments.
3. Make reader need the information. Motivate reader attention by making him need and go in search of the needed information. Don’t retell reader what he already knows.
4. Make reader have to fight to learn what he needs to know. This is accomplished by making the information available without narrating it. It can be displayed as attitude, behavior, or scene without being told. Reader must pay attention.
5. Tie information to action. The action of accurately firing a pistol conveys more information than being told someone is a good marksman. Letting focal character receive three invitations to dinner is clearer than being told that he is popular.
6. Motivate some character to pay attention to anything you want your reader to notice. Character performs an act, say, winks at a pretty girl and character two asks if he knows her, or has known her, or whether he’s in a relationship.
7. Present your data subjectively, in most instances. If character is in a committed relationship, let reader feel his loneliness when she’s away, or agony when she falls for someone else.
8. Above all, let no one talk about anything he wouldn’t normally discuss. Men are often reticent to talk about their fear, or dreams, or failures. So character may not be willing to talk about his hidden goal or dream. So just because writer needs a particular fragment of data—dream, fear, or goal—that doesn’t mean writer can legitimately introduce some reticent information from an otherwise sharp character and have reader accept it.

F. The end of the beginning or when to close.

Desire plus danger characterizes the beginning of any story. However, what determines where the beginning ends, for a beginning that drags on too long drives reader away. So, what determines where the beginning of the story ends? The answer: decision. The moment character decides, by word or deed, the beginning is over. The story has begun. So, Swain says, as early as possible, make character commit himself. Let him decide to fight the danger that threatens his desire, instead of stalling or backing off or running from it.

The story is a record of how somebody deals with danger, so when character makes up his mind to fight the danger, rather than run from it, the story begins. Curiosity may hook the reader in the beginning, but suspense holds him the rest of the way through. The story question hangs in the air: Will character win, or won’t he? Suspense is reaction, a feeling in reader. The story compounds it with hope and fear—the fear that something will or won’t happen. Uncertainty engenders fear. The story question is: Will he win or won’t he? As soon as character decides to fight, the beginning automatically ends, and the story proper begins—the body of the central conflict.

The importance of commitment cannot be overemphasized. If character refuses to commit, he seems passive and the beginning drags on forever until reader lays the story aside, unsatisfied. So, Swain says: “Do let your hero decide to fight!”

Beginning a story with a peripheral issue can be done if the side issue has a clear and perceptible relationship to the main story issue. In the same way, character’s decision to commit himself must center squarely on the core of the story, rather than a peripheral issue.

Reader’s suspense is a compound of hope as well as fear. He must come to care what happens to character or he won’t worry, and will likely put the story aside. Worry, after all, is the big product that a writer sells. If character shows no sign of emotion, of caring, of fighting, neither will reader care or worry. Previous – How to line-up story elements
Next – How to develop middle segments
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