Worldbuilding, One Bridge At A Time.

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The cover art for Katharine Kerr’s Daggerspell, by Keith Parkinson

Worldbuilding is an art in itself, a process that requires us to think about a range of different topics from geography to economics. We often find ourselves concocting detailed timelines showing the various wars, famines, necromancy-aided zombie outbreaks, dragon attacks, royal successions, orc invasions and other major incidents, and sketching out maps of the entire globe, with even the most far-flung nation states named and their kings, queens, customs and preferred methods of warfare carefully outlined. The reader might never even glimpse these places, or find them mentioned in the story, but that’s often the way with worldbuilding. Most of the hard work is hidden behind the text, never to be seen.

But sometimes we can overlook the simplest and most evocative method or worldbuilding: the exploration of the immediate world. It’s the struggle between the grand and the granular vision; do we peer into the distance and dream of what might lie beyond those gleaming, sun-clad peaks, or do we instead choose to describe how the hero’s wizened guide picks his teeth with what looks like an arrowhead which hangs fixed from his wrinkled neck on a filthy leather band?

Let’s think about the arrowhead. Perhaps our hero is erudite enough to know the history of this part of our world. She astutely judges the guide to be some years shy of sixty, though his hard life has made him seem decades older. From this, she deduces that he might have been around when the kingdom was attacked by the Gorrokhin Flood, a horde of warped creatures in the sway of a cabal of mad sorcerers. She might also know that the Gorrokhin were beaten back not by the celebrated Greatswords of the King’s Own, or by the well-armed militias, but by a large band of local huntsmen who placed themselves in harm’s way, completely unarmoured, with only their bows and arrows to protect them. At this moment, she sees the crooked guide in a different light. Pities him perhaps, that his glorious courage had not been better rewarded. That most – but not her, not now – might see him as a mere peasant offering to lead travellers through the countryside for a few copper pieces.

This tiny detail lets us peek into the history of the immediate world. Not the globe, with its distant power brokers, pensive empires and fabulous beasts, but the people around the protagonists. Their history, their pathos. By paying this kind of attention, we end up crafting a lived-in world, a place that feels authentic.

The Road Itself

I was clearing out some old books recently – a pretty gruelling experience in which I discovered not only the frightening number of books I purchased in recent years, but how many of them I hadn’t managed to read – and came across English Wayfaring Life in the Middle Ages. Published by J. J. Jusserand, it’s precisely the kind of charming old book in which wisdom is expressed in that archaic and convoluted way that we might call flowery and ‘very much of its time’. I can’t judge this too harshly, of course; it was published in 1889… and besides, that’s how I write now, so how can I point fingers at good old Triple-J?

Flicking through it, I found a lot of stuff that resonated with me, beavering away as I am beneath the mantle of fantasy writer. Things I would have found tedious before seem vitally important now. Take, for instance, the focus of the very first chapter: roads and bridges.

Now this is what I mean by the immediate world, the granular detail rather than the grand vista. What could be more commonplace, more emblematic of a fantasy world, than a battered old bridge over a trickling stream in the depths of the darkest forest? We can already hear the staccato clacking of the horse as it tentatively picks its way across the stones, unsure of its footing. Will the bridge hold? It’s sure to tumble down one day. Perhaps today?

But this bit of mild peril isn’t the point. I’m interested here in what our bridge might tell us about the world in which it finds itself. Jusserand’s book talks of the trinoda necessitas, the three obligations of the King’s subjects, one of these being the repairing of bridges. Now, most worlds we build are much like our own. They are shaped by three things: gods, gold and greed. The building and maintenance of bridges in England was seen as “pious and meritorious work”; it’s no coincidence that the word Pontiff means bridge-builder.

Bridges allowed the lifeblood of the nation to flow. And this lifeblood was of course labour, and therefore money. Jusserand tells us of the unscrupulous Godfrey Pratt who installed iron bars and a toll, charging travellers for the right to cross his bridge, but allowing nobility to cross for free (since they had the power to censure him). He was eventually removed from duty by an abbot who swiftly abolished the toll. Now there was a bridge with a story to tell.

We can unpack all of this. The drama tells us that the church had a great deal of power, as did the nobility. In this society money is exchanged for services. There must also be reasonable enforcement of the law, too, since Pratt wasn’t caved in with a mace for daring to try and extort money from wayfarers.

It’s not just the bridges that tell a story about the society that produced them. Jusserand also details how the Romans constructed their roads.

  1. Pavimentum, or foundation, fine earth, hard beaten in.

  2. Statumen, or bed of the road, composed of large stones, sometimes mixed with mortar.

  3. Ruderatio, or small stones well mixed with mortar.

  4. Nucleus, formed by mixing lime, chalk, pounded brick or tile; or gravel, sand, and lime mixed with clay.

  5. Upon this was laid the surface of the paved road, technically called the summum dorsum.

Not only is this interesting (if you’re into that kind of thing) but we can start to see how even the roads beneath a traveller’s feet can reveal a violent history of invasion, domination, rebellion and overthrow. The people who built these roads are no longer present, their empire no longer in command. But the roads themselves remain, and are absolutely essential to the function of the nation.

Dipping into Jusserand’s book helped to crystallise those ideas I was having about the importance of small details and perhaps from now on I’ll try to pay more attention to the immediate environment in my worldbuilding. I’ll think not only about the distant past, the loftiest peaks and the greatest wars, but also of the charms around the necks of vagrants, the old bridges and the roads that run from city to city over which tradesmen travel in horse and cart, without themselves looking down at the rich history beneath hoof and wheel.

Sure, we want to dream big. We want to show the reader how vast our world is and what wonders await later in our series. But we should never forget how the simplest, smallest details – those things that are closest, rather than hugely distant – can bring a world to life.

C.

 

Chris O’Mara is a fantasy writer. His novel Healer’s Ruin is available on Amazon in ebook and paperback format. You can read it for free with Amazon Prime.

FB mini Healer's Ruin Winter Edition Cover

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Sitrep! Or, where’s the next novel, loser?

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Because it’s not all coffee, real ale and Netflix. Occasionally, there’s writing.

Hey everyone, hope you’re all doing well. Its been a little while since I published anything and I wanted to take a moment to let you know what’s going down in O’Maratown (except for my income, obviously).

The good news is, there are two projects nearing completion. The first is a fantasy novel that has been in the works since Healer’s Ruin was first published. Originally intended to be another short tome, it mushroomed into a much larger story. The plan to publish in April 2017 looks like it might have to be abandoned (you like books with endings, right?) with June looking more realistic. This June. Probably.

It’s a little darker than Healer’s Ruin, with a few more characters and multiple threads. This one will be a standalone narrative, so won’t be continuing on from that first novel. Sorry to those who’ve been asking for Healer’s Ruin 2: The Return of Happy Endings. You might have a longer wait for that.

The second project is a novella about two adventurers. It’s fun and violent, full of dark magic and mild (alright, extreme) peril, and will be the first of many forays for these quirky mercenaries. This book should be available by the end of May. Which is really exciting. Eeeeeek!

Artwork has been sorted out for both books and beta-readers will be invited pretty soon (although soon is, as you know, an elastic concept in O’Maratown) so give me a follow on Twitter and I can keep you informed of my misadventures.

I’m also doing a few chapter surgeries, in which writers send me a chapter of their work, and I give them notes. This is great fun, and humbling. There are a lot of really talented people out there. I really must do better.

So, that’s me. How are you doing? Well, I hope!

Stay cool,

C.

Founder or Flounder?

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OK, I’m going to deal with this. For as long as I can remember, I have been cursed with the inability to remember the difference between founder and flounder. I’ve just hit a point in my WIP when one main character is drowning, and another ploughs headlong into the water to save him, and I found myself yet again trying to remember which of these two words I’m looking for.

So, in an attempt to make this stick in my brain once and for all, I’m going to write this down and publish it on the blog. It might not be the most informative, helpful or entertaining thing I’ve ever written, but maybe it will help me retain this piece of information. Maybe there are other ditzy Cancerians out there who might benefit from this kind of granular shit, too.

Right, let’s do this properly, and make a game of it. Here’s our scenario.

The priest is drowning. He’s just been deposited in a strange ocean, with very little warning. The tide is drawing him away from an island dominated by strange black rocks. He gasps as water fills his mouth, his arms already becoming tired. He continues to flail, heart hammering. The water is very cold. Something vast circles around him in the water, a dark shadow, like a noose slowly drawing taut. He begins to sink.

So, what do you think? Does the priest founder or flounder?

Take your pick!

Now, let’s see if you were right. What were the names of the two contenders, again?

Well, in the blue corner, we have Founder. This word can mean either ‘to fill with water and sink,’ just like the Titanic, or it can mean ‘to falter, fail or collapse.’ Apparently – and I didn’t know this – it can also mean ‘to get sick after eating too much.’ So if you chose this one, you were wrong. Unlucky.

In the red corner, we have Flounder. This word generally means ‘to struggle to no avail,’ especially in water. If you sat down to take a test and hadn’t done any revision, you might flounder. If you were asked, “Which of Lenin’s words moved you the most?” you might flounder too (not me, though; I love I Am The Walrus)*. If you chose this option, you were right. Go you!

So the priest is in the water, arms flailing, half-way drowned. He is a textbook flounderer. If he had been a passenger on a ship, and the ship had sprung a leak, and he had jumped overboard, he would be floundering and the ship would be foundering.

But wait, these words are almost exactly the same. How on earth am I going to remember this, and make sure I use the right word going forward?

Well, I have a plan. The word founder contains the word found. The meaning of this word is to sink, fail, etc. so you could say that it has ‘found’ its resting place. A foundered ship has found the bottom of the ocean; a foundered horse has found the ground.

As for flounder, it shares more in common with flail than founder does; a person who flounders is going to be flailing, if he or she is doing it properly (and if you fail at floundering, that means you’re swimming, I suppose… which means you’re pretty much safe… until you get into the shore and founder through sheer exhaustion, at which point you get pulled out to sea again, and flounder. There’s no escape).

So the ship sank and found the bottom of the ocean… it foundered.

The heroine falls into the sea and flails in a panic… she’s floundering.

This might just help me remember the difference.

C.

*If I can fit a Big Lebowski reference into three blog posts in a row, I win a bowling ball.

NSFW: How much swearing is too much?

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The Big Lebowski is a fine film in which the word ‘fuck’ is used 260 times.*

“Bollocks,” said Aragorn, spitting into the frozen midden, the winter’s chill harsh against his cheek. “We’d have been fine if it wasn’t for all these fucking orcs.”

Now, you’re unlikely to remember this line of dialogue from The Lord of the Rings. Back when Tolkein was writing, this sort of language didn’t appear in mainstream fiction all that much, if at all. But today, writers of fantasy and science fiction can feel free to pepper their dialogue with profanities.

Horror, I believe, set the trend for this. But then, horror didn’t really have the same obsession with romantic heroism and lofty human ideals that fantasy and science fiction did, so was always in a better position to open those particular floodgates of shitfuckery. Nowadays, even popular videogames contain swearing. You’ll find it in poetry, too, and hear it at the theatre. Profanity is ubiquitous and it’s here to stay.

This doesn’t mean that it has free reign, though.

In popular culture, there are techniques that enable TV and film makers to employ swear-words without really having done so. In the popular drama House, for example, the main character is routinely referred to as an “ass”. We know they really mean “asshole”, but by using the alternative, they not only convey precisely what they need to, they do it without stepping over the boundaries set by the broadcasters and channel executives. We know what they mean… and that’s what matters.

This happens in translations, too. In the Japanese dub of Die Hard, our hero John McClane drops an improvised explosive down a lift-shaft and says, “Yippee kay-yay, motherfucker.” When this film was dubbed for the Japanese market, the insult became “you country bumpkin” instead. It’s offensive, in the context of Japanese culture, but not as offensive as the original dialogue.

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“Goodness me, but this situation vexes me no end!”

Interestingly, when movies are translated the other way, the opposite happens. Japanese films, especially anime, often have swearwords added. Baka, which simply means idiot or fool, usually becomes something much more adult when dubbed for the Western market, because a hard-boiled cop doesn’t say, “I’m going to kill you, idiot,” in Western culture. He says, “I’m going to kill you, asshole.” The former just doesn’t make sense to us. It doesn’t feel authentic.

Put simply, if someone wrote Lord of the Rings today, you could bet that at some point someone would utter the word ‘fuck’… and we wouldn’t bat an eyelid, because in the midst of all that drama and violence, we would expect people to lose their rag a little.

So should my characters swear?

There’s no reason not to, as long as your judgement is sound. If you’re writing a YA novel, it’s probably not a good idea to be too crude. Otherwise, feel free. Just make sure it’s in character. The High Elf Prince is unlikely to tell someone to “piss off”, and the grizzled soldier is unlikely to shout “fiddlesticks!” when he loses an ear in a duel. But with a little taste and a feel for what’s right you can ensure that if there is swearing, it at least comes out of the right mouth.

There are going to be those who don’t like to swear too much in their writing. Now, my characters swear a little, but not too often. They swear less than is realistic, in all honesty, considering what I put them through. But I like to use bad language sparingly, rather than cram as much in as possible, mainly because it can come across as juvenile if you do it too much, as if you’re simply trying to shock like some nihilistic internet troll. That gets old very, very quickly.

So how do we get around the issue of authenticity? For instance, how do we recount discussions between hardened soldiers without using hundreds of expletives?

Many moons ago, I took a linguistics course at the University of Kent. As you might expect, this often involved phonetically transcribing recorded speech. The one thing I took from this is that human beings do not say what they think they say. Let’s put this into context: say I ask a friend how she is, and she replies, “I, uh, well, you know, I think I’m, yeah, I’m fine, I suppose.” If I was writing this as dialogue in a book, her reply would have been recorded as, “I think I’m fine,” or “I’m fine, I suppose.” It conveys the same thing.

Notice in most novels people speak very clearly. They say what they mean. They don’t jumble their words. In reality, they wouldn’t speak with the same clarity, but fiction isn’t reality. In many ways, it’s an idealised version of reality, in which people enunciate perfectly all the time. Writers often take this further. In The Island of the Day Before by Umberto Eco, a character makes a long-winded philosophical speech whilst duelling, something which is pretty much impossible (although there is a sense of irony to the scene). But we forgive this, don’t we? This is because we subconsciously accept, I would say, that the writer is giving us an approximation of what would actually have been said. When two thieves meet and discuss their plan, we accept that the writing doesn’t convey all of their slang, or their dialect. For the sake of the reader’s comprehension, the writer has to sacrifice a certain amount of realism, and we accept it without question.

We do the same with swearing. Throw some never-do-wells together, and have them talk about cutting throats and stealing coinpurses, and your reader will imagine the sort of people who might well swear every other word. If you actually do this, your text may come across as boring and a little tasteless. Slip the odd “shit” in there, and the reader will get just enough of a hint of the character of these individuals to accept the dialogue as authentic.

What if I don’t want to swear?

If you don’t want to swear, you don’t have to. Seriously, you just don’t.

As a kid, I read 2000 AD comics. In this, they had their own swear-words. Characters would shout “Stomm!” if a laser blast arced past their head. In Judge Dredd, people say “Drokk!” In the magnificent RPG Elder Scrolls: Morrowind, the most popular insult you’ll hear is “Swit!” which actually sounds dirty. In the TV series Firefly, they used Chinese insults. If you want some funnier examples, there’s a Fry and Laurie sketch in which they invent new expletives to avoid censorship, including “Prunk” and “Pim-hole.” They sound filthy, but they’re not. There’s also an episode of King of the Hill in which a character invents his own swear-word and gets in trouble with his teachers when he is confronted with something that displeases him and declares, “this womps!”

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Now, if you’re writing fantasy or science-fiction, there’s no reason why you can’t invent your own swear-words. You don’t even have to explain what they mean. If you’re clever, you can come up with something that sounds offensive (“swit” is just brilliant; you could start a fight in a pub calling someone that, even if they don’t get it). So go ahead, be creative. Then you can swear all you like, and people will think you’re a genius, too.

To conclude, these days swearing is fine, unless you’re writing for kids. It can help to sharpen the jagged edge of a gritty scene, or convey authenticity and character. But if you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to. And if you want to include swearing, but without actually swearing, that is also possible.

As with everything, whatever we do, we should it for a reason, and do it in a way that makes sense.

Thanks for reading, and keep fucking writing,

C.

*The Big Lewbowski is also one of my favourite films. As I’m sure many of you will remember, The Dude’s deadly-serious response to this question, is “what the fuck you talking about?”

Should we give the audience what they want?

star-warsyOften, climactic scenes can be predictable… but is this really a problem?

I recently finished a popular science fiction novel in which all the heroes’ hopes were dashed, they lost their spacecraft, thousands of sleeping humans were dumped into high orbit in vast cells presumably until the batteries of their cryo-tubes ran out and the galaxy was eaten by robots. I think some of the main characters survived, after a fashion.

It was brilliant.

It was also devastating. Having become emotionally involved in the narrative, and having invested a reasonable amount of time following the team’s misadventures, to see it all unravel at the last minute made me feel a little cheated. No matter how much I told myself that the author had no responsibility to make me feel good by page 400, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he had somehow sidestepped me and shivved me in the kidney. Backstab, critical hit.

We expect happy endings, don’t we? This is why so many writers choose to give us miserable ones. They play with our expectations and raise our hopes only to drop them from a great height. Sometimes, there’s a point to this; we’re reminded that in real life, things often don’t work out the way we wish they would, and in order to achieve a sense of authenticity, the writer has opted to go out with a whimper instead of a bang. Or just with the wrong sort of bang (the good guy’s spaceship going bang instead of the bad guy’s, for example).

Other times, the rug is pulled out from under our feet for reasons that seem cheap. I remember watching a very good film called Tzameti about a poor kid who plays a suicide game with other desperate people in order to make money. It hit home with some clever points about capitalism and competition, and the price of human life. However, at the end (spoiler alert), while he tries to process the devastation he’s feeling, the kid is killed by a robber on the train. So the whole thing ends up feeling completely futile and pointless.

Experiences like this make me think about what I want from stories, be they in book or movie form. Do I want the rug to be pulled out from under me at the last moment, or do I want to enjoy a straightforward arc that ends in satisfactory fashion? And what do I mean by satisfactory?

American-Horror-Story-Freak-Show

Not the ending(s) I wanted. But an amazing ride nonetheless.

Well, I’m a big fan of American Horror Story, but in order to enjoy it without reservation I had to come to terms with the fact that the narrative would take ninety-degree turns without warning and the narratives that ran through each series would probably not end in the way I was expecting, or the way I wanted. In the end, I enjoyed the show more for its performances and sheer bravado than its capability at telling a good tale. Because it did some things so well, I could ignore the curious lack of satisfaction I felt when it was all over.

Do I want my work in progress to feel like that? Well, no. I want to surprise the readers, sure, and I want their opinions to change towards the characters as they discover more about them, but above all I want the ending to land like an atom bomb and for every reader to feel that sense of exhilaration and relief that comes after every cathartic moment. I want those last 30 pages to be an ordeal, in the same way that the last season of Breaking Bad was an ordeal, or Steven Erikson’s Deadhouse Gates. But I want the residual feeling to be one of satisfaction; things must end in a way that feels right (and in those two examples, this is precisely what happened).

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I made it. Phew!

I don’t know if I got that right with my first book, Healer’s Ruin. The ending felt right to me, at least. In fact, the ending was the first image I had in my head, before I’d even written a word of it, and the original title of the book was going to be Army of Ghosts. But even as I worked on the book, I couldn’t imagine it ending any differently. With my current WIP, it’s different. There are many ways it could end, because it’s a bigger book, and there are more protagonists and threads, and I can afford some happy endings and some miserable ones. I can even afford to have one thread end in the most bizarre way possible (I probably won’t do this… but you never know).

The challenge is predictability. We can’t afford just to let things run through the most obvious of motions.

Or can we?

I remember watching The Force Awakens in the cinema (spoiler alert if you haven’t seen it). My favourite moment was when Kylo Ren, bristling with arrogance, reaches for the discarded lightsaber. It shudders, moves incrementally slowly, and then suddenly bursts out and flies towards his outstretched hand… only to whistle past him and land in Rey’s grasp. I loved this whole sequence. It sent a thrill down my spine. It was a pitch-perfect ‘Star Wars’ moment.

But a lot of people moaned about it, calling the scene ‘predictable’. Strangely, I agreed, but when I watched the film a second time, I still loved that moment. Predictable isn’t always a bad thing if it feels right. How contrived would it have felt if something completely left-field had happened? We’d be saying, ‘way to drop the ball!’ or ‘they only did that to be clever.’ We’d feel cheated.

So I suppose what I’m getting at is that there’s a real challenge to writing the end of a novel. As avid readers, writers usually have a good sense of what the reader is going to expect, especially in genre fiction where straight stories in clear prose are very popular indeed. We know the tropes and the clichés. We know how to play with the reader a little, tease them with one possiblity and then deliver something wholly unexpected. But the ending is a very delicate time (to steal a phrase from Dune); you can’t afford to fuck it up. It has to deliver something to make the act of reading the book worthwhile.

Perhaps this is my conclusion, then. The ending must satisfy and it should also surprise. But the surprise element is not as important as we think it is. Readers (and we know this because we’re all readers, aren’t we?) want to feel clever enough to have spotted the foreshadowing; they want to see the characters they hate get some sort of punishment and those they love get some sort of reward. They want to see a balance restored or a revolution succeed. But they also want something unexpected to occur in the midst of all the feel-good.

If we writers are as clever as we think we are, we can give them all of this in essence, just with an edge of verisimilitude. The heroes can achieve their goals, but feel hollow when they discover the true cost of their victory. The villain can fail, but in that last moment reveal the truth behind his malice, a truth that produces a pang of compassion in the readers – just as they get their wish and see him skewered (make those puritanical readers feel guilty!). The monster hunt can end with the beast killing the hunter, as we see that the hunter was the real monster. In essence, we’re being predictable. Evil is failing, Good is winning, Prey is turning on Predator, Rebellion is overturning Empire, and so on. But we are redefining what these terms mean in order to deliver something new along the way.

In short, the formula stays the same, but we define the elements that make it.

So what are your thoughts on predicable endings, and how to tie a story up in a satisfactory way? Do you want a straight story with an ending you can see from space, or do you want to be sucker-punched? Let me know your opinions, people!

Keep writing, stay amazing,

Chris.

Create a Great Character with ‘Question Three’

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The definition of a character is a work of art in itself.

Great characters are often what readers remember the most about fantasy novels. Sure, the world can be richly detailed and evocative, the labyrinthine plot as delicately arranged as the workings of a pocketwatch and the set pieces can be stunning. But a well-drawn protagonist who reacts in a seemingly natural and authentic way as the plot twists and turns will stay with the reader long after the final page has been turned.

There’s a wealth of advice on how to set about crafting a great character. Some of it involves brief exercises, other approaches include writing an exhaustive list of favourite foods, siblings, achievements and shameful secrets. Sometimes the points are too general, other times they feel like overkill.

There is no limit to how far down the rabbit hole authors can go when developing their characters, but there is such a thing as sinking too much time into extraneous detail. I draw the line at writing down my heroine’s favourite colour or holiday destination. I’m just not sure it’s going to elicit any more interest and engagement from the reader. But there are fundamental aspects of character that the writer must define early on.

Novels in the Fantasy and Science Fiction genres tend to be dominated by plot. Style and characterisation of course have their place, but the events are of central importance. So when we define our characters, we tend to begin by working out how they will fit into the narrative.

The basic questions we tend to ask are:

1) What does the character want?

2) Why do they want it?

Let’s see some examples of this.

The protagonist wants to become King because he covets power.

The protagonist wants to kill the King because the King killed her brother.

The protagonist wants to escape gaol to rescue his bride from slavery.

The protagonist wants to discover a magical secret to save his village from a curse.

These are practical building blocks for characters and provide us with the bare bones upon which we can drape finer detail. In many straight-up adventure tales, this might be enough (I’ve read plenty of books and seen plenty of movies in which this was as far as characterisation went). However, if we want to craft memorable characters that engage readers on a deeper level, there’s a third question we should always ask:

3) How does this make the character feel and how does this change things?

This is where we define the central conflict of the character, generating more depth and nuance. Let’s look at how this augments the above examples.

The protagonist wants to become King because he covets power. However, he feels nervous that people will not take him seriously so he tends to be more severe and cruel than necessary.

The protagonist wants to kill the King because the King killed her brother. However, she’s afraid of what will happen if she rebels against the Royal Family and this causes her to miss her opportunity, leading to her having to take a great risk to achieve her goal.

The protagonist wants to escape gaol to rescue his bride from slavery. However, his anger at the injustice of his incarceration and his bridge’s predicament causes him to become the very monster his enemies accused him of being.

The protagonist wants to discover a magical secret to save his village from a curse. However, he is afraid of the power he comes to wield and must decide whether to release this power and save the village – but possibly cause wider harm to the world – or bury this power and allow the village to die.

Just with this simple exercise we can see how the characters are becoming more defined. Now, as we slip these characters into the plot, we’ll see that this extra layer of depth might make the writing easier. After all, if we know how the character feels about his or her place in the plot, the writer can better judge how the character might respond to plot developments and the reader will find these responses more natural and authentic.

C.

A Cure for Writer’s Block?

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No, really. This works, folks.

We’ve all had it. Writer’s Block can strike out of nowhere and cause your mind’s grand industry to grind to a halt. It can last hours, days or weeks. It can cripple your ability to finish your story and make the entire writing process grim and unpleasant.

A little while ago, I found a way to avoid Writer’s Block, and I haven’t had it since. I stumbled upon this method while I was still working full-time, writing in my lunch break. I’d have just under an hour to feverishly type up all the ideas I’d had since the previous day, and when it was time to get back to the office I felt worn out…

…and I never got to finish the section I was writing.

Every session would end with me panicking, what if I forget what happens next? But I never did. I would sit down the following day, open the laptop and just carry on where I had left off, without missing a beat. Because I already knew exactly what I was going to write. There was no pause, no hesitation, no wasted time spent wondering how to fill the space on the page before me.

After a while, I had a few days off. Great, I thought. Time to sit and write without a time limit. And guess what? I got Writer’s Block pretty much immediately. I wrote incessantly until I had nothing more the say, and then I closed the laptop with a self-satisfied smile on my face. But when I sat down the following day, keen to continue the project, I couldn’t think what to write. I froze up. I jammed. I got Writer’s Block.

I realised that the solution was not to keep writing until I had nothing else left to say. Instead, I had to stop every writing session knowing exactly what the next line was going to be. I started ending each session in mid-sentence, mid-paragraph, mid-conversation. Or in the middle of an action scene. Anywhere but the end of a chapter.

Coupled with storyboarding, this trick has helped me completely avoid Writer’s Block ever since. When I sit down to write, that’s exactly what I do. No more staring at a blank page, no more biting nails and thinking, what now, what now, what now?

In the end, the novel becomes a carousel that is always spinning. When it’s time to write, you jump on. When it’s time to stop writing, you jump off. But you never, ever stop the carousel from spinning.

So if you find that you keep grinding to a halt, this might help you. It’s a simple trick, but the best ones often are. It worked, and continues to work, for me. I hope it helps you too.

C.