Writers in the Storm

by Barbara Linn Probst

If you’re like me, you have a shelf of books and a computer folder (or two) of tips, checklists, bullet points, blogs, and advice about how to write a good story. Even though many of these strategies are, on a closer look, rather similar, it’s still pretty overwhelming. No one can do everything, so we find those that appeal to us.

My Favorite Four Writing Exercises

Here are four of the exercises that I’ve found the most useful.  They address character, plot, and the quality of the writing.

Listening to Your Protagonist (Adapted from Donald Maass)

The exercise: Visualize yourself sitting across the table from your protagonist. (I like to visualize the setting, too—in my mind, we’re at my kitchen table, but your conversation might be at Starbucks or in a park.) Ask your protagonist these questions, and listen to what she has to tell you. Write down everything that comes out of her mouth, exactly as she says it. (It only works if you actually write down what you “hear” her saying. Don’t just think it.)

• How do you feel about the way I’ve portrayed you?
• What do you really want to do that I’m not letting you do?
• What are you afraid I might put you through? What do you dread seeing yourself do on the page?
• What about the other characters? You know them better than I do. Whom am I not getting? What am I missing?
• What do you want to say to one of the other characters in the story that I’m not letting you say?
• What’s this story really about—to you?  What am I getting wrong?  

My experience:  I did this with my WIP, and it was one of the most amazing exercises I’ve ever done! My protagonist pulled no punches and told me exactly what she thought of me—how I was projecting my own hang-ups onto her, making her too defensive, and suppressing her kinder impulses. She told me that I needed to love her more.

Luckily, I listened to her—and when I did, the story got so much better.

Understand secondary characters more deeply (Adapted from Kate Racculia)

The exercise:  Consider a secondary character who doesn’t feel real to you, seems one-dimensional, or eludes you in some essential way. Answer these questions about her, even though the material won’t actually be in the book.

• What’s her home town, and what does she really think of it (even if she doesn’t say it aloud)?
• What’s her job, and what does she secretly think about it? If she could change something about her job, what would that be?
• What’s a hobby that people would never guess she has?
• What’s her favorite food? Why is it her favorite?  Who knows it’s her favorite?
• What motto would be on her coffee mug or tee shirt?
• What’s her recurring dream?
• What’s something she lost, and how did she lose it?
• What’s something she found, and how did that happen?

My experience:  I was surprised by how easy this was—and how much fun. I think it was the freedom of knowing that the material wouldn’t be in the book, so I didn’t have to worry about whether it built tension or led to an emotional turning point, or anything other than letting the character come to life. It felt like getting to know someone who already existed, rather than working to “create a character.”

Mapping, interiority, and exteriority (Adapted from Sandra Scofield)

The exercise: Print out the manuscript. (Yep, do it on real paper, not on your laptop; trust me on this). Get out some colored pens or highlighters. On every page, use a different color to underline or circle these elements, without thinking about the plot:          

• Green for sentences or passages of interiority—when the POV character is in her head reacting, reflecting, thinking, wondering, or remembering. It’s the internal material that no one else has access to, except her.
• Blue for action—when a character does something physical or there’s an action you could observe (like a car crash). Think of external movements that you could depict with a puppet or see if you were watching an old-time “silent movie.”
• Yellow for exposition—when something is narrated, rather than depicted in-scene. For example, there might be a description of the setting or a paragraph to indicate the passage of time (“telling”). This differs from interiority because it isn’t inside someone’s head. It’s more like the voice of the narrator.

My experience:  Actually “seeing” the way I write was pretty dramatic. I sort-of-knew that I had a habit of making my protagonist reflect on every single thing that happened, but seeing it on the page, in blue and green, really brought it home. It made me stop to consider whether each bit of interiority was needed—or needed right then—since interiority interrupts the forward movement of the story.

In some cases, I consolidated the protagonist’s inner reflections and put them together at the end of the scene, rather than interspersed throughout. In other cases, I pondered whether the passage of interiority was truly necessary—and decided that it wasn’t.

The point of this exercise isn’t to indicate how your writing should change; it’s to show you how you actually write.   

Ascending and descending from the core scenes (My own exercise, with nods to Ann Garvin, Sandra Scofield, and Kathryn Craft)

The exercise: Identify the most critical scenes in the book, no more than four or five, and draw a timeline with those scenes as high points or “mountains”—literally. Leave plenty of space between each mountain.

Draw steps leading up to each peak and steps coming down the other side. What goes on each step? In other words: what events lead up to the peak? Without those events, the mountain (or critical scene) could not have happened. Then consider the descending staircase. What events were the consequences of the peak moment—the unfolding, the subsequent events that would not have happened otherwise? 

This timeline, with its mountains and staircases, is the core plot. There will be other scenes that don’t fit—but you still need to be able to justify their presence in the book. Do they belong to a subplot, foreshadow, reveal character, ease the tension?  That might be fine. But if they duplicate merely something on one of the steps, it might signal that the scene isn’t needed.

Note: A critical scene is a moment when something important takes place, after which the story goes in a new direction, for “better” or “worse.”  It’s often a moment of choice for the protagonist— when something significant happens that she must now respond to. A “realization” isn’t enough, in itself. She may understand something in a new way, but not just by thinking about it.

It can be interesting to mark each mountaintop with a plus or a minus: is the protagonist closer to her goal or further from it, at the end of the scene?  If there are a string of plusses, you might want to change one of them to a minus or add a minus (a new obstacle, a setback, a mistake, the loss of an ally), to make the storyline more interesting. Or vice versa, of course.

My experience:  I find that the concrete act of drawing and diagramming can be so illuminating. It can show blind spots in a fresh way—and if it ends up showing me that what I have is working, that’s good too!

What about you? What writing exercise has brought valuable insight for you? Did you try any of these?  How did it go?

About Barbara

BARBARA LINN PROBST is a writer of both fiction and non-fiction, living on an historic dirt road in New York’s Hudson Valley. Her debut novel QUEEN OF THE OWLS (April 2020) is the powerful story of a woman’s search for wholeness, framed around the art and life of iconic American painter Georgia O’Keeffe. QUEEN OF THE OWLS was selected as one of the twenty most anticipated books of the year by Working Mother, a debut novel “too good to ignore” by Bustle, was featured in places like Pop Sugar, Entertainment Weekly, Parade Magazine, and Ms. Magazine. It also won the bronze medal for popular fiction from the Independent Publishers Association, placed first runner-up in general fiction for the Eric Hoffer Award, and was short-listed for the $2500 Grand Prize. Barbara’s second book, THE SOUND BETWEEN THE NOTES, launches in April 2021.

by Lori Freeland

My favorite line from Tangled is when Flynn Rider tells Rapunzel, “I don’t do backstory.” To me, it sets the tone for who he is and how he’s going to change. His past is his past, and he refuses to dump it on anyone—even himself. And that is his backstory.  

Backstory is everything that’s happened in your characters’ lives up to the moment we meet them. It’s the people, places, and events he’s experienced. The family and friends she did or didn’t have. How his parents raised him. The way her childhood illness colored her world.  

Like real people, your characters have a past. It’s what’s shaped them into who they are and what pushes them up and over their character arc into who they’re supposed to become.

If we share too much too fast, it pulls the reader back in time and slows down the story’s pacing. If we share too little too late, it leaves the reader confused and your characters hollow.

The same way that it’s hard to connect with shallow people in real life, it’s hard to connect with hollow characters in a book. Also, remember, backstory is mostly telling rather than showing. That’s okay sometimes, but too much telling runs the risk of readers skimming your pages.   

Backstory. You can’t write with it. You can’t write without it. So how do you sidestep the information dump and slip subtly into the middle ground?

Get Organized

Let’s start by figuring out what’s important. Initially, everything you learn about each person in your story is for you as the writer.

Sometimes you create the characters. Sometimes the characters create themselves. That’s what’s fun about writing fiction. Figuring out the past helps you write a deeper, more rounded character. But that doesn’t mean the reader needs or wants to know every detail.

Try listing your character’s backstory in bullet points. Use those points in small chunks, sprinkling them throughout the book where they fit the best. Checking off each one as you use it helps keep track of what you’ve already included and what you’re still missing.  

Keep the Circle Small

Just like the reader doesn’t need to know every piece of a character’s backstory, not every character needs a backstory.

Unless the doctor or flight attendant or police offer plays a crucial role in a main character’s development, we never have to know his wife left him, her daughter died, or he’s retiring early. If it doesn’t matter . . . it doesn’t matter. 

Enjoy the Journey

Sometimes writers believe the reader must have the backstory. Right away. On the first page. They feel the need to explain why Sarah cries at comedies or Josh hates the rain or Penny believes she’ll never find love.

“You don’t understand,” they say. “The reader won’t get my hero without knowing where he came from.”

I do understand. And they’re right. Sort of. But timing is everything. Just like when we’re getting to know a person in real life, we don’t want all twenty or forty or sixty years dumped on us at once, especially when other (more important) action is going on.

Part of the fun is the getting-to-know-you process. Don’t be afraid to take your time. With each new situation you put your characters into, the reader will learn more about who those characters are.

Set Up the Chase

Think of unfolding the past as the thrill of the chase. Make your reader turn the pages to discover pieces of your character’s personal puzzle. Don’t give it all away upfront. Make finding out an adventure. And give opportunities to ask “why.”   

Why is Jim afraid of the subway? Why does Kelly suddenly refuse to go out with her friends when that’s all she used to do? Why is Susan turning down the promotion she’s worked a lifetime for? Why do fireworks send six-year-old Sam scurrying under the bed?

Keep Continuity

Consider what you’ve already shared and what you’re going to be sharing in the future. Don’t repeat information your reader knows just because another character needs to find out.

There are creative ways to mention what’s already been revealed. Keeping track is where your bullet list is helpful.

Be Credible

Your character’s past affects future choices/actions/words. Sometimes life heals. Other times, it leaves scars. If someone tried to commit suicide in a bathtub, they’re not going to take a hot soak to relax.  

Don’t Leave Us Hanging

Omitting backstory when it’s needed takes away motivation. If she steps completely out of character or he acts inappropriately without a hint of what prompted the change, the reader will wonder what’s going on. And not in a good way.   

As you’re editing, ask yourself if you didn’t know the backstory, would your dialogue, character interactions, and story make enough sense to keep your reader hooked but not confused?

Be Casual

Sneak in backstory by actively weaving it in. That way it feels natural and organic to the story and the characters. You can do this many few different ways. Below are some examples. I’ve put the “backstory hits” in bold.  

• DIALOGUE, and what comes before and after the dialogue, addresses moments where you’d rather do more “showing” than “telling.”

Example:

“Wallflower!” Zander belted out the nickname he’d given me in eighth grade.

Example:

“It’ll be our secret,” he said.

“Like how you kept my underwear a secret during the last performance of The King and I?” And sent me bolting out of town.

“Aw, come on, Hendrix.” Zander’s blue eyes burned into me. “It was supposed to be a tiny little slit down the back of the dress.” He held his thumb and index finger apart. “Not an entire costume malfunction.”

• INTERNAL THOUGHT (inner narrative) can be a natural place to drop backstory.

Example:

“I guess being alone at night is getting to me.” I reached deep for an old Kate smile. One I hadn’t worn in a while.

Example:

I couldn’t lose the only family I had. Couldn’t leave him alone and vulnerable. Not the grandpa who’d stepped in as a dad when my mom didn’t want me.

• REACTIONS to what’s going on around your characters gives an opportunity for the reader to learn more about their pasts. People respond to things based on their experiences and how things make them feel.

Example:

Six years, and Zander still had the ability to throw me into a steep spin.

Example:

“Yes, ma’am.” Alek’s silly smirk went pure Texan, and he moved in to put his arm around me. 

A chill broke over my skin, and I stumbled back.

His grin dropped quicker than his arms.

My auto-flinch didn’t care. It overrode the thousand hugs he’d already given me, the hundred times we’d squeezed into a crowded restaurant booth, and every single one of the nights we’d fallen asleep on the couch watching horror movie marathons. together.

• HUMOR disguises backstory in a way that makes it fun.

Example:

My grandpa had been everyone’s grandpa ever since I could remember, his kitchen table more popular than the town’s only bar.

• DESCRIPTION is an easy way to add a hint here and there. You can use people/places/things/voices/body language/expressions.

Example (place):

The house hadn’t changed in the six years I’d been gone. The L-shaped, brick ranch with narrow rectangular windows still had the same 1960s doctor’s office vibe.

Example (voice):

Just as I turned to retrace my steps, a deep voice yelled, “In the back.” 

A voice that zip-tied my chest. A deep, throaty, guitar-thrum of a voice I hadn’t heard since I bailed on this town after graduation. Actually, Alexander Ryland was the reason I’d bailed after graduation.

Final Thought

Backstory can be fun. So can inventing new ways to add it in.

Now it’s your turn. Do you find you have too much or too little when it comes to backstory? In what ways do you sneak in a character’s past? I’d love for you to share examples in the comments.

About Lori

An encourager at heart, author, editor, and writing coach Lori Freeland believes everyone has a story to tell. She’s presented multiple workshops at writer’s conferences across the country and writes everything from non-fiction to short stories to novels—YA to adult. When she’s not curled up with her husband drinking too much coffee and worrying about her kids, she loves to mess with the lives of the imaginary people living in her head.

You can find her young adult and contemporary romance at lorifreeland.com and her inspirational blog and writing tips at lafreeland.com. Her book, Where You Belong: a runaway series novella, is currently free on Kindle Unlimited. 

by Eldred Bird

Where we choose to set our stories is an important decision. It can inform everything that happens in the story, from plot points and character development to pacing and mood. For this reason, I like to treat my locations as I would the characters in my stories.

Just like people, locations can have certain traits that bring out their personalities and influence the way our characters interact with them. Each location we choose has its own unique set of physical characteristics as well as a general feeling or mood that it gives off.

Let’s explore some of these traits and how we can use them to enhance our stories.

Character Traits of Locations

Setting Type

Setting type is the physical location where your story takes place. It can be a real location or a fantasy world. Maybe it’s all happening in your main character’s head, like a dream. Every location has its own personality. Even dream worlds have characteristics that impact the narrative and are often reflective of the person dreaming.

Another example might be an urban setting as opposed to rural. Both have their own obvious characteristics, such as population density, that sets them apart, but there are similarities as well. A big city might have a small-town feel, whereas a small town could be laid out to exude more of a big city attitude. The architecture and street layouts also lend character to a particular location. Narrow avenues with old-world cottages might add warmth and feel like an old friend, whereas tall glass-shrouded buildings and a maze of traffic clogged streets could feel cold, inducing stress and anxiety.

Terrain

The physical terrain of a story’s location can have a major influence on how the characters interact with it and with each other. If a character is familiar with the terrain, they may see it as an ally working to give them an advantage over an opponent. On the other hand, it may be a hindrance, throwing obstacles in the protagonist’s path. Sometimes the terrain itself is the antagonist and the thing that must be overcome to reach a satisfying ending.

Climate and Weather

Climate and weather may sound like the same thing, but they are different animals. Climate is the long-term average of the atmospheric behavior of a particular place, whereas weather is more isolated—it’s what’s happening right now. I like to think of climate as a location’s overall personality and weather as its current mood.

Most writers use weather almost instinctually. We all know how a raging storm, or a gentle rain can set a mood, but there are so many other things we can accomplish if we anthropomorphize things a little. Fighting an angry wind or beating back the cruel rays of the Sun breathe life into weather and set it up as an opponent that must be vanquished if our hero is to succeed. Weather can also be fickle and turn on a dime, lashing out like a scorned lover or throwing a tantrum like a three-year-old child who doesn’t want to take a nap.

Climate is a little trickier and requires more thought. The long-term nature of climate is what dictates things like flora, fauna, and seasons. It also sets expectations in the same way a parent might explain what to expect to a child before entering a museum or attending a funeral. Of course, we all know expectations and reality don’t always line up. It’s in that gap where the best stories are born.

Just like terrain, climate and weather can become the main antagonist. Look at Jack London, for example. In many of his stories the main character is fighting with the physical world rather than another person.

Inhabitants

The general attitude of the average resident adds to the personality of a location as well. Small towns can be friendly and welcoming, or gossipy and suspicious of strangers. A big city might have streets filled with a mass of worker drones moving as one, but hardly noticing each other as they pass. Here we’re assigning terms like friendly or suspicious to the collective, rather than the individuals.

Flora and Fauna

The other forms of life in a location also add to its personality. Is the vegetation sparse or plentiful?  Does it provide food and shelter, or create a barrier? Does your protagonist know how to take advantage of it? More importantly, does your antagonist know? What about the animals? Ask yourself the same questions.

Putting it all Together

When we combine the different aspects of a setting and treat them as different facets of a personality, we can see our location’s character start to emerge. As I’ve stated above, anthropomorphize different aspects to breathe life into the setting. This allows for a more personal interaction with the human (or alien) characters in your tale.

Now that our setting is a character, we can use it more effectively to help or hinder our characters. It can become an ally or an enemy. A great example of this is The Martian, by Andy Weir. Not only is the setting (Mars) hindering the main character, but it is also the antagonist. At times it seems like the planet is doing everything in its power to kill Mark Watney. It almost feels personal. Mars has become a character in the story, not just a setting.

Some Final Thoughts

This is by no means a complete list of location traits, but it should give you a general idea of how to look at your story’s location from a new perspective. Think of the ways you would build and describe one of your characters and apply those same filters to your location.

Every location has something that makes it unique. What sets your story’s location apart from others? Why does your story or scene have to take place in this particular location? Is there something here that is imperative to the narrative? Ask yourself these questions and you’ll be on your way to discovering your setting’s personality.

How do you treat your locations? Do you have any special tips or tricks for bringing out the setting’s personality? Share them with us in the comments!

About Eldred

Eldred Bird writes contemporary fiction, short stories, and personal essays. He has spent a great deal of time exploring the deserts, forests, and deep canyons inside his home state of Arizona. His James McCarthy adventures, Killing Karma, Catching Karma, and Cold Karma, reflect this love of the Grand Canyon State even as his character solves mysteries amidst danger. Eldred explores the boundaries of short fiction in his stories, The Waking Room, Treble in Paradise: A Tale of Sax and Violins, and The Smell of Fear.

When he’s not writing, Eldred spends time cycling, hiking and juggling (yes, juggling…bowling balls and 21-inch knives). His passion for photography allows him to record his travels. He can be found on Twitter or Facebook, or at his website.