Writers in the Storm

Lisa Cron

I had a lot of great questions this month, but Laura Drake’s question goes directly to the very heart – the foundation -- of your novel. She asks:

“I'm stuck on The Origin Scene. Partially, I think, because it feels like if I get it wrong, the rest of my book is screwed. Any wisdom there?”

Here’s the easy (and scary) and admittedly way too glib answer: Yep, get it wrong and you’re screwed. Let’s dig deeper into what that really means, and how to make sure you avoid it.

To do that, here are the things we’ll discuss:

• What the hell is an Origin Scene, anyway?
• Why is it so crucially important?
• How can you “get it wrong”?
• How can you get it right?

What the hell is an Origin Scene, anyway?

An Origin Scene captures the moment, which occurs long before page one of your novel, when your protagonist’s defining misbelief takes root. It is almost always occurs during childhood.

This might have you asking, “Um, what’s a misbelief, exactly?”

As you no doubt know, every protagonist enters a story already wanting something. This is what sets her story long agenda – the agenda she steps into the novel with already fully formed. To be super clear: this is something she’s wanted for a long time, since way before page one. 

The key thing is: in all that time your protagonist hasn’t gotten what she wants. Hey, if she could easily get it, sure, you’d have a happy protagonist, but then you’d have no story. In other words, something has long stood in the way of your protagonist achieving her goal. And that is her misbelief.

We’re not talking about a logistic misbelief – like, “Hey, I thought the world was flat, and you won’t believe this, but turns out it’s round!” Rather, it’s a misbelief about human nature; a misbelief about what makes us tick, about what people are really like, inside. And your protagonist -- just like us here in real life -- is not after this info on human nature as an academic quest or as “knowledge for knowledge sake,” but to help her achieve her primary goal: continued physical and emotional survival.

Misbeliefs tend to spring up during a traumatic situation in which your protagonist has skin in the game – meaning, something that matters to her is at stake. And by traumatic, I don’t mean a great big “dramatically” traumatic moment, like getting sucked up into a space ship or snatched and tossed into the trunk of a car. I’m talking about the more mundane, insidious variety of everyday inter-personal trauma. The kind that cause you to suddenly realize things like: “The nicer a person is to you, the more they’re trying to manipulate you,” or “The only way people like you is if you never rock the boat,” or “Only weak people need help.”

And here’s the kicker: in this traumatic situation, your protagonist’s misbelief isn’t a misbelief at all, but something she believes to be wholly true and that rescues her from something that otherwise might have caused her emotional harm. Thus her realization doesn’t make her dumb, stupid or flawed, it actually makes her smart. The problem is that while said misbelief might have been true in that specific situation, out in the real world, it’s not true. I mean, every time someone is nice to you it doesn’t really mean they’re trying to use you. I don’t think.

The trouble is, what was adaptive in that one specific situation, is maladaptive everywhere else. But your protagonist doesn’t know that. To her, her misbelief is a very savvy piece of inside intel that she’s insanely lucky to have learned early in life. As far as she’s concerned, it’s not what’s hurting her, it’s what’s saving her. Thus it’s no surprise that she then uses her misbelief to help her achieve her agenda, trusting it to guide her through the rocky parts of life.

And so by the time she’s an adult, her defining misbelief will have snaked into just about every crevice of her life, picking up supporting misbeliefs along the way, securely rooting it in place. That’s one of the main reasons that misbeliefs are so hard to recognize, let alone overturn.

Why is it so crucially important in the beginning?

Because – make no mistake -- overturning your protagonist’s misbelief is what your plot will be constructed to accomplish. Which, of course, means you must know, in detail, what her misbelief is, where it came from, and how it’s shaped her worldview since its inception.

That’s why your protagonist’s defining misbelief cannot remain general or conceptual. It must be traced back to the single, concrete event (again, almost always in childhood) during which her worldview shifted.

And capturing that moment – in scene form -- is your novel’s Origin Scene, and it takes place long before the novel opens, often by decades. It is always written in the first person, regardless of the novel’s POV. The goal is to transform this life-altering turning point moment into a full-fledged scene, so you know not only what happened, but exactly how your protagonist made sense of it internally as it unfolds.

How can you “get it wrong”?

What defines your story’s arc – in fact, this is your novel’s genuine throughline -- is the inside intel on why your character does what she does as her worldview evolves thanks to the events of the plot. A novel is about an internal struggle, not the external struggle that triggers it. On one end of this arc is the Origin Scene, when your protagonist’s misbelief takes hold. The novel itself begins much later, when the plot forces her to go after what she wants, but in order to have a shot at it she must recognize, question, and ultimately see through her misbelief. Your story makes its point near the end, with your protagonist’s “aha” moment – that is, when her misbelief finally bites the dust. Or as T.S. Eliot so aptly said: “The end of our exploring will be to arrive at where we started, and to know the place for the first time.”

So “getting it wrong” means that the Origin Scene does not set the novel’s whole arc of internal and external change in motion. When that happens said novels tend to begin with some surface level, or randomly “dramatic” moment that’s geared to “objective” generic drama, rather than something with unique, subjective meaning for the protagonist.

You get it wrong by not digging deep enough, by staying surface, general. That is, by writing the scene from the outside in, so we’re not inside your protagonist’s head as she struggles to make sense of what the hell is happening. The whole point of the Origin Scene is that one of your protagonist’s seminal beliefs is going to get blown out of the water, and replaced with a powerful misbelief, and we want a front row seat inside her head as she draws this conclusion.

How can you get it right?

I think this is the real question you’re asking -- how do you know what the right moment is? Since this is what kicks everything off, what if it kicks it in the wrong direction? That is a scary thought.

The good news is that by the time you’re writing your Origin Scene, you’ve already created a lot of potent story-specific info: you know the point your novel will make, you know who your protagonist is before the novel starts, you know what she enters wanting, and you know what her misbelief is. So while yes, you’re now creating something out of nothing, you’re doing it purposefully, rather than by “pantsing” blindly forward into the abyss, fueled by nothing more than desire and a whole lot of caffeine.

And that can feel clunky. Which is totally fine. Don’t fight it. Lean into the clunk. And know that there is no “right” answer here. No “one” moment that will work, making every other moment “wrong.”

The reason this can feel so intimidating is because you are consciously creating the seed from which will grow the web of internal logic your protagonist will use to make sense of everything. In the beginning it can feel almost arbitrary. It is not.

Rather, it will be -- by design -- one end of a very clear, escalating trajectory that culminates when your protagonist finally realizes that what she thought had been keeping her safe is really what’s kept her from getting what she wants.

There are many possibilities for an effective Origin Scene– if you’re struggling with it, my advice is to use an exercise that the brilliant book coach Jennie Nash came up with:

• Put on comfy clothes, and get a timer. Set it for 45 minutes.
• Sit down at your computer, or pick up your pen and write out a possible Origin Scene. Remember that there is no “one” right answer. Start writing and don’t stop. Don’t censor yourself, don’t try to “nail” it, let yourself go. If this sounds like pantsing, it kind of is – but with parameters, with context, and, most important, with internality. Meaning: make sure you’re letting us know what your protagonist is thinking as she struggles with what to make of what’s happening. Also don’t worry about “writing well,” don’t edit, don’t waste time with lengthy description or lovely luscious metaphors. That would defeat the whole purpose of the exercise.
• When the timer goes off, stop, stretch, get a snack, then set the timer again for 45 minutes. Write a different Origin Scene – one that happens in a different place or time. Jennie is strict about this: You can’t just write a different version of the same scene or the same scene from a different perspective. She means a whole new scene.
• When the timer goes off, rinse, repeat. The third time is often the charm. Let yourself be absurd, even. Ridiculous. Don’t hold back!
• Evaluate which scene resonates the most. Jennie says that it’s often the one that surprises you the most, or calls up a strong emotion in you. You can, in other words, feel it in your bones.

Pair this scene with the aha moment scene when your protagonist’s misbelief will be resolved near the end of your novel, and you’ve got an Origin Scene caffeinated enough to effectively drive your whole novel from start to finish. (Yes, as in just about everything, coffee is key.)

Otherwise, you risk falling into the most common rabbit hole novelists inadvertently tumble into: writing 327 pages that turn out to be nothing more than a bunch of things that happen.

And that, too, calls up a strong emotion. One that even coffee can’t help.

Do you agonize over your Origin Scene? What exercise(s) do you use to dig for it? What other questions do you have for Lisa?

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About Lisa

Lisa Cron is the author of Wired for Story and Story Genius. Her video tutorial Writing Fundamentals: The Craft of Story can be found at Lynda.com, and her TEDx talk, Wired for Story, opened Furman University’s 2014 TEDx conference, Stories: The Common Thread of Our Humanity.

Lisa has worked in publishing at W.W. Norton, as an agent at the Angela Rinaldi Literary Agency, as a producer on shows for Showtime and Court TV, and as a story consultant for Warner Brothers and the William Morris Agency. Since 2006, she’s been an instructor in the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program, and she is on the faculty of the School of Visual Arts MFA program in Visual Narrative in New York City. In her work as a story coach, Lisa helps writers, nonprofits, educators, and journalists wrangle the story they’re telling onto the page. She can be reached at wiredforstory.com

Les Edgerton

 

“When we are told that a Handsome Prince went into a wood, we realize that we are that Handsome Prince. As soon as the prince is characterized, ‘A Handsome Blond Prince with a twinkle in his eye, and just the hint of a mustache on his upper lip…’ and if we lack that color hair, twinkle, and so on, we say, ‘What an interesting prince. Of course, he is unlike anyone I know…’ and we begin to listen to the story as a critic rather than as a participant.”

~ David Mamet from his book Writing in Restaurants

Years ago, in my days of cutting hair, I talked to most of my clients about my work. That was a big mistake—I later discovered that when you talked about the work, especially the current work—that I’d expended the energy of actually writing it that night when I went home and faced my computer.

But, in those days I still hadn’t learned that lesson. What was profitable from those conversations was that I learned something from my readers. Most had read my work, particularly Monday’s Meal, my first collection of short stories. We’d talk about them and I’d answer the usual questions—how did you come up with that idea? did that happen in real life? how come there are a lot of characters who have their hands or fingers cut off?

And then, one day, I noticed in our conversations, very often the person would describe one of the characters in the stories. That’s odd, I remember thinking. I couldn’t ever remember providing character descriptions. It wasn’t because of something someone had told me not to do—I’d experienced little or no writing instruction of advice in those days and wrote purely from an instinctual stance.

I went back to see if I had, inadvertently, provided descriptions. I hadn’t.

So then, I began asking the person I was chatting with if he or she could describe the character in the story we were talking about. Sure, they said, almost to a person, and proceeded to deliver a very detailed, sometimes exhaustive description of the person. And, I began to notice that in these very complex descriptions always there would be a characteristic that belonged to the person telling me the description.

“And where,” I said, “did you get this description from?”

“Why, it was in the story,” they’d say.

“No, it wasn’t,” I said.

I’d open a copy, turn to the story, and ask them to point out where their description came from. Where any character description occurred. They’d skim through it, a puzzled look on their faces, and finally, say, “Well, I was sure I read it.” And then, we’d laugh and go on to other topics.

I think the best way to learn to write well is to read lots and lots and lots. Something I’ve done all of my life. One of the things I’d always thought boring in a novel was when the author described their characters. Especially when they overloaded the details of those descriptions. I knew that my brain switched off at those passages and I’d almost always skip those parts and go ahead. And, usually those kinds of stories were fairly boring to me. At the time, I couldn’t articulate why that was so, I just knew it was.

And, like Harry Crews (who said it first and these days it’s inaccurately attributed to Elmore Leonard by some, who included it in his book on writing and had taken it from Crews) I was always acutely aware of those parts I tended to skip when reading and did my utmost to not provide those parts in my own writing.

And, then, a few years ago, I happened upon David Mamet’s book, Writing in Restaurants, and when I read the quoted passage above, had one of those Eureka! moments.

I didn’t change anything. I didn’t pay closer attention to avoiding character descriptions—that was already finely-honed in me to not do so, but it is always great when you encounter a bona fide writing “authority” that confirms what you’ve been doing is spot on the money. Kind of validates what you’re doing.

How about you? How do you feel about character descriptions? Are you like me or are you the opposite? Are you one who really enjoys the author laying out exactly what the protagonist looks like? If you are, can you say honestly, if upon encountering such a description you begin reading as a critic or remain identifying subconsciously with the protagonist? Or, does it even matter to your own personal experience?

I’d really like to know!

Blue skies,
Les

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About Les

Les Edgerton is an ex-con, matriculating at Pendleton Reformatory in the sixties for burglary. He was an outlaw for many years and was involved in shootouts, knifings, robberies, high-speed car chases, drugs, was a pimp, worked for an escort service, starred in porn movies, was a gambler, served four years in the Navy, and had other misadventures. He’s since taken a vow of poverty (became a writer) with 18 books in print, including Finding Your Voice and HOOKED.

Three of his novels have been sold to German publisher, Pulpmaster for the German language rights. His memoir, Adrenaline Junkie is currently being marketed. Work of his has been nominated for or won: the Pushcart Prize, O. Henry Award, Edgar Allan Poe Award (short story category), Derringer Award, PEN/Faulkner Award, Jesse Jones Book Award, Spinetingler Magazine Award for Best Novel (Legends category), and the Violet Crown Book Award, among others.

Les holds a B.A. from I.U. and the MFA in Writing from Vermont College. He was the writer-in-residence for three years at the University of Toledo, for one year at Trine University, and taught writing classes for UCLA, St. Francis University, Phoenix College, Writer’s Digest,  Vermont College, the New York Writer’s Workshop and other places. He currently teaches a private novel-writing class online.

He can be found at www.lesedgertononwriting.blogspot.com/.

Kate Moretti

A few weeks ago, the fabulous Kimberly Brock wrote a post about the fear of the blank page. She claimed that there are people who love it and she called them psychopaths and equated it to jumping out of airplanes.

I’m here to confess: I am that psychopath.

I just handed in my latest novel to my editor. I have a few scenes I know it needs so I plan on banging them out now while she is reading. I have articles to write (this one!) and emails to catch up on. But the lure of the blank page is too much. Today I opened a Scrivener file and wrote 800 words. I don’t know where the scene will fit in the novel, if it’s the first scene (feels like it to me) or if will be relegated to the murky middle, as a flashback. I just know that right now, everything about this book feels kind of amazing: fresh, new, not muddled and unclear, the shimmering pull of discovery right around the next bend.

For me, the draw of writing isn’t in the actual drafting. It’s in the idea of story. I have a Google word document with ten primary story ideas (and a zillion other partial ideas) in various stages of development. Some are just a logline with zero details: a woman does x, a woman’s sister/friend does y. Others have fleshed out characters, and still others have a theme I’m interested in more than a plot. Bottom line? They’re all potential stories. (Side note: I keep it in Google so I can access it anywhere, even from my phone on the go).

Are you the kind of writer who feels paralyzed by the beginning? Who looks at a blank page with dread? Who thinks, “Oh no, now I have to come up with a whole new idea,” and rather than feel that zing of anticipation, you want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over your head?

4 tips to help you come up with a new story:

1. Open to the stories around you.

They are everywhere. In the man who walks from his house across the street to three houses down, every single morning, and walks home every night. Who lives three doors down? I’ve never seen them. I assume a sweet, octogenarian romance. But how cute is it that he comes home every night? Does he care that much about propriety?

I write suspense, so sometimes I see a story and think: oh, this is not my story, not my genre. Sometimes I even pass those ideas along to friends. Sometimes I can massage the inspiration into something that does fit my genre. Writers can be lightning rods for stories, but we struggle to receive it. We can get so caught up in the questions: Is it commercially viable? Can it carry a book? Is it for me? Can I make it for me? Can I bring that something-something into another plot? It can get so exhausting that it kills creativity.

I find that getting the initial lightning strike down on paper — regardless of logistical questions — is what captures the essence of story. My Google word doc has zillions of these; it stands at almost twenty-five pages: some of it is complete non-sensical, various fonts (copied and pasted!), it’s messy and disorganized but it’s all (gold)mine.

2. Read the headlines.

I peruse headlines from five or ten years ago, just for fun. There’s a danger here, especially for historical fiction writers, since what inspires one may inspire many. The old adage, “the truth is stranger than fiction” is never more true than when you find a gem like this or a heartwarming story like this.

I read a story, years ago, about a family of children who was kept in a small New York City apartment their entire lives. Their mother died and the children were taken in by social services. They’d never been outside, never been to school, never socialized with other children. This is absolutely in my story document. I can’t find an angle that fits my brand but I just love it.

My forthcoming novel, THE BLACKBIRD SEASON, was inspired by a news story I read about a teacher who followed his students on social media. He was praised in the story for being involved and going beyond the call of duty. I thought, hmmm there must be a twist I can apply to this. What if the very thing that once made him a great teacher became the thing that made him a suspect in a student’s murder? I catalog these odd bits and pieces on Pinterest where I can access them later.

3. Consume other fiction: Not just books, but movies, television.

I find a lot of inspiration in true crime TV, as does a writer friend who recommends shows to me. I am currently into The First 48, which breaks a case down to the investigation level, each episode ending with an arrest. I am also inspired by books outside of my genre. Years ago, I read the book THE CASTAWAYS by Elin Hildebrand. I loved the ensemble cast structure and the beach setting, so an ensemble cast with a beach setting has been on my list since. In a fit of inspiration, I recently dusted it off and developed the four main voices, the murder, the motive, the red herrings.

4. Try.

This comes off like sanctimonious B.S. I’m sorry. I do think some percentage of writers expect inspiration to be like divine intervention. I’ve heard a newly published writer say “I have to really be inspired by something” when discussing story development. While many great stories may start as pure lightning strike, others must be ferreted out of the confusing depths and coils of the writer’s mind.

Sometimes I use long drives to deliberate think of story ideas. I talk into a microphone and pretend it’s a person. Sometimes I talk to another writer. The act of using my voice prompts me to dig deeper. I might say, “What if a woman who is hiding from her ex-husband falls in love, unwittingly, with her ex’s brother? NO, that’s been done before, I think. Wait, look up the plot of Sleeping With the Enemy, God I haven’t seen that in like 15 years.” It’s the stream of consciousness that awakens THE THING in me: the creative beast that will eventually unlock the story.

And that is all I really need: the key to unlock the story I know I have. Somewhere. I get the partial down in my Google doc and call it a day. When I’m at the stage I’m now, where I have to write up a pitch for my agent to send to my editor or even start a few chapters, I mine the document monster I’ve been keeping for years. Sometimes, it even works.

How do you mine for story?

 

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About Kate