







For those of you who don’t get it, it’s from a sci fi movie where the characters suddenly discover they aren’t on the planet they thought they were. They (and the audience) had gone along assuming they were on planet A, only to discover they were on planet B instead. It’s a mistake that costs them dearly—they end up getting little parasitic worms stuck in their ears.
Silly as it may sound, a key part of storytelling is knowing the world your story is set in. I can tell the story of a noble knight on a quest to find the Holy Grail, but depending on the world I set it in, he can be a glorious hero (The Once and Future King) or a deranged madman (The Fisher King). We’d all frown if one of the Bourne books had him stopping an alien invasion and we’d shake our heads if Jack Reacher took on a cult of Satanists that had summoned an actual demon.
One of the biggest ways writers mess this up is to take too long to establish what kind of world they’re in. For example, they’re doing a spoof-comedy, but the first thirty pages have been completely straight. Or (on the flipside) they do establish the world and much later in the narrative try to switch that world to something else. I’ll blab on about that in a minute.
For now, consider the movie Predator. The original, with Governor Arnold, Governor Jesse, Secretary of Defense Carl Weathers, and screenwriter Shane Black.
Predator begins with the team landing in Central America and getting briefed on their mission. They head into the jungle, locate the crashed plane, find the enemy camp, and have an awesome gunfight. Then Arnold discovers that Carl set them up and dumped them in the meat grinder. They head back out for the rendezvous... and that’s when they discover there’s something else in the jungle.
We’re, what... half an hour into the film at this point?
Except... that’s not how Predator begins. If you think back, the movie actually begins with an alien spaceship flying past Earth and launching off a small shuttle/ drop pod. We’re told in the first minute of the film that this is, ultimately, a sci-fi story. We may get distracted for a bit by the hail of bullets, but when the title alien shows up it isn’t a surprise... just a bit creepy.
On the other hand, one recent book I read was 100% set in the real world. Everything about it was realistic. The basic idea was two people who had found the last notebook of a dead research scientist who claimed (in his notes) to have discovered a cure for cancer. The cure for cancer. The entire book was about them trying to figure out what the heck they had while half a dozen pharmaceutical companies chased them—all wanting the notebook one way or another. Well, in the end they escape big pharma, sell the notebook to a group of researchers for a couple million dollars, and cancer is cured across the globe.
Yep. We cured cancer everywhere in the last seven pages. Go us.
I also once saw a script that started out as a dramatic comedy sort of thing. Young woman, single mother, trying to make the best of life even though she keeps getting knocked down... we’ve all seen it a few dozen times. That was the first forty odd pages. Then, on page 44, if memory serves (almost 3/4 of an hour into the movie, mind you), we discover that the old man she just helped cross the street is actually the Easter Bunny, who decides to reward the woman with a wish for her random act of Christian charity.
That’s right. A key point in this story is that the Easter Bunny spends his downtime walking among us disguised as an octogenarian. And the Easter Bunny is all about Christian charity because... well, the brown of the chocolate and the brown of the wood of the cross... or something...
Like any other disruption in the flow of a story, it’s very jarring when a story is set up in one world and then veers off into another one. It’s like discovering that one of your main characters has actually been insane all along. It forces the reader to re-examine what’s come before, and not in a good way. In fact, more often than not, these sudden shifts in tone and world force a story into pure comedy. Again, not in a good way.
Consider this. There’s a classic Saturday Night Live skit which claims to be the famous “lost reel” of It’s A Wonderful Life. In this, just as everyone’s sitting around singing and rejoicing, Uncle Billy remembers that he misplaced the money in the newspaper Mr. Potter took. It only takes a few moments for this realization to turn the celebrating friends and family into an ugly mob, and they march to Potter’s house, give the man a mass beating, and burn his home to the ground. The End. The Simpsons did something similar with a lost final reel of Casablanca. Here Ilsa parachutes out of Laszlo’s plane to be with Rick, saving him from (and killing) Adolph Hitler in the process. The happy couple is married shortly afterwards. The End...?
No, seriously. That’s how they “ended” Casablanca, with the ellipse and the question mark. Which, as Bart points out, leaves them open for a sequel.
So just by (hypothetically) shifting the tone/world of the endings, both of these classic, award-winning films become absurdist comedies.
Now here’s a key thing to remember. You can still have a fantastic story set in the real world provided the events of your story don’t change the world. If I wage a secret battle against lizard men from the center of the Earth and at the end of my story no one knows the war happened, then the world hasn’t changed, has it?
Perfect example—Raiders of the Lost Ark. Not only does this story involve a Nazi plot to seize arcane objects across the globe, it has reputable archeologist Henry “Indiana” Jones finding hardcore evidence that God is real. Think about the repercussions that information would have. If someone went public in the 1930s with absolute, undeniable proof of God’s existence, what kind of world would we be living in today? What kind of story would you be telling?
Which is why that evidence never goes public. We’re left with the distinct impression no more than a dozen people know what Dr. Jones recovered from that island, and that he’s been well-paid not to talk about it. And the Ark... well, we all know what happens to the Ark, don’t we?
I really, really hate to use this analogy, but it is perfect. If you want to set an amazing story in the real world, you need to use conspiracy theory logic. Yep, the same reasoning used by the birthers, moon-landing deniers, and “9-11 was staged” folks is what makes for a good fiction story. How sad is that?
By conspiracy-theory logic, the lack of evidence for X is the proof that X is true. Any facts that disprove X are manufactured by the powers that be, thus further proving X is true. And if you stumble across a few coincidences that imply X is true, well, that of course is solid proof that X is true.
Y’see, Timmy, by this chain of reasoning, the untouched real world is undeniable proof the imaginary world of your story is true. Only the BPRD knows what really happened to Adolph Hitler after the Occult Wars, so it’s understandable that most of us only know the publicized version of events. There are a dozen enchantments that keep the magical world of Hogwarts and Diagon Alley separate from the real world, thus the fact that no Muggle has ever seen Hogwarts pushes the idea that the stories about it are true. Only a worthy mortal can lift the hammer of Thor (bonus points if you remember its name—offer not good after Friday), but we all know we’re not 100% worthy so we accept that we’ve never had the chance to lift it. The fantasy world doesn’t change the real world, so that fantasy world is more believable.
So do amazing things in amazing worlds. Just make sure no one finds out about it.
Next time, I wanted to rant a bit about sounding like a professional.
Until then, go write.
So, this week I wanted to talk about... well, talking. I prattled on about dialogue descriptors just a few weeks back, and the simple power of said. However, a few recent things I've read over the past couple weeks-- plus one god-awful movie I saw which was supposed to be about a real American hero-- have had me thinking about dialogue as a whole.
Dialogue really is the lifeblood of fiction. Sounds corny, I know, but it's true. If you've got dialogue problems in a novel or short story it's really bad. In a screenplay it's pretty much fatal. It's a killer because everyone knows what people sound like. They may not all disarm warheads, fight ninjas, or race dinosaurs, but everybody talks to people, so it's the first place a writer's work can get picked apart.
So, here are five easy things to spot in your writing which can keep dialogue from flowing naturally.
Extra descriptors-- Even if you're using said, you don't always need to use it. After a point, it should be apparent who's talking. Look at this...
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Tom cracked his knuckles. "You really want to do this?"
"I do," said Jerry.
"No holds barred?"
"All out. Mano e mano."
"You're going to get hurt."
"I better, for your sake."
"Cocky little rodent, aren't you?"
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No problem keeping track of who's talking, is there? Plus with less words it's leaner and faster. You can feel the tension building in the exchanges because you're not getting slowed down by excess words.
Not only that, once you've got speech patterns down for your characters, you should need descriptors even less. In my book Ex-Heroes, Gorgon's dialogue could never get confused with Stealth's. In Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indy doesn't speak the same way as Belloq, and neither of them sound like Toht, the black-coated Gestapo agent. Their voices identify them just as well as a header would.
Spoken names-- It's very rare to address someone by name. Pay attention during your next phone call, or look at The Road by Cormac McCarthy. We never learn the character's names because they never say them. Why would they? They're the only two people around, and have been for ages now. Look at that last example up above. Tom and Jerry know each other, and we get the sense they're speaking directly to one another, so they don't have to keep saying each other's name again and again. It just starts sounding kind of cartoony.
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"You know, Fred..."
"Yes, Barney?"
"I've been meaning to talk to you about Wilma. Fred, do you remember that week Betty was away and you had to work late a lot down at the quarry?"
"Barney, you son of a--"
"We didn't mean to, Fred. It just happened! It was--Fred, no! Put the club down, Fred! FRED!!!"
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Even if you're doing it a bit more seriously than I just did, spoken names can also come across as a bit fake. It's the author acknowledging the audience may be having trouble keeping track, and throwing in a name is the easiest way to deal with it, rather than the best way. Remember, if you've got two characters who have been introduced, it's really rare that they'll need to keep using each other's names. Especially if they're the only ones there.
Cool lines-- D'you remember that bit in The Incredibles when Syndrome reveals his master plan? "And when everybody's super... no one will be." It's an ugly truth--everything becomes mundane when there's no baseline. If everyone's a millionaire, being a millionaire isn't all that great. If everyone on your basketball team is eight feet tall, who's the tall guy? If anybody can hit a bullseye at 100 yards out, hitting a bullseye doesn't really mean anything, does it?
The same holds for dialogue. We all want to have a memorable line or three that sticks in the reader's mind forever. The thing is, they're memorable because they stand out. Even in Arnold Schwarzenegger's old films, when he had piles of one-liners, he also had piles of lines no one remembers that just advanced the story. We all remember the first line he says to the Predator, but do you remember the first line he says to Dylan? What about any line he gave to Hawkins, the skinny guy?
Fun side note--believe it or not, Hawkins is screenwriter Shane Black, the guy who wrote Lethal Weapon, The Long Kiss Goodnight, and Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang.
If you try to make every line a cool line, or even most of them, you're shooting yourself in the foot because none of them are going to stand out. When everything's turned up to eleven, it's all at eleven-- it's monotone.
"As you know..." - If you take nothing else from today's rant, take this. Find every sentence in your writing that starts with this phrase or one of it's halfbreed cousins like "You know, (insert character name)...".
Once you've found them, delete them ALL.
This is probably the clumsiest way to do exposition there is. Think about it.
"Yakko, you know I get grumpy if I don't eat." If he does know, maybe you should just get to your point.
"As you know, Wakko, my birthday is coming up..." Well if Wakko knows, why does the speaker need to point it out?
"You know, Dot, we've been friend for twelve years now..." Did Dot have a head injury and needs to be reminded of this? If so, cool, if not...
"As you know, men, this war against the Zentradi has been going on for seven years now..." Seven years and you've got to tell a room full of soldiers who they've been fighting against and for how long? Where did these folks get shipped in from?
If you've got a really solid manuscript, you might be able to get away with doing this once. Just once. As long as you don't do it your first ten pages or so. Past that, get out your editorial safety scissors and start cutting.
Grammatically Correct - very few people speak in perfect, grammatically correct English, aside from a few freaks with inferiority complexes. We all speak differing degrees of colloquial English. Our verbs don't always line up with our nouns. Tenses don't always match. Fact is, a lot of "spoken" English looks awful on the page. If you've got the grammar function on in Word (and, seriously, why is it on? Kill that thing right now. And the spellchecker while you're at it), spoken English is a nightmare.
This is where a lot of new writers choke, because they can't reconcile the words on the page with the voices in their heads (so to speak). Thus, they end up with several characters, all of whom speak in a precisely regulated manner which seems wooden, affected, and does not flow by any definition of the term. To help beat this, you want to have someone else read your words out loud. Not you, because you know where to pause and emphasize. See what someone else does with it, how natural the words really sound, and how well they really flow.
And that's that. Five things you should be able to spot and fix with almost no effort at all.
Next week... I don't know. Part of me was thinking about talking about action scenes, but I've also been bouncing around some thoughts about antagonists. Any preferences?
Regardless, go write.