Cameron Montague Taylor

Fantasy Author & Fiction Editor

Cameron Montague Taylor

Understanding Psychic Distance

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By this point, everyone and their cat has heard the world’s most popular piece of writing advice: “show, don’t tell.” It’s a snappy, cute little phrase that feels accurate while remaining frustratingly vague. Though it’s one fiction writing’s most important tenets, I don’t like repeating it verbatim for one big reason:

It’s not a single piece of actionable advice.

“Show, don’t tell” is an umbrella under which a wild number of craft concepts sit. It impacts almost every single aspect of writing prose, and the best method I have to explain it is a metaphor: if your prose is a camera and you’re the photographer, make sure you use the right zoom lens for each scene.

Some parts of the story require a wide-angle. Or a telephoto. Or a macro lens. Showing vs. telling is the act of zooming in or zooming out to focus (or not focus) the reader’s attention on immersive, real-time detail.

This ought not be interpreted literally, either, for setting detail is only one part of the “Show, don’t tell” picture. It impacts all axes of prose in our writing, and in today’s blog post, we’ll be looking at how “show, don’t tell” impacts narrative voice and psychic distance.

Show, don’t tell & psychic distance

First, let’s get clear on the camera metaphor:

Showing means zooming all the way in to focus the reader on vivid details, and telling means zooming out to deliver a broader picture. Therefore, showing brings the reader closer to a character’s consciousness, while telling increases the psychic distance (there’s that word!) between the reader and the character, letting them observe story events from further away.

Like any good zoom lens, our narrative ‘camera’ has more than two binary settings, and as writers, we can choose how far we ‘zoom in’ in order to best suit our narrative.

Certain POVs, like true and subjective omniscient, put a great deal of distance between the reader and the character, often by using a third-party narrator. And while omniscient narrators can dip into characters’ heads, they do so at a distance, observing but not experiencing those thoughts and feelings.

Contrast that with POVs like third limited close and first person, which allow the reader to experience the narrative as if they were the character in question. These POVs often get called “voicey,” because the narration sounds is delivered by the character, and sounds like the character’s spoken voice. Think about Catcher in the Rye, when Holden Caulfield calls other characters “phonies” in narration.

Is one method better than the other?

Arguably, no. Third limited and first person are more popular right now, especially in middle grade and young adult categories, but there are bestselling writers who masterfully use omniscient and somehow still attach us deeply to the characters (think Fredrick Backman). Like any zoom lens, psychic distance is a tool and a choice we can use as writers in order to effectively tell our stories.

So what do these different ‘zoom settings’ look like?

Five levels of psychic distance

First, a caveat: there aren’t five levels of psychic distance.

Or, at least, there’s no dividing line between each of these so-called ‘levels.’ I use five, here, because that was how I initially learned about psychic distance in fiction, and because I think it’s 1) enough to provide nuance without 2) being overwhelming.

For these purposes, think of the levels like this:

  1. Omniscient
  2. Omniscient or distant third
  3. (Close) omniscient or third limited
  4. Third limited close or distant first person
  5. Third limited close or first person

Notice how there’s a lot of overlap between them? This is important! It means that, while choosing our POV will inherently limit how close or far we can ‘zoom’ while writing, our narrative camera still comes equipped with a zoom function.

Let’s first take a look at our five levels, then examine why we might choose to zoom in and out between them.

*Note! These examples aren’t meant to be exact rewrites of the same sentence—they’re illustrations of what close vs. distant narration looks like with one character in one scenario.

  • Omnicient: furthest from the POV character

It was an unusually warm fall in Tarrytown. On one of the city’s many tree-lined streets, a brownstone door opened, and a woman stepped out onto the sidewalk.

In this example, it’s clear the character (a woman) isn’t narrating the story; she couldn’t have seen the brownstone door open from the street if she’s the one opening it, right?

  • Omniscient or distant third: far from the character, but skimming their thoughts

Ida Marie didn’t appreciate the unreasonably warm weather, and feared it would ruin her afternoon walk.

This example is slightly closer than #1. A writer using subjective omniscient might even piggyback these first two examples off of one another, ‘zooming in’ to the character to give us her name and a hint of her mental/emotional state.

This could also be an example of distant third limited, because it’s settled firmly upon Ida Marie’s shoulders. Yet while the reader can skim Ida Marie’s thoughts, this POV isn’t immersive; the use of filtering phrases like didn’t appreciate and feared serve as ‘tells.’ Rather than showing the reader what Ida Marie experiences as she begins her walk, the narrative zooms out to tell the reader what she’s thinking and how she’s feeling. Contrast these telling words with the following examples:

  • (Closer) omniscient or third limited—slipping into the character’s body

Ida cursed November’s unreasonable heat, which made her shirt stick to her back as she walked.

Much closer! While this breaks no laws of omniscient (it’s still tell-y), the sensory detail of the shirt sticking to the back brings the reader closer to Ida Marie. This is the true point of crossover between the deepest possible omniscient perspectives and the ‘standard zoom’ of third limited.

  • Third limited close, or distant first person—slipping into the character’s thoughts

God, how she hated those second summers. They made her tacky with sweat, shirt turning clammy and gross against her skin.

Here, we’re experiencing Ida Marie’s thoughts along with her, learning that she calls the unseasonably warm parts of fall ‘second summer,’ that her shirt is tacky, that she thinks it feels ‘gross’ against her skin. While this is phrased in third person, it would work in first, too, without coming off as weak writing: God, how I hated those second summers. They made me tacky with sweat, shirt turning gross against my skin.

Some narrative distance remains, because Ida Marie is still telling us how she feels with “she hated those second summers.” Yet although the camera isn’t zoomed all the way in, her voice sneaks in makes an appearance—how she sounds both in dialogue and in her own head—which means this cannot be an omniscient narrator; Ida Marie is now the one telling us the story.

  • Third person limited close or first person—deep POV, macro zoom

Another damn seventy-degree day in November. Forget pumpkin spice; this year was sweaty tee shirts, soggy pits, and lungs that ached with every stupid, humid breath.

See the difference?

In this excerpt, we are Ida Marie. We’re so close in her head that we can hear the quality of her voice as if she’s chatting in our ear. This is deep interiority, the last step before pure stream of consciousness. Did you notice how there were no pronouns in the excerpt? That’s not an accident! How often do we refer to ourselves in our own heads? Infrequently, right? Our focus is usually directed elsewhere.

That’s not to say pronouns won’t appear in deep POV (we need them to describe physical action), but they’ll become less common throughout moments of interiority. The ‘macro’ zoom setting on psychic distance gets us so close to the character that we no longer ‘see’ them; instead, we gain an understanding of who the character is by observing their reflection in the world around them. This is the bread-and-butter spot for first person and third limited deep.

How do we decide when to zoom in/out?

There are a variety of reasons why an author might choose to zoom in or out within the boundaries of the POV they’ve chosen. Here are the three that I believe are the most important to consider while we’re writing:

  • Voice when writing first or third POV

The narrower the psychic distance, the stronger the POV character’s voice will be in narration, and the more the character begins to feel like a real person. Strong character voice can provide a hook and a handhold for readers to become invested in them and the story they’re trying to tell. Zoom in!

  • Managing the reader’s connection and comfort

Though a narrower psychic distance gap is often pushed as a method of strengthening reader connection, there are times when it’s more appropriate to pull back and leave a gap between the reader and the POV character. Authors do so when sitting too deeply in the POV character’s head is uncomfortable and disturbing. This might be the case, for example, when a murder mystery slips into a serial killer’s POV, or when a character commits an atrocity that the author doesn’t want to excuse, sexualize, or romanticize. Zoom out!

  • Show, don’t tell

Larger gaps can work better for technical reasons, too. There will be times when the POV character must transmit information to the reader that, while important to understanding the flow of the story, isn’t itself vital to describe in detail, like a time skip or a scene transition. Writers might zoom out to prevent these scenes from bogging down the story, then zoom in when they want the reader to experience a scene alongside the character: clue discoveries, major reveals, battles, sex scenes, love confessions, etc.

Want to learn more about when it’s appropriate to ‘show’ and when it’s better to ‘tell?’ Check out this infographic.

There’s more to “show, don’t tell”

While there’s more to “show, don’t tell,” mastering psychic distance is a major step towards learning how to strike the right balance in your writing.

Have questions about what you’ve read in the blog post, or more questions about “show, don’t tell” that weren’t answered here? Let’s chat in the comments!

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The Inside/Outside Trick

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Do you struggle with talking heads or an overreliance on body language cues like smirking or eyes widening or brows furrowing when you’re writing dialogue passages? You’re not alone. It’s so tempting to reach for those easy, common body language cues, especially in early drafts.

As a developmental editor, I’ve recently realized that my advice to clients when strengthening or replacing body language descriptions always goes one of two ways. I encourage the writer to either:

  1. Zoom all the way into that character’s head, or
  2. Zoom all the way out to show the reader how they’re interacting with the setting.

I call this the inside/outside tip, and it’s all about adding richer context to dialogue by avoiding an overreliance on middle-distance description.

But why is an overreliance on body language a bad thing?

A GIF of Ursula from The Little Mermaid saying "and don't underestimate the power of body language!"
Don’t underestimate the importance of body language!

We overuse body language in fiction

Lemme start by clarifying my point: there’s nothing wrong with describing body language, and many descriptions of body language are useful, if not necessary, to our writing. But when crafting dialogue passages, we tend to lean on body language even when it isn’t the strongest possible way to convey a character’s emotion.

In particular, we often focus on facial choreography, describing the way a character’s eyes, mouth, or brows are moving. When used too often, these action beats being to feel meaningless—almost as if we plug them into dialogue passages in order to attribute the dialogue rather than enhancing it.

How important is it, really, that his brows raised?

That her eyes narrowed?

That he flashed a grin?

Though all of these cues tell us something about the character, they’re shorthand descriptions of emotion. At times, the shorthand is perfectly suitable; if the reader already understands the context, a small reminder is ideal.

At other times, however, body language cues can feel vague, repetitive, or even disruptive to the story flow.

This is particularly true when the point of view character uses body language to convey their own emotional state to the reader. Although most people are aware of how their faces move in conversation, we tend not to think too much about our micro-expressions in casual conversation. Why would our characters be any different?

Thus, when a POV narrator relies on descriptions of their own face to give the reader a window into what they’re thinking or feeling, it reads like they’re observing themselves from the outside, either

  • increasing psychic distance, or
  • creating a POV error.

How does that character know their own eyes have darkened? This implies the character can observe themselves from outside their own body, which could jolt the reader out of the story.

But… what about ‘talking heads?’

Many writers learn to incorporate abundant body language cues into their writing in order to avoid an issue called ‘talking heads.’

When we receive criticism that our characters feel like ‘talking heads’ during dialogue exchanges, it means that, while the bare facts of a conflict are conveyed through speech, the reader has no idea

  • Who these characters are
  • Where these characters are
  • What their body language is conveying.

New writers often lean on body language in order to avoid giving the reader the impression that dialogue lines are spoken by disembodied heads. Though it’s a good start, it won’t provide quite enough context; even the best-crafted body language can’t hit points #1 and #2.

Think of it this way: body language is one part of a much greater descriptive whole. It’s the connective middle between a character’s thoughts (interior) and a character’s actions (exterior).

And without the inside (thoughts) and outside (actions), the connective middle begins to lose its meaning.

So, if not through abundant body language and facial cues, how else can we enrich our dialogue and avoid talking heads?

A GIF from a music video by the Talking Heads.
The only acceptable Talking Heads

Go ‘outside’

One element of talking heads is called white room syndrome, in which the setting description is so minimal—and the characters interact so little with it—that they might as well be having a conversation in a blank, white room.

This is where ‘outside’ comes into play: give your readers a window into who your characters are and what your characters are feeling by showing their interaction with the setting.

Bear in mind, I don’t mean your character should repeatedly sip from a teacup during a sit-down meal; interactions with props can be just as meaningless as repetitive body language cues.

But could a character in the midst of an argument make tea aggressively in a Regency romance by setting cups down with a clank, stirring in sugar so hard the tea sloshes over the rim, dropping spoons with a clatter? Sure!

How your character interacts with the setting will lend context to the conversation they’re having. What other interesting interactions with setting can your character have in order to give a window into their internal world?

Can your characters argue while reorganizing a bookshelf and start slamming books into their places? Would an anxious character in a restaurant scene start organizing condiments by size and shape? While planning a heist, would the easily distracted character click a pen over and over until the hair-trigger-temper character leaps across the table to rip it out of their hands?

Going ‘outside’ of body language to show interaction with setting is a great choice for all characters, but when it comes to POV characters, we have a second option that’s just as powerful:

Go ‘inside’

By going ‘inside,’ I’m referring to a POV character’s interiority: their thoughts, judgments, and how they unpack, contextualize, and make sense of the conversation they’re having. Interiority not only deepens the connection between the reader and the character, but it can also ascribe additional meaning to a non-POV character’s words or body language.

Interiority strikes back at talking heads by showing the reader who these characters are, preventing a back-and-forth dialogue exchange from losing meaning. It can take several different forms, including

  • Descriptive narration

“What do you want?” the shop-keep asked as he spun to face her. He had a blunt face with a scar cutting into one cheek. “Well? Spit it out. Don’t got all day, y’know.”

  • Verbatim thought

“What do you want?” the shop-keep asked as he spun to face her.
Damn, he’s ugly. “Uh, I—”
“Well? Spit it out. Don’t got all day, y’know.”
Impatient, too.

  • Narrative thought

“What do you want?” the shop-keep asked. He had an ugly mug and an attitude to match, and interrupted her attempt at a reply. “Well? Spit it out. Don’t got all day, y’know.”

All three of these examples show different flavors of interiority, but there’s no reason you couldn’t use a combination of them, moving between description and thought as necessary to show the reader both what the POV character is observing and what judgments they’re forming about it.

It’s also possible (and encouraged!) to combine inside/outside in a single line where appropriate.

For example:

The shop-keep slammed a cabinet shut and spun to face her. He had a blunt face with a scar cutting into one cheek, and an attitude to match his appearance.

“What do you want?”

Sara clutched the package to her chest. “I uh—”

“Well? Spit it out. Don’t got all day, y’know.”

Impatient, isn’t he? She’d have to sweeten him up or she’d never get her refund.

Tools, not rules

As always, remember that these are tools for your writer’s toolbox—not rules that ought to be obeyed to the letter. I’ll never tell authors to wholesale delete darkening eyes or cocky smirks or arched brows, but I will issue a challenge:

If you find yourself using a lot of the above descriptions, pick up a highlighter while working on your line edits and use it to pick out body language cues in your dialogue passages. For each one, ask yourself: is this the best possible way to show the reader what’s going on?

If I substituted one of these cues for interiority or environmental interaction, would it add meaning, balance, or clarity to the scene?

I suspect you’ll find that the answer is often ‘yes!’

Body language can’t carry a conversation on its own; as with all elements of craft, it’s a middle-distance tool we can reach for when neither inside nor outside feel quite right. In other words, I’m not asking writers to thinking critically about our use of body language in dialogue passages in service of eliminating body language, but rather, as a way to encourage balance: the secret ingredient for clear and compelling prose.

Do you overuse body language in your own writing? I sure do! I find it all the time when I’m self-editing. Here’s your boilerplate reminder that it’s impossible to get it all ‘right’ in the first draft, so don’t get discouraged! Words on the page can always be tweaked, and getting that story down in draft form is a victory in and of itself.

Let’s chat

Let me know what body language cues you overuse in the comments, or fire away with any questions you have about the inside/outside trick.

Or share a short excerpt of a place where you’ve used the inside/outside trick to enrich your dialogue passage!

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Writing Vivid Description

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The 5-4-3-2-1 Grounding Technique The five steps of this grounding technique are: Touch Vision Taste Smell Hearing

If you’ve ever struggled to write vivid sensory description in your story, here’s a quick tip: try using the 5-4-3-2-1 grounding method for managing anxiety.

Folks who struggle with anxiety use this technique to manage their body’s response to stressful stimuli; I have friends and colleagues who’ve told me it can help them prevent or mitigate a panic attack. It was one of these colleagues who shared their writing secret with me, too:

Because the 5-4-3-2-1 method helped her manage anxiety by connecting her with her surroundings, she began using it to connect characters with their surroundings, too.

If you’d like to learn more about how to use this technique to alleviate anxiety, you can check out this article here. Today’s post only addresses the techniques applicability to writing and isn’t meant to assist with mental health management.

Using the 5-4-3-2-1 technique for vivid description

When a new point of view character walks into a new setting, open up your worldbuilding notes (or take out a scrap of paper) and try the following exercise:

  1. Put yourself in your character’s body* and imagine the scene from their perspective. Shut your eyes if necessary.
  2. Commit yourself to noticing only what they would notice, giving priority to what they would find important or noteworthy and how they’d describe what they observe.

*For the sake of this exercise, let’s say our character is a detective in her forties who has recently lost her mother. She and her partner have just entered the home of a murder suspect’s mother for questioning.

Now note down the following:

  • Five things the character can see. The floral wallpaper that reminds your character of her mother’s house. Framed pictures of family sit on every available surface. An antique rifle hangs over the mantlepiece. The room has three exits, one of which leads to a long, dark hall. There are two steaming coffee cups on an end table, as though someone else has recently been in the room.
  • Four things the character can touch. The pile of the carpet is high and plushy beneath her boots. It’s hot inside the house and sweat forms beneath her collar. The mother’s hand is cool and dry when she reaches out to shake. The springs of the couch are long-busted, and she sinks into her seat when she sits.
  • Three things the character can hear. Windchimes tinkle on the porch. Upstairs, a toilet flushes. The mother’s voice is soft and gentle.
  • Two things the character can smell. The mother’s floral perfume is the same one her own mother wore. Something hearty is cooking in the oven.
  • One thing the character can taste. The acrid tang of the cigarette she’d smoked before entering the house.

With these details in your worldbuilding document, you have not only a snapshot of the setting, but a list of the things your character first notices about that setting — a list which would be different if you made it from another character’s point of view. Setting and characterization: two birds with one stone.

Don’t use the list.

Now put the list away.

Or, rather, avoid the temptation to turn your list into several paragraphs of prose and jam it all into the top of the scene. That’s not what this list is for!

Instead, pick out two or three important, vivid details from that list and use those to ground the reader in the setting as the character enters. (In this case, perhaps we’ll pick the wallpaper, the room’s exits, and the mother’s perfume.) As the scene progresses and the character begins to interact with it and/or notice more details, use your list to trickle them onto the page as she encounters them.

By trickling, you can avoid information overload and ensure that only the most important, strongest details make it onto the page.

You don’t need to use all of the details listed above. Sometimes it won’t be possible to, or some senses won’t apply. Conversely, in scenes where noticing things is particularly important (ie: a detective visiting a suspect’s mother’s home), you might add to this list of details in order to both reveal and obfuscate important clues.

And remember: the purpose of the 5-4-3-2-1 method in fiction isn’t to measure how many details appear on page, but rather, to ensure that those details are concrete, sensory, powerful, and grounded in the POV character’s perspective.

Hope that helps you as your drafting or in your next round of edits!

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Planning the External Plot

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When I first started writing, I must have googled every single permutation of “how do I write a good book?” about a thousand times, only to find that many writers are close-lipped on the exact process they use to put that idea into words.

This post is dedicated to drawing pack the curtain on part of my writing and drafting process, in which I lay down the bones of the external plot structure. I can’t cover my whole planning process in a single post, so I’m keeping the focus narrow, here, but I hope it provides you with some inspo or food for thought.

I plan the external portion of my plot with a variety of tools—chiefly three-act (specifically drawn from Save the Cat Writes a Novel) and character-focused scene cards.

Some writers find structures like three-act too prescriptive for their tastes, or otherwise, don’t like using physical tools like beat sheets and scene cards in their pre-writing process. But when I’m writing and editing (either for myself or for a client), I lean heavily on tools like three-act as analytical frameworks to help me conceptualize the story and control its movement, tension, and pacing.

Before I delve into how I do this, I’d like to add a note for the pantsers in the crowd:

A note for the pantsers

(For those of you who haven’t heard the term before, a ‘pantser’ is a writer who does little to no planning before sitting down and starting to write. They often consider structural tools like three-act, scene cards, or outlining to be an impediment to the creative process.)

If you’re a dyed-in-the-wool punster who wants nothing to do with an outline, that is fine—but structural tools can still work for you! The trick is, instead of using beat sheets or scene cards prior to drafting, you’ll take them out and fill them in after you’ve already written your rough draft.

That way, your by-the-seat-of-the-pants creative process will remain intact—and you can use structural tools to load test the strength of your plot, arcs, and pacing in order to identify where and how to shift things around in revisions.

…and a note for the plotters

Here’s the thing, though:

Pantsers, you’re not alone. All of us have a little pantser in us, whether or not we realize it. The story we imagined in the very beginning isn’t necessarily the story that ends up on the page once we’re done writing. While I won’t say there’s a way to use beat sheets or scene cards wrong, I can say that it’s a mistake to hem yourself in so hard that you don’t listen to that niggling little voice telling you that something isn’t right about the connective tissue between acts, or the way the climax plays out, or the development of the romantic arc.

It is absolutely okay (and often necessary!) to take stock of the story at each major benchmark and think critically about whether the structure as it’s currently planned still works given what’s made it onto the page.

I frequently stop at the midpoint to assess my beat sheet, scene cards, and outline for the second half of the story… and often make major changes to bring my plan in line with a revised vision based on how the story actually played out as I was writing. This kind of flexibility is a good thing! It leaves us room for spontaneous creativity and those special, beautiful moments when something we didn’t plan ends up on page but works so heckin’ well we can’t help but keep it.

Without further ado…

How I use beat sheets and scene cards to structure my stories

If you’re unfamiliar with Save the Cat, I recommend picking up a copy at a local bookstore or library. You can learn more about it here.

Otherwise, here’s a free and short explanation of the beats.

A caveat: as I mentioned earlier, this isn’t my full planning process. By the time I start filling out beats, I’ve done a ton of pre-writing and have already figured out the rough shape of the protagonist’s growth arc (and likely, the growth arcs of the major supporting characters, too—especially if there’s a romance in the story). Character and romance arc planning is a post for another time.

Moving on:

Because I write character-first, I don’t start working on my external plot until I know where I want my characters to end up by the end of the story and have a vague idea of what needs to happen to get them there. Overall, I tweak the plot to fit the characters and their growth arcs—not the other way around.

If you’re not a character writer, this might not work for you! (But I recommend trying it! Character-first is fun ;))

Thus, by the time three-act / Save the Cat gets involved, I have fleshed-out characters and a bare-bones plot. Sometimes, I only know the general premise and have a vague idea of the conclusion with one or two specific images / sources of inspiration along the way.

To get that external plot in shape, I start by mapping out the major beats of my story.

Below is a list of three-act beats from Save the Cat. I’ve bolded the ones I consciously think about while in the planning phase:

Opening Image
Theme Stated
Set-up
Catalyst
Debate
Break into Two
B Story
Fun and Games
Midpoint
Bad Guys Close In
All Is Lost
Dark Night of the Soul
Break into Three
Finale
Final Image

Past the scaffolding for act one, which I try to lay down during this stage, the later story beats all have something in common: they’re the story’s major turning points.

Start with act one, fill in major turning points

I start planning the external plot by deciding upon an opening image because I already intrinsically understand the scene’s requirements; I’ve done enough character pre-work that I know exactly what struggles my protagonist is facing at the very beginning of the story. In fact, most of act one usually comes together quickly for me. I have a general idea of the external conflict my protagonist will face in the story, and the first act is devoted to forcing them to accept the call to action and decide how and why they’re going to set out to solve this external problem—and those hows and whys are intrinsically tied to the character work I’ve already done.

(In other words: the hows and whys march in tandem with that protagonist’s pre-story goals and motivations, all of which I’ve already decided upon.)

This takes me into the break to act two, at which point my ideas become hazier. To avoid getting bogged down in the weeds of the ‘fun and games’ beat, the next event I plan is the story’s midpoint.

When plotting the midpoint, I ask myself: what external event happens that, driven by the protagonist’s actions, causes them to reevaluate their goals and motivations for the rest of the story?

I tend to think of the midpoint as either a major victory (on the back of which the protagonist realizes the victory was hollow, pyrrhic, or has another similar oh NO moment that sends them scrambling) or a major defeat (after which the protagonist realizes what they’ve been missing all along and finally figures out what steps to take towards the climax).

Why do I plan the midpoint before either half of act two? Because the events of act two provide the framing context and structural support for that vital midpoint beat. Without first understanding how the story turns at the midpoint, I can’t understand what needs to brace it on either side.

Of course, there’s another major turning point at the end of act two / beginning of act three. This turning point encompasses the three major beats on either side of that doorway: All is Lost / Dark Night of the Soul / Break into Act Three.

In other words: what terrible event forces the protagonist to risk it all and finally, finally complete their growth arc? And, how does completing that growth arc give them the solution to the external plot problem?

I might have a general idea of what I want my climactic scenes to look like, but often, I’m missing concrete details at this stage. The next scene that I truly have a vision for is that final image. It’s a mirror of the opening image, it demonstrates the full range of my protagonist’s growth arc, and furthermore, it’s the (often happy) ending the events of the climax must engineer.

I can’t plot my climax until I understand how I want my story to end.

Once these major beats are down, I can start filling in the connective tissue that’ll get my characters from one point to the next. I do that using scene cards.

Using scene cards to fill in narrative beats

From Story Genius by Lisa Cron

While dreaming up the events that will bring my protagonist (and/or supporting cast) from one major plot event to another in a logical, authentic, and interesting way, I rely heavily on scene cards both to test and to flesh out my ideas. They help me map out my arcs and ensure the events of each scene 1) flow into one another; 2) impact what happens in the next scene; 3) are driven by my characters’ goals/motivations; 4) advance at least one vital story arc.

Sometimes, I use these cards for larger events or try/fail cycles just to make sure I have all my bases covered.

Whenever I’m using a scene card, I’ll fill out the boxes with as much detail as I can. What happens is a short summary of the event itself. This event should be protagonist-driven, and Consequence is the clear and external result of their actions.

Why it matters, Realization, and ‘and so’ are how the external plot interacts with the character arc. Why do these events matter to the character? What does the character realize while these external events unfold? What do they decide to do next after encountering the consequences of the past scene/sequence?

If you’re wondering what an example of this might look like… check it out:

Let’s say I’m writing a romantic thriller. My protagonist is Ana, an editorial intern struggling her way up the ladder in a major New York publishing house. The love interest is Loula, an aspiring ballet dancer who works part-time at her family’s diner to keep her finances in order while breaking into the industry. They end up at a bodega down the street from Loula’s family diner at the same time… just as it’s held up by a gunman who takes everyone inside hostage.

The scene in question starts before, but leads into the inciting incident where the gunman enters the bodega.

Ana is a pretty selfish character who’s a little bit of a scatterbrain. The scene begins when Ana decides to make a sandwich for lunch in her office’s communal kitchen. She goes into the fridge and realizes she’s forgotten to buy more sandwich pickles. She decides to make her sandwich anyway, ‘borrowing’ her coworker Jason’s pickles without asking (what happens). But Jason walks into the kitchen mid-sandwich-prep, catches her, and blows up at her for stealing (consequence).

Jason is a full-time employee and one of the editors Ana needs to work with on a daily basis. Not only that, but if she has any hope of turning her internship into a job, she can’t be known as a pickle stealer (why it matters). But perhaps, if she makes it up to Jason and regains his trust, she won’t doom her chances with this publishing house (realization). Thus, she decides to use the rest of her lunch break to run to the bodega on the corner and replace his pickles (and so).

The next scene would begin with Ana arriving at the bodega and frantically searching the aisles for the right brand of sandwich pickles—only for the gunman to enter and order everyone to get to the ground.

See what I did there?

Ana’s growth arc (from selfishness to selflessness, perhaps) will impact her actions, which in turn interacts with and shapes the events of the external plot, driving the conflict between major beats.

 This isn’t the whole picture

Beat sheets and scene cards are only one aspect of my story-planning process; as with all writing tools, I use them in conjunction with a smorgasbord of tricks I’ve picked up along the way in order to end up with a cohesive narrative by the end. As tools, though, they help me plan my story in a way that ensures I’m not missing major connective tissue between plot points, keeping narrative tension and traction high by ensuring the events of the story connect to one another with consistent, forward-driving momentum.

I don’t expect this method to work for you the way it does for me! We’re all unique, and so are our processes. But I think that, as writers, we hunger for resources from other writers that lay out this is exactly how I do what I do, that way we can learn, experiment, and grow from our peers.

If you take anything from this post, I hope it’s this: every writer has a method that works for them—one they’ve developed after writing story after story. This happens to be what works for me, which doesn’t mean it’s The Way to write. Try it out. Take what you can from the process. Use what nuggets and tidbits help, and discard the rest.

And tag me in any posts you make about your own process so I can do the same ;).

Attributing Dialogue

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It’s time for a deep dive on dialogue tags.

I’ve written about the “said-is-dead” debate in a previous post, but decided to come back with further clarity on different methods of attribution and when/why an author might choose one over the other. This is short and sweet, so strap in and let’s get moving.

Dialogue attribution has three jobs:

As I see it, there are three considerations to keep in mind when we’re deciding how to attribute (or, tag) dialogue: clarity, delivery, and rhythm. In other words, we’re concerned with:

  • Who’s speaking
  • How the line is said
  • How the line looks and feels as the reader encounters it

The primary purpose of a simple dialogue tag is clarity, or, identifying the speaker. For this, said is most assuredly not dead; standard tags like ‘said,’ ‘asked,’ and ‘replied’ are most affective. They’re inobtrusive and so well-worn that, when used correctly, they often disappear into the fabric of the narrative.

That said (heh), although attribution is the primary purpose of a dialogue tag, it can help to have more information about delivery. This is where said-bookisms come in. Alternatives to said/asked/replied can also be a useful part of a writer’s toolbox, so long as they’re used in moderation and truly are the right fit for the job.

When I say ‘right fit,’ I mean they ought to be the simplest and clearest way of describing the line’s delivery. For example, common alternatives like shouted, whispered, snapped, and muttered are often appropriate in certain contexts. But beware! Said-bookisms are shiny, tempting words. Not only do they lend themselves to overuse, but they can become crutches for our writing when we use them as shortcuts for information delivery.

Snapped isn’t always the best way to convey a character’s irritation, but it’s a much easier way to convey that irritation than using narrative description, internalization, or context clues. Hence why sound-bite writing advice on social media tells new writers to stay away from said-bookisms; they can encourage bad writing habits if we’re not being very careful.

Another reason said-bookisms get dunked on with some frequency is because many of them are absolutely bananas, and should rarely (if ever) be used: ejaculated, espoused, pontificated… you get the picture.

(While there’s a time and a place for every kind of word, over-the-top tags make the reader feel like they’ve been punched in the jaw by the prose, and we really don’t want to do that by accident.)

The reverse argument, of course, is that “he said/she said” gets boring and repetitive.

And yes, it can…

…if the third consideration, “rhythm,” falls by the wayside.

In my mind, simple tags like he/she said should only make up a fraction of dialogue attribution. An overreliance on any one method will always cause problems, and said/asked/replied aren’t exempt from that rule!

So how do we add variety into our writing? By using the four following techniques:

Simple attribution

Simple attribution uses the said-asked-reply tags and/or leaves dialogue untagged because character voice is strong enough for attribution to be implied. This method works best when the reader is already aware of context and, rhythmically, we want to pick up the pacing. No space for excess words!

Assuming the reader already knows the characters, the setting, and what the conversation is (largely) about, we could have a quick exchange that looks like this:

“Time to go,” she said.

“I’ll be ready in a minute.”

If we have enough context for this to be intelligible, it could be a strong choice! It’s simple, it’s clean, and it reads fast. But if not, the reader won’t be able to figure who the second speaker is. In that case, more context might be necessary—but a said-bookism might not be the right choice, either, unless it provides that context!

When would a said-bookism be an appropriate choice?

Said-bookisms

Let’s say the ‘she,’ in this case, is a mother speaking to her son. She’s standing in the hallway and addressing him through a closed door. If the story is told from the son’s perspective, we won’t have any body language cues to gauge the mother’s emotional state and decipher how she delivers her line. One way to address delivery would be to use an appropriate said-bookism.

“It’s time to go,” she snapped. “Didn’t you hear me? I said your name four times.”

“Just a minute,” he said, scrambling for his backpack.

‘Snapped’ works, here, because it adds context. Notice, however, that the son’s line returns to a simple attribution tag—said—in order to balance the punch brought by the intensity of ‘snapped.’

Action tags

But that’s not all! We can also attribute dialogue through action, which, if the door were open, could provide enough framing context to eliminate the need for standard tags altogether. For example:

His mother peeked through the door. “Time to go, honey.”

“I’ll be ready in a minute,” he said, and set down his controller.

The mother’s action tag, along with the addition of the pet-name ‘honey,’, makes the identity of the speaker clear in each line, and does a lot more (albeit different) characterization work than ‘said’ or ‘snapped’ could, and gives us a nuanced picture of the mother’s tone and demeanor.

Attribution through internalization

Finally, we have attribution through internalization. This can be a bit weedy or difficult to wrangle when it comes to clarity, but when done well, it’s a powerful way of bringing the reader deeply into the POV character’s head. If you’ve ever gotten feedback that your writing lacks interiority, this type of attribution can really help to elevate your prose.

An example:

“Time to go!”

Ugh. His mother was the worst, always interrupting the middle of his game. They didn’t need to leave for another fifteen minutes, but she had a thing about being early in order to be on-time.

Fine—she’d have it her way, as always.

“I’ll be ready in a minute.”

In this case, the combination of context and internal narrative lets the reader know who’s speaking. The son unpacks the context for the reader, and this explanation makes it possible for the reader to get their bearings and fill in the blanks.

Said isn’t dead, but it’s not the be-all-end-all of attribution

These four tools will allow you to focus on what’s most important in a given dialogue exchange. Is it clarity? Is it pacing? Is it the lyrical nature of the prose? Is it the way the line is delivered? External action? Interiority?

Switching between these methods depending on circumstance will add variety and interest to your prose. They’re tools which can draw the reader’s attention to the aspect of the conversation that’s most important—a kind of authorial sleight-of-hand that works wonders in long or thorny passages.

Most importantly, however, mastering the full range of attribution techniques will cut down on repetitive usage of ‘said,’ which will in turn prevent you from feeling the need to rely on some of the (ahem) more creative said-bookisms out there.

Ron ejaculated loudly. "Ron!" Hermione moaned.

Just…

Don’t be like JKR.

Morning Pages: Only My Pride

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Welcome to Morning Pages — it’s time for a monthly roundup. I hope you have your pencils sharpened and ready to write. Want to join in on the fun? Pick a prompt, set your timer* and get ready to let the words flow. Feel free to post the results of your work in the comments below where we chat about writing and (if the mood strikes us) get a craft discussion going.

If you want critique from other commenters, use #YESTHANKS in your comment. Otherwise, you can tell us about your flash fic and the process you went through to write it. And of course, I’m always open to hear what you think about my excerpts! You can follow the links below to find them on Patreon (but please bear in mind: I post MPs as-is without any polishing).

*you can write for as long as you want, but most folks choose 15-30 minutes.

What I learned this month: Subjective omniscient is not for me.

I’ve read a lot of subjective omniscient stories (a favorite is Fredrick Backman’s Beartown, which I highly recommend, though it has heavy themes). For those who haven’t tangled with subjective omni, it’s a style of narration that, much like true omniscient, uses a narrator who isn’t a physical character in the story. This narrator has their own personality, voice, and opinions. While they’re all-seeing and all-knowing like true omni, the ‘subjective’ part also allows them to peek into characters’ heads and tell the reader what those characters are thinking and feeling.

Increased psychic distance makes it different from third limited, because the reader doesn’t actually experience the story as if they were any of the characters, nor do those characters get a narrative voice. It’s more complicated to write than third limited, imho, because it’s difficult to direct the narrative to prevent head-hopping and even harder to prevent voice bleed between the characters and the narrators.

I’d never intentionally choose to write subjective omniscient (I find it crazy difficult to craft), but being an editor means I occasionally encounter writers braver than I in the wild. I recently tangled with a short excerpt from a writer who struggled with head hopping but wanted to write in subjective omni, and holy hell, it was so much harder than editing for third limited.

So. Much. Harder.

Right now, I’m torn re: whether I want to edit it, or whether I’m simply not a good fit for writers who use subjective omni. I think I’d like to practice a little more, but my gut is telling me that I’d be a better dev editor for that style, and would perhaps prefer to refer those writers to a colleague for their line/copy needs.

I imagine this isn’t the most titillating of revelations for members of the general bookish public, but here we are: the things a fiction editor ponders on the daily.

The Prompts:

“Did you hurt anything?” “Only my pride.”

Baseball ‘verse: Marshall Bedford doesn’t appreciate smack-talk from batters–especially when that smack-talk hits too close to home.

“Write a scene from the perspective of a bereaved character.”

Oceana ‘verse. Somehow, even the cat knew he was grieving.

“A character has unsettling (and perhaps prophetic) dreams.”

Oceana ‘verse. The worst thing about a far-seeing talent was how difficult it was to tell dreams from prophecy.

“How would a shapeshifter escape an arranged marriage?”

He thought he’d have a pliant, quiet bride. He was wrong.

Get Involved!

Answer the prompts or dive straight in and respond to others’ comments — let’s share our knowledge, our experience, and have a discussion we can all learn from! Don’t want to miss a post? Subscribe to the blog in the sidebar to get notified about new posts.

Today’s questions:

  • What’s your favorite POV to write in (ie: first, third limited, omni)?
  • Do you pick a single POV, or do you like to have multiple POV characters?

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