The Best Advice for Fiction Writers
Character & action are more important than ideas in storytelling
Writing is a skill that must be learned, and good writing takes hard work. Central to that considerable effort is learning how to overcome one’s own hubris. “You start with a scalpel,” suggests David Mamet, “and end with a chainsaw.” Equally important to overcoming ego is focus. “The star is the hero,” he goes on, “the drama consists solely in the quest of the hero.”
Many writers fall into the trap of becoming enchanted then blinded by their own ideas, rather than telling a naturally compelling story about a hero who overcomes obstacles on their journey to achieve their goal. A discerning writer put it best when she described this common phenomenon as “H.A.I.T.E.”: an acronym that stands for “Here’s An Idea! — The End.”
The rules of great storytelling haven’t changed since cave paintings and Aeschylus: humans crave powerful emotional connections with relatable characters struggling to succeed. Along the way, we seek excitement, become infused with hope. The play is the thing, the hero is our projection, the drama triggers catharsis, while the fourth wall gives us perspective.
Drama channels the pain and conflict of lived experience. “Everyone has a plan,” the boxer Mike Tyson once said, “until they’re punched in the face.” The hero, despite such impediments, carries on, inspiring us to face and conquer adversity in our own lives. Opportunities and challenges vary, but we seek meaning and truth within a world of disappointment and deceit.
Storytelling therefore encourages active participation, propelled by continuous intention and problem-solving. If the emergent narrative doesn’t erupt through the hero’s journey, with “and, therefore…” beats propelling dynamic action, the unfolding drama astounding readers to the point they can’t wait to see what happens next, then the story sucks. The End.
Bad writing in contrast is often H.A.I.T.E.-ful: placing ideas above all else and forgetting that literature is about people and their struggles, not things or concepts and their exposition. Bad writers exert most of their effort on world-building, leaving little or no room for flesh and blood characters to fight like hell to realize their clear and simple goals, or be destroyed trying.
Good writers, in contrast, use settings as a mere backdrop, and force their characters to navigate through difficult situations using their own volition. The “story” isn’t a description of a world and its inhabitants — intense drama instead writing itself through the effervescent interplay of imaginary beings having genuine, relatable desires, viscerally competing for the spoils.
As a sucker for ideas, especially science and technology ones, I’ve been guilty of these H.A.I.T.E.-ful sins, too. For years I succumbed to the erroneous notion that if I’m excited by something, then everyone else must be, too. I’m not alone with these bad habits, as most science fiction sucks for these same reasons: world-building over characters, academics over action.
Yet even the geekiest of sci-fi readers yearn to be entertained and enthralled, nobody solely interested in a concept, location, abstraction or distraction, no matter how exotic or cool. Everyone instead demands a shared experience, fueled by human drama and compelling action. To laugh, to cry, to gasp with spontaneous excitement are the stuff dreams are made off, not ideas.
The mathematics and philosophy of the “Multiverse” concept have fascinated me for years, and I’ve sensed the backdrop could drive a terrific science fiction novel. Since the idea was already a trope in countless books, comics, and movies, I thought of a new way to spin it — but struggled to bring the story to life. Like most writers, I had fallen prey to H.A.I.T.E.
My basic idea: if an infinite number of Universes exist in the Multiverse, then everything possible must be real somewhere. If the hero makes a wish and is able to jump to another Universe that’s identical in every way to this one except for their wish happening to be true, then they would be in possession of — a genie’s lamp! Great idea. I started with the plot. Bad idea.
I began by thinking of a way people could travel between Universes within an infinite Multiverse. Channeling my favorite childhood book, Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, adding a dash of Borges’ “The Aleph,” I thought of a magical gem that could teleport the protagonist to another Universe. Then I created a poker game setting where the gem was used as a betting chip.
The effort failed because it was driven by H.A.I.T.E., and I wrote the story backasswards. Instead of empowering my hero Carlos and letting his struggles drive the action, I created this artificial construct designed with the sole purpose of explaining how the hell people could travel between Universes. The gem as a mere device, and “Carlos” a shallow stick figure.
A dud, I took the lessons of H.A.I.T.E. to heart and started from scratch with Jonnie. This time, I began with the character, who became not some two-dimension tool for slinging ideas and a mechanical plot, but a grotesque projection of myself. Personalizing an antihero, I infused my own emotions into his desires and actions, and in doing so gave the keyboard over to him.
Bingo! Instead of trying to explain some abstract concept and create a cool but soulless technology, I created a riveting fool having my own best and worst characteristics. Part hyperbolic biography, part roman à clef, my literary doppelgänger had even bigger problems to solve, of which creating “the Transfinite Reality Engine” was a fanciful but compelling solution.
From that spark the rest of the story told itself. My hero told the story, and I became a mere conduit for his nonsense, passion, and hope. The other characters spontaneously popped into existence, each having their own goals and obstacles. The core idea proved useful, but the great writing happened when I gave freedom to the emotional struggles of the characters.
Nothing is more satisfying for a writer than finding their voice. Thanks to halting my own H.A.I.T.E., I was finally able to write from my heart rather than my head and published the novel I’ve always wanted to write. The Lovers’ Guide to the Infiniverse is the unfolding saga of how infinite options distract us from the beauty of seeking and finding our one true love. Amore!
If you’re curious, here’s the novel I’ve always wanted to write — coming to life thanks to applying this simple characters-first rule:
