Writers, Stop the H.A.I.T.E.
How character & action supersede ideation in storytelling
Writing is a skill that must be learned, and good writing takes hard work. Central to that hard work is learning how to overcome your own hubris. “You start with a scalpel,” suggests David Mamet, “and you 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.”
The acronym “H.A.I.T.E.” isn’t referring to a character in the video game Zelda, instead standing for “Here’s An Idea! — The End.” Many writers fall into the trap of becoming enchanted by their own ideas, rather than telling a compelling story about a hero who overcomes obstacles to achieve their goal. Science fiction writers are particularly vulnerable to this bad habit.
Even the geekiest of sci-fi readers yearn to be entertained and enthralled, nobody solely interested in a fascinating concept, exotic location, abstraction or distraction, thing or bling, no matter how cool. Everyone instead demands a shared experience, human drama. To laugh, to cry, and if the adventure shines, maybe even gasp with spontaneous excitement.
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 want to twist and shout, be inspired and infused with hope. The play is the thing, the hero is our projection, the drama triggers catharsis, while the fourth wall protects us.
Drama is a poetic expression of our lives. Like the Mike Tyson meme reminds us, every day we start with a plan, and get repeatedly punched in the face. Despite — often because of — these endless impediments, we keep going. Our motivations and goals vary based on our personality and values, but each of us wants to discover our truth and meaning in a world of lies.
Great writing therefore engenders active participation. Surprises can and must happen, intricacies and confusion will abound, but if the organic narrative can’t entirely tell itself through the hero coming to life, action driven by problem-solving, the 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 forgeting that literature is about people, not things or concepts. Bad writers type a story, instead of imagining compelling characters with clear desires, placed in difficult situations they are forced to navigate through. Good writers don’t tell, they let their characters show what’s happening.
I’m a geeky sucker for cool science and technology ideas, and have been guilty of these writers’ sins, too. I often succumb to the erroneous notion that if I’m excited by something, then everyone else must be, too. Most science fiction blows because a good novel isn’t a clickbait article about Planet 9, and a fun movie can’t be a documentary about the Higgs boson.
The mathematics and philosophy of the “Multiverse” concept have fascinated me for years. Juicy stuff, I’ve sensed these ideas could drive an excellent science fiction novel. Already a trope in countless books, comics, and movies, I thought of a new way to spin it, but struggled to capture the right tone and voice. Like most writers, I fell prey to H.A.I.T.E.
In broad strokes, my idea is that if an infinite number of Universes exist, then every possibility is somewhere an actuality. And if that’s the case, then any wish could be granted. We just need to somehow get to another Universe that’s identical to our own, except in that other Universe whatever we happen to desire happens to be true: the ultimate genie’s lamp.
OK, cool idea. What about the plot for a story? The first thing I tried was to explain how people could travel between Universes within an infinite Multiverse. Channeling my favorite book from childhood, Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, with a dash of Borges’ “The Aleph,” I thought of a magical gem that could somehow teleport the protagonist to another Universe:
The effort fell flat because it was driven by H.A.I.T.E. Instead of focusing on my character Carlos, getting into his mind and motivations, letting him drive the narrative through the lens of his own desires, I created this artificial construct designed with the sole purpose of explaining how the hell people could travel between Universes. Good idea, bad story…
After failing with Carlos, I took the lessons of H.A.I.T.E. to heart, and started over with Johnny. This time, I began with the character, who became not some two-dimension tool for slinging ideas, but an exaggerated projection of myself. Personalizing the hero, I infused my own emotions into his behavior, and in doing so gave the keyboard over to him to write.
Bingo! Instead of trying to explain the Multiverse, and force some kind of transporation device into the story, I imagined a parody of my own best and worst tendencies — terrified he was about to go broke, only to stumble into an opportunity to try and make money off such an exotic technology. My doppleganger had big problems: the story was his fanciful solution.
From that spark the rest of the story told itself. My hero told the story, and I became a mere conduit for his passion and hope. The other characters spontaneously popped into existence, each having their own motivations and obstacles. The core idea proved useful, but the good writing happened when I explored its emotional implications for the characters, and myself:
Few feelings are more satisfying for a writer than finding their voice. Thanks to stopping my own H.A.I.T.E., I’m on a roll. Tweaking the Johnny story into a compelling first section of a novel driven by relationships, not geekery, I’ve teamed with my creative partner from SUPER SANTA to soon publish our second book. Let’s see if I’ve truly learned my lesson…
