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Pacing in narratives
This is one of the more obscure aspects of writing but becomes a bit clearer once you’ve had a good teacher explain it to you. I’ve been lucky enough to have explored this with several teachers, and, while I still make mistakes, at least now I know where I went wrong and how to fix it. So, here’s what I’ve learnt about pacing.
Pacing refers to the tempo at which a story unfolds. It’s shaped by:
Scene length and structure
Sentence rhythm and syntax
Balance between action and exposition
Narrative density
Reader perception of time versus story time
While I dealt with the more mechanical aspects of writing scenes in a previous post, this time, I am going into what I have learnt about building a dynamic scene. I read somewhere that stories, like music, thrive on variation. Just as a violinist plays with volume to evoke emotion, a writer manipulates the dynamics of a scene, its energy, tone and emotional rhythm, to keep readers engaged. Without these shifts, a scene can feel flat. Whether it’s the quiet tension of a creaking floorboard or a literal explosion, movement is the one that makes a scene dynamic.
Scenes are the smallest unit of meaningful writing, whether it is fiction or non-fiction. A six-word micro-fiction piece (like the famous ‘For sale: baby shoes, never worn.’) has only one scene; a ten-page short story will have anywhere between two to ten scenes; and a 900-page whopper like War and Peace will have hundreds. The only exception to scenes is some poetry, although not all (one of the most beautiful scenes I’ve ever encountered is in Frost’s poem ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’).
It often baffles how people think – and I used to be one of those people – that art is simply a matter of talent. Don’t even bother to write or draw or play an instrument unless you are supremely talented. While I’m not going to say that talent or a predisposition is not necessary, I am going to claim that all the talent in the world is useless if one doesn’t apply oneself to their craft. This is not true for art only but any aspect of life. No tennis player succeeds because they have a god-given gift to hit a ball in just the right way. Sure, they are talented but the hundreds, if not thousands, of hours they spend in the gym and simply hitting the ball cannot be underestimated. The same applies to writing or any other facet of life.
Stories are usually liked for either being plot-driven, urging us on to read what will happen next, or they are character-driven, where we deeply empathise with the main character(s). But I’d claim that without a believable/strong character, whether we like them or despise them, there is no real story. So, how do I develop one of those memorable characters?
When it comes to advice on creative writing, there is a multitude of sources on inspiration, motivation, the habits of good artists, etc. And all of them are important as writing is a mostly solitary activity which drains inner sources of commitment and perseverance. However, when it comes to the craft of writing, the nuts and bolts of HOW you actually need to write, resources are much more sparce. I know people who have completed English degrees, and even Master’s degrees in creative writing, without ever learning how to write a good paragraph or how to structure their story.
How often have you been asked if you’re a plotter or pantser? A plotter is someone who researches a story meticulously, writing an outline before starting the actual writing, and a pantser is presumably someone who sits down in front of the computer each day, typing away furiously, without a clear direction or plan, waiting for the story to take them by surprise and see where they are going.
We know we need food and water, exercise and company to thrive. What we often neglect is the creative child in us. Once we’re adults, we often relegate activities that involve painting, dancing, singing, writing, to the ‘frivolous’ or ‘childish’ basket. Or, in the other extreme, we think of them as highly skilled activities that only the truly gifted and well trained should perform.
There are lots of quotes, guides, manuals that elaborate on the importance of editing. Indeed, it is universally acknowledged that we shouldn’t worry too much about the form when we write our first draft. The form, the paragraphs, the linking, etc, are all things we should focus on later. Still, it can be an overwhelming task when we see just how many things we need to work on. There are many times when I’ve given up because there were just too many things wrong with my writing.
I first heard about the rule of six from the fabulous writer and teacher John Claude Bemis. It thought it was a great way to help me along with very many of the issues in my writing. Since then, I’ve found out that it is based on a Native American practice for expanding possible theories or solutions to problems we face. So, for example, rather than answering a question with one answer, it challenges you to come up with six possible answers or six different explanations or possible stories that could answer the question. This reduces the risk of jumping to conclusions and broadens the scope of understanding.
When I started writing longer fiction (rather than writing anecdotes, stories as birthday presents or jokey pieces), I avoided dialogue like the devil. I thought, it’s not for me. Surely, there are writers out there who do that? So, my first draft of my first manuscript, in all its 80,000-word glory did not have one single dialogue. All pure descriptions.
I am an impatient reader. I don’t care for nature descriptions, and I am known to have skipped pages and pages when a fight scene was described (looking at you, book 3 of Hunger Games). All I’m interested in is what the characters did and why they did it. As I read, so I write. I mostly focus on the psychology of the characters and the actions they take in line with that.
Following the myth I’ve read about and what I’ve seen on TV, I used to sit up late at night at the kitchen table with a piece of paper in front of me, a candle throwing flickering light across the white pages, a huge shadow on the wall of one hand holding a pen, the other cupping my chin. I’d stay in that position, gazing out into the darkness through the small kitchen window, waiting for the muse to arrive.
Do not wait for the muse to knock on your window when you sit at the table with a notebook in front of you.
Those moments are rare, if they happen at all.
You need to invite the muse by writing every day, wherever you are, on the train, in a meeting, at the restaurant.
The writing can be a snippet of a conversation you have overheard or a sentence, or word, that came to mind while watching the trees flit by.
Which is, of course, beautiful, but also hard. We cannot simply sit down and learn the rules and apply them. We have to try out suggestions, apply, modify, improvise. Until we find something that works for us. This time. But not necessarily the next time round.
This is an attempt to share what I’ve learnt from others by trying, failing, modifying, improvising.
