Alan Watt

Why We Write

2013-01-04T14:14:30-05:00

I'm nearing completion on a new novel and the same old thoughts are arising. What have I done? Am I really going to reveal these ugly aspects of myself to the world? (Or to the handful of people who might read it?) I've just spent more years than I care to admit wrestling with a very simple story, one that, when I tell people, they either recoil or look at me with deep concern. It's about a woman who leaves her marriage and ends up in a relationship with a guy recently paroled for committing a horrible crime. She doesn't actually want to know what he did, because the truth is, she's seeking escape from the confusion and loneliness of her recent separation -- but as they fall for each other the narrative thrust stems from his desire to be known by her, and her desire to feel safe.

So here I am, rounding the final turn and wondering why I have bothered to do this, and why this story, which perhaps no one else will care about, holds so much meaning for me. Sometimes I hear writers say that they have no choice, that the writing chose them. I understand the sentiment, but to suggest that we have no choice is nonsense, and frankly, it's a dangerous idea. It's important to acknowledge that we choose to write, or we risk bondage to our creativity. Our work becomes too important and we may, on a subtle or not-so-subtle level, demand a result that may not be forthcoming. Our lack of choice can make us tight and corrupt the process. We get up in the morning burdened by the chore of writing. We get stressed, believing it must be great, because after all, this is our destiny. And then the horrible thought, "What if we've been called to a worthless cause?" At least indentured servants are not required to pour their hearts and souls into their work!

When we truly have no choice, we tend to rebel. We look for choices within our lack of choice, because frankly, everything is creative. Cooking is creative -- and so is shoplifting. Giving birth is creative -- so is a knife fight. While there is a productive, life-affirming aspect to creativity, there is a destructive side as well.

Without choice we become victims. The victim identity sees things a certain way. It is a narrow perspective: hopeless, frugal, and fear-based. Victims live in survival mode and are often unable to see new possibilities and inquire into why things are the way they are.

We all have access to a wider perspective. On some level, the act of creation is a search for love. If we search for love from a victim perspective, which I think is actually fairly common, it becomes a search for what love can do for us. And on a subconscious level, this is what happens when we believe that our writing chooses us. When we choose to create, we take responsibility. We don't seek validation through result, but through process.

Whether we are aware of it or not, our characters are a manifestation of our internal beliefs. The plot is a backdrop, a field on which these characters act out the struggles we seek to resolve for ourselves. (This was very humbling and embarrassing for me to realize.) By acknowledging that our writing is a choice, we give space for our characters to discover what we seek to understand. Our decision to fall in love was a choice. Our decision to get married was a choice. Our decision to get a divorce, stop speaking to our folks, have an affair with a sociopath, abandon our cat, rescue a skunk, drink a fifth of whiskey -- everything we do is a choice.

By approaching our work from this perspective we take our thumb off the scale, and in doing so make conscious what was previously unconscious. And that is the goal of story: to make meaning out of a set of events.

Growth is painful. To make a choice involves discomfort, because it demands that we take responsibility. But it also means that we get to live in reality. To create from a place of fantasy, of groundlessness, is an escape -- which is different than losing ourselves in our work by shedding our ego for a deeper connection to our humanity.

Why we write is more important than what we write because our reason for writing influences the content of our work. It is important to remember that we don't have to do this. The world is not in a rush for more books. There are more great works of fiction, poetry, memoir, history and pumpkin soup recipes than we will ever have time to consume.

If we're going to write, it is because we have a desire to express ourselves, even if we don't quite understand what we wish to say. It might just be an inner yearning, but by making the choice to engage in the process rather than the result, our work has a chance to live. In expressing ourselves, we make what we write essential, if only to ourselves, and by beginning from this place, it has a chance to affect the world.

All right. I better go finish this book.

Why Is My Dialogue Stuck?

2012-11-02T18:50:58-04:00

The surest way to kill the aliveness of our characters is by insisting that they always make sense. When we follow the labyrinth of most conversations, we discover one constant: people always want something. This doesn't mean that characters are always clear in articulating their desires, or that they're being truthful, or that they even must understand each other. It means they're driven by their motivation.

The purpose of dialogue is to reflect the life and death stakes for our characters. Amidst the most mundane exchange is a yearning for something more. By staying connected to our characters' driving wants, we can write speech for them that reflects an attempt to achieve these desires. Dialogue isn't linear, nor is it logical. With each attempt, our characters are met with antagonistic forces. The tension builds through the scene as each character tries to realize his or her goal.

If our prose feels wooden or transparent, as if we're artificially trying to move the story forward, we can ask ourselves what the characters want. The playwright Harold Pinter wrote elegant human studies that mined the world of the unspoken. At first glance, his plays read as banal conversations, but upon further investigation, beneath the thin veneer of civility in his dialogues live tectonic shifts, life and death struggles.

In a rewrite, if a scene isn't working, it doesn't take long to click on a blank screen (or to pull out a fresh sheet of paper) and write a stream-of-consciousness dialogue. Write it quickly. Surprise yourself by creating what the characters really want to say. It's often in the rewrite that dialogue comes alive. We have a little more security with our structure and we can loosen the reins.

Language is a means of communicating desire. Whether it's to be seen and heard, to gain sympathy, to curry favor, to get information, to feel close, to punish, to win the girl, to hurt, to destroy, to reassure, to secure a position -- we speak in attempt to get something.

But here's the thing: We rarely come out and say what we really want, because within every scene is an antagonistic force. Our characters all have something at stake. There is an underlying tension all the time.

Great dialogue contains tension. It understands what is at stake, and it walks that line. Great dialogue is specific. A single line can tell us a great deal about a character.

I ran into a friend whom I hadn't seen in a while.

"How's life?" I asked.

He sighed. "I want a car with a door that opens on the driver's side."

One last thing: Our characters don't have to speak. If they don't want anything, keep them quiet until they tell you their heart's desire.

One Thing Readers Hate

2011-10-31T18:39:43-04:00

One thing readers hate are coincidences. Sure, coincidences occur in our lives every day, but in a story, they are generally a problem. Readers lose interest when coincidence leans in the protagonist's favor because coincidence or convenience does not convey meaning. It is only through conflict that character is revealed. In fact, readers often perceive coincidence as an author's way of cheating.

For example, if Bob is hitchhiking on a deserted road, trying to get to Chicago for a wedding, and he is picked up by Chuck, the best man, who just happens to be passing by -- that is a coincidence. But if Bob is thumbing it to Chicago and just happens to be picked up by the husband of the woman he's having an affair with -- that is synchronicity. Synchronicity conveys meaning, while coincidence does not.

Coincidence lacks conflict. It's expedient, and it's often an indication of where the writer is stuck. Rather than exploring what he or she is attempting to express, the writer simply creates a loophole and proceeds. But just because the author kept writing does not mean that the reader hasn't closed the book. Synchronicity speaks to the underlying meaning of what the writer is attempting to express. There's a reason for the event, which raises the stakes.

If you find yourself relying on coincidence to move your story forward, see if you can find a way to disguise it by creating conflict that is germane to your theme. It doesn't mean that you need to ditch your idea of Chuck giving Bob a ride, but you might want to inquire into why this ride will be more trouble than either character had bargained for. You can keep your story points -- as long as you lose the coincidences.

Alan Watt is the author of the bestselling book on writing, The 90-Day Novel. He has been running the creative writing workshop LA Writers Lab since 2002. Visit him online here.

How to Make the Three-Act Structure Work for Your Book

2011-10-11T12:17:36-04:00

Many novelists resist the idea of three-act structure because they understandably fear it will limit their creativity and lead to formulaic writing. This misconception is sometimes the result of structure's being taught by story analysts whose gifts lean more toward an ability to deconstruct the anatomy of an existing work, than in exploring the nature of what the author was attempting to express.

This can leave the student with a keen understanding of how a particular story was "assembled," while struggling with how to translate the lesson into completing his or her own work. Although one might eventually begin to grasp the inner workings of structure by staring at the various lifeless parts of a work of art, there is perhaps a more direct approach.

Story structure actually has little to do with plot. In fact, the "structure" that's being alluded to is actually the underlying theme. But what is a theme exactly, and how does working with one help you structure your story?!

Here's how:

Many books on writing speak of there being a dramatic problem at the heart of a story. In fact, there isn't one. There's a dilemma.

Here's the difference: Problems are solved, while dilemmas are resolved through a shift in perception.

The purpose of story is to reveal a transformation -- to show, through conflict and complication, the world in a new way. Einstein stated, "One cannot solve a problem at the same level of consciousness that created the problem." What he's describing is a dilemma.

For example: Jimmy Stewart must leave Bedford Falls in order to have a wonderful life. King Lear must find a worthy heir by determining who loves him most. Initially, these appear to be problems, but as the story progresses, we begin to see that solving one problem only leads to another, until eventually, the protagonist wakes up to the reality of his situation and realizes the fundamental flaw in his thinking, thus necessitating a shift in perception. (Note: transformation does not mean a happy ending.)

Every character in your story has a relationship to this central dilemma, whether you're aware of it or not. This is not accidental. It is theme. You don't have to hope that you're doing it right. Working with story structure is not about "getting it right." It is about making your story as clear and specific as it can be. Focusing on your characters' desire or goal will lead you directly to the dilemma at the heart of your story.

If all that happens in your story is that your protagonist achieves his goal, your reader will be disappointed. The reader's interest lies not in the hero getting what he wants, but in getting what he needs. The dilemma lies in the protagonist's attempts to square these two opposing ideas. Jimmy Stewart needs to understand that he already has a wonderful life. Lear needs to understand that truth does not lie in flattery.

Writers tend to get stuck when they try to figure out their story. Just as your protagonist is struggling with a dilemma, so are you. This is because the desire to write is the desire to evolve. At some point in the story (usually the end of Act Two), your protagonist discovers that what he is confronting is impossible to achieve, thus necessitating a surrender. And because on some level you are the hero of your story, through the act of writing, you are going to experience a death of this old identity. It's only through this dark night of the soul that your protagonist begins to reframe his relationship to his goal, thus making it possible to achieve it, if it still belongs in his life.

What's so thrilling about inquiring into the dilemma is that it invites your imagination to stretch. When you read a well-told story and wonder, "How did the author come up with that?" the answer is probably that she made herself available to a process that led her characters to places she might not have otherwise ventured.

Working with structure allows the writer to see his story from a wider perspective. Sometimes you'll write a scene, only to realize that the situation doesn't belong in your story, but if you inquire into the nature of the conflict, i.e., the dilemma, you may discover that what was essential finds its way in.

The three-act structure is not limiting, though it does demand that you be rigorous with your ideas, because story structure holds your ideas accountable to universal truths. This means that anything you imagine can be contained by structure if you're willing to distill your ideas to their nature. Story structure keeps you connected to your theme by placing your focus squarely on your character's primal desires, and in doing so, plot naturally emerges.

Alan Watt is the author of the bestselling book on writing, "The 90-Day Novel." He has been running the creative writing workshop LA Writers Lab since 2002. Visit him online at lawriterslab.com.

Six Reasons to Write Your First Draft Quickly

2011-08-26T17:26:00-04:00

Some writers struggle for years to complete the first draft of their book. You work on it for a while, get stuck, put it in a drawer, fish it out a few years later, and this goes on indefinitely. It becomes like a scab that you pick at in the vain hope of improving it, while often making it worse.

As a writer, your goal is to create something bigger than you are. In practical terms, this is impossible. But that doesn't prevent you from believing that through decades of bashing away at it, you'll be able to "figure out the book."

Though every writer's process is different, most published authors tend to write their first drafts quickly, in a fevered blast over a scant few months. Here are some reasons why:

1) Without a deadline, there's no urgency. Urgency is crucial because it activates your subconscious, which is the seat of your genius. Haven't we all had the experience of writing something, and then afterwards, stepping away from it and wondering, "Where did that come from?" In fact, you begin to recognize patterns that you could never have come up with consciously. When you don't write on a daily basis, your connection to what you wrote yesterday weakens.

2) By taking your time, you're essentially saying that you're in control of the process, rather than accepting your role as a channel for the story. This is a subtle but important point. If you notice that you're "getting stuck" in the middle, recognize that this "stuckness" is a function of your story's not cohering to your "idea of your story." This is an inevitable aspect of story creation, because the purpose of story is to reveal a transformation. As Einstein says, "You can't solve a problem at the same level of consciousness that created the problem." The solution is to write through the confusion and follow the characters in spite of the story not seeming to make sense.

3) It's only by getting to the end that you really understand what you're attempting to express. You may spend years working on the first 10 chapters, only to discover at the end what your story is actually about. Those first 10 chapters may not survive the rewrite. You can't fully understand your story until you get to the end. The end is where your theme gets resolved. If the desire to write is connected to the desire to evolve, the ending holds the key to this thing you've been struggling to understand.

4) When you have too much time to think, you tend to kill the "aliveness" of your characters' choices through logic. There's nothing logical about human behavior. Your job is not to "figure out" your characters, but to find ways to support their choices. People have affairs on their honeymoon. Bank robbers risk capture to help old ladies across the street. By writing quickly, you tend to loosen your judgments on your characters and allow their natures to be revealed.

5) The first draft doesn't have to make sense. There will be narrative holes, inconsistencies and contradictions; don't get hung up on these. In fact, in the rewrite, you may discover that these "mistakes" were actually leading you to a deeper understanding of your story. They were a necessary part of the journey.

6) Stop doing research! You might be surprised by how much of your research can be done after you've finished your first draft. Certainly research may be necessary, but it often becomes a way to rationalize procrastination. The reader cares more about the characters than she does about the details of working in a Newark glove factory in the 1940s. Much research can be done after completing the first draft, as a way to add detail.

OK, enough. It's time to get back to your first draft.

Alan Watt is author of the bestselling book on writing, "The 90-Day Novel." He has been running the creative writing workshop LA Writers Lab since 2002. Visit him online at lawriterslab.com.

Ten Ways to Unleash the Writer Within

2011-08-10T11:06:28-04:00

Creativity is our birthright. This is not just for some people; it's for everyone. We often get stuck in our routine, and when we even bother to think about that book we plan to write "some day," we tend to find excuses that prevent us from taking the first step.

These excuses are often vague, because if we were to hold them up to the light, we might see that they don't actually make a lot of sense. Often the real reason we hesitate is simply because we are afraid of the unknown.

Here are ten steps that will demystify the creative process and help you get started on writing your first (or your next) book.

Start today. We often think that we're not ready, that we don't know enough, that we need to do more research, that we don't have enough time, that we aren't yet qualified. These are all great excuses to prevent us from taking the first step. Ask yourself two questions: A) What do I want to create? B) What is the first step in creating it? You may discover that the first step is going to the store to buy yellow legal pads and a pen. Once you've got the tools, the next step to place these tools on a flat surface and begin writing.

Let go of the result. Sure, this might sound like it's easier said than done, but if you can make the thrill of creation its own reward, you will likely be surprised by the result. We can't expect ourselves to be brilliant right out of the gate. If we set the bar too high, we'll never get started.

Be willing to fail. This doesn't mean that you will, but if you're willing to do it imperfectly, you might actually have some fun. What we do consistently, we improve at. Your first attempt may be humble. If you had to do it perfectly, you wouldn't experience the thrill of improving.

Share your writing with people you feel safe with. It's important to receive positive reinforcement at the beginning. Everyone can use a mentor, someone who has walked this path before us. Just because you're married to someone, doesn't mean they're going to understand what you're doing. As crazy as it might sound, our families and friends are not necessarily always the best people with whom to share our work. It's not that they don't love us, but it's possible that they might feel jealous or threatened. They might even want to talk us out of our desire to create with practical advice about the long odds of getting published, and the disappointment we're going to experience by all the rejection. Watch out for this. Don't let logic trump your desire.

Have fun. Remember, this is a choice. Make your writing a game, not a chore.

Make it a habit. The simple act of writing each day will activate your subconscious, and the channel will begin to open.

Keep it simple: It's better to write for five minutes a day than it is to write for three hours ever few months.

Build a community. Find your tribe. If you can find people who share your interests and are willing to support you, it can go a long way to keeping you on track. My seventy-eight-year old father-in-law has been jogging for the past forty-five years. Five mornings a week, he rolls out of bed at five a.m. and runs with the same group of guys through rain and sleet. There is no way he is going to let his buddies down.

Forgive yourself. Drop the old story that you should have done this sooner. This is your time. Remember, you are uniquely qualified to write your book. If you don't do it, it won't exist. Use your fears and anxieties as a way into your story. Inquire into their nature. When you experience self-doubt, rather than making meaning out it, just ask yourself, "I wonder where this experience lives in my story?" Notice that a character will appear that will be struggling with similar feelings. Your doubts and fears do not need to be overcome, but rather inquired into. This is what makes your work universal and relatable.

Reward yourself. Writing is hard work. It's important to acknowledge this and reward yourself for it. When you complete a goal or meet a deadline, give yourself a treat. Take yourself to dinner. Go on a hike. Buy yourself some socks. When we treat our unconscious with kindness, it rewards us with new adventures.

Now go write!