By tradition, literary fiction tends to be serious—and static. A valuable alternative for literary fiction writers is making their writing vibrant with motion—full of energy that is transferred from page to reader. Action! And all of this action in writing comes from word choice, well-constructed sentences and paragraphs, and from clear transfer of ideas that avoid obscurity. Then, a story has action in the majority of its elements and momentum that transfers enlightenment and meaning with quality of storytelling rather than just narrative ideas unrooted in images, action, and evennts.
Overall, to engage, entertain, and enlighten receptive readers, story information should move a story forward. Most memorable and admired fiction stories are tidal waves that carry water fowl, trees and plants, and man-made elements, broken and mangled; and when the wave encounters obstacles it engulfs them and dislodges them inexorably. Stories should not be stagnant puddles waiting for an occasional shower to maintain their existence. It is the author’s challenge, if not duty to most readers, to create a tidal wave. It is a quest not accomplished in a few sittings before a computer screen. Learning to write with story momentum is a lifelong dedication, better learned by some than others.
Choose the right words
Words can have action or be inert, often with aspects of both. Authors, for the sake of the reader, need to seek action words, but only when the new word improves meaning and effectiveness of the writing.
Look for different degrees of action in the following: (Note how action is related to specificity.)
- killed—bludgeoned to death
NOTE: Use of certain verbs may convey a degree of action or a type of action that does not suit the scene or the narration. (Example: “His humor ignited her admiration” should not, in most circumstances, replace, “She smiled at his joke.”) Authors need tasteful and accurate verb choices to develop pleasing writing styles.
It is particularly useful in description of settings, or any narrative in a story, to choose nouns that have energy. When possible, image nouns should be concrete (hawk) rather than abstract (object). At times, no choice may be available, but when it is, make the choice contribute to story imagery and momentum. Here are nouns that have different energies.
- telephone pole–computer
What story would you choose, a story about rocks, telephone poles and a road in shadow, or a story about hawks, computers, and a river that glitters? The right word associations can make good writing better.
Adjectives restrict a noun, or a verb form, and this can be desirable or undesirable. Compare adjectival forms and their effectiveness for lively writing.
motionless steamroller. waiting steamroller. tilted steamroller. rusted steamroller. dead acrobat. breathless acrobat. plunging acrobat. immortalized acrobat. revered acrobat. decaying acrobat. perspiring acrobat.
Note: Adjectives are not equal in effect in a specific context, each has a different energy relationship to its noun. Authors must make the right adjective choices or their writing dies. Sometimes no adjective is best. “ . . . hear the crow,” may be better than “. . . hear the cawing crow,” for example, because cawing is redundant—it is what a crow does if we hear it. On the other hand, certain adjectives are an absolutely necessity for clarity. White whale means more than whale without an adjective. Authors improve by making better decisions about adjective, and other modifier, choices.
Examples: Talked–-incessantly, often, irritatingly, lovingly, uncontrollably, loudly, softly.
Note that every one of these adverbs could be replaced by a construction that showed rather than told. Example: For ”loudly,” an author might use, “He shouted and little Jennie winced and covered her ears.” (Probably too many words for too little effect. In this instance, maybe the adverb is better: “Jake spoke loudly to her.”)
In essence, adverbs can be valuable, brief sources of information. Still, authors must be in control of adverb choice and usage. Adverbs too often flag an author’s unwillingness to seek the right verb. She “yelled loudly,” could be “screamed.” “Moved rapidly,” could be “jumped” or “ran” or “scurried.” (Using specific concrete words rather than nonspecific, indefinite words.)
Another disadvantage is that adverbs often confuse point of view (and narration) in storytelling. “He saw the enemy soldier unwillingly aim his rifle.” The use of “unwillingly aim,” briefly places the point of view from the soldier to a narrator. Remove unwillingly and there is no point of view shift.
Concrete vs. abstract words.
Concrete and abstract words have different effects on a reader. For action writing, concrete are almost always better.
Examples: (concrete – abstract)
- March 22–future
- G note–sound
As a fiction writer, look for abstract, indefinte, theoretical words that if revised might engage the reader in the story rather than tell. Are there better, more concrete, alternatives? Readers prefer a concrete word such as “violin” rather than the word “instrument”–or even “musical instrument.” Repeated abstractions cumulatively destroy good creative writing while carefully chosen concrete words build pleasure to the reading and momentum to the story.
But, a word of caution; fiddling with words alone cannot make writing great. Good writing has too many more important elements. Too often writers spend revision time with words when structure needs change. And the challenge in great fictional storytelling is different than achieving success in writing memoir, autobiography, biography, or essay.
When a reader reads an author with muddled thinking, the reading slows, the reader’s interest wanes, and the story is not successful. Action with concrete imagery is necessary in story writing, and is directly proportional to clear, logical, and credible thinking.
Nothing stagnates a story more than obscurity. Paradoxically, some authors believe obscure writing is clever and stimulating—but those are pseudo-intellectual ideas. In general, obscurity and vibrant storytelling do not mix in fictional literary prose.
A writer has an idea. It could be concept or image. The writer uses words and the arrangement of words to transmit an idea to a reader. It’s not simple. Every human is different with an individual way of thinking, unique past experience, memory capacity, and learning. We assume we think as most others, and they assume the same of us, but there is wide variability. Authors need to learn to think clearly and logically to improve understanding of their ideas by others, especially those who may not have the same thought processes. Above all, do not cling to mediocre ideas and obscure them in the belief that obscurity will make them seem better or more significan than they are.
Authors transmit clear thinking by: accurate word association; careful attention to modifiers and antecedents; concrete ideas; and for many, the mental image clarified before described. Authors must fine-tune their thinking so writing becomes effective in transferring ideas. The reward is not only good writing, but improved stories that are significant and last.
Use proper constructions
Authors write to be read; authors must avoid constructions or unclear associations that cause reading to be difficult.
Choose best sentence types and construction for the prose of the story-moment.
- Periodic sentence (subject and verb at end of compound sentence). “With his body trembling, his breath trapped in his lungs when he failed to breath, he jumped from the plane pulling the ripcord.”
- Loose sentence (subject and verb at the beginning of compound sentence). “He jumped from the plane pulling the ripcord with his body trembling, his breath trapped in his lungs when he forgot to breathe.” The emphasis and effects are different. Both are valuable when used in an appropriate, receptive, creative-writing context. Sentence length and sound, as well as structure, should also be varied with attention to rhythms and tension of the story-moment.
- Don’t use a pronoun where the antecedent is not clear.
- Don’t present subordinate ideas when the relationship to the main idea is not clear.
In general, avoid poetics in fictional prose. For example, resist the oxymoron, especially those overwritten and not related to story purpose. An oxymoron (figure of speech with contradictory terms: example—falsely true) can be an effective poetic technique but is rarely, if ever, useful in fiction. Oxymoron, by definition, is opaque, if not obscure. It is language in love with itself, and in literary-fiction prose it stops the action.
Alliteration, repetitive sounds at the beginning of words (tiny tinsel-like tots teetering together), also stops a reader of prose fiction. Although it may be useful in poetics when tastefully constructed, it is amateurish in fiction.
Metaphor is the muscle that enlivens the skeleton of fiction and illuminates new understanding ; clear metaphors are needed in fiction. In fiction, don’t keep the reader guessing with obscure connections between the comparisons. Present clear metaphoric associations. A simile, a type of metaphor, is an example. In fiction, it is essential that the comparison in a simile is perfect in logic (and accepted by the reader). A is like B in a way that makes the reader understand A and usually B better. The effect of A’s comparison to B depends on differences between the two. If there is no difference, there is no effect. A rose is like a rose. No effect. The rose is not clarified for us. However, if there is too much difference between A and B, so the comparison is unbelievable or not understandable, there is also no effect. A rose is like a locomotive. Let’s try some closer comparison with a beauty connection. A rose in spring is like an exploding star at the beginning of time. Not great, but at least stimulates thought.
(Note: A metaphor does not use like or as. A metaphor would be: A rose is the first sunrise in spring.)
Also, in fiction, make antecedents clear. Avoid constructions such as: He would never use that to do this again. Even if the context provides some clues as to meaning, these vague pronouns frustrate a reader. Here is a possible improvement: John would never use a spoon to dig a grave again.
Make imagery dynamic
As authors, we rarely think about momentum in imagery. But images in writing have useful characteristics to provide story momentum, unlike a photograph, which is a frozen instant and static. Strange that many authors write descriptive scenes as if recreating a photograph.
Movement in images is a privilege that fiction gives to authors. In writing, the reader’s mind is active in creating and forming images. Basically, authors don’t create still-life images even if motion is implied such as a coffe cup falling of the edge of a table, they paint portraits that intrigue and engage the reader with scenes that live on the page. There was a bird on a limb. Static. The flying bird settled on the limb. Improved with some action. The olive branch quivered when the claws of the sparrow grasped the sturdy twig. A lot of action. (Overdone but you should see the principle.)
Consider: The locomotive with colorful cars behind followed the track that snaked though the valley. Any motion perceived is really implied. Now with action: The steam of the locomotive reddened the face of the engineer as he leaned out the window. The track curved many times ahead. He wondered, as the clouds gathered, if the printed banners with the czar’s name flapping above the red, green and white decorations so carefully applied on the cars behind by the birthday celebrants, would be dampened, maybe even destroyed, by rain. He gripped the waist-high metal lever jutting up through a slit in the floor and shoved it forward. The locomotive strained ahead tilting to the left when it reached the first turn.
Adhere to in-scene action
Example: narrative statement—static, no action.
Janie adored animals. She went to the shelter and adopted a dog named Firefly that she loved at first sight.
Example: same information developed in scene—with action.
Janie opened the steel door to the animal shelter on First Street. No one was behind the wooden table that served as a reception barrier. She walked back thorough a doorless opening into the converted two car garage. She stopped. Stacked cages lined each side of the passage. She held her breath at the foul smell. Barks and meows filled the air and she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. She walked forward until she saw a white dog on its haunches, quiet except for a tail slowly moving back and forth stirring up the sawdust on the cage floor. Its eyes looked directly at her unfaltering. On the cage door was a tag that read “Firefly. 6/14.”
In the back the attendant was hosing down cages on a driveway.
“That dog, Firefly. I want to adopt him.”
“Sorry, I think he’s spoken for.”
NOTE: In-scene action requires more reader time than narrative telling. Therefore, because it takes up precious storytelling time, in-scene action must have a legitimate purpose with significant reason for inclusion to energize the story. Does it develop the character? Does it enhance motivation? Does it contribute to physical movement through story time that is directly plot related? Does it allow imagery and setting to be established subtly, without cumbersome self-importance? Does it contribute to voice? Is it related to theme and meaning? If action doesn’t do a lot, then a short narrative bridge may be best for story.
Backstory (anything that happened before story start), by its time relation to a story, affects, and often stops story-present momentum. The basic rule? backstory must advance front story. To check, always ask what a particular backstory does for the front story. Answers might include: it provides needed characterization, is necessary for exposition, explains motivation, helps move the plot, clarifies motive for plot action, and others. But in the good story, there is almost always a better–and more effective–way to provide for the reader than using backstory that interrupts story momentum.
Another problem with backstory is the awkwardness of in-scene development at a time other than story-present. Therefore, most backstory is in narrative description of the past. Unfortunately, excessive narrative description of past events kills the overall effect of movement in an otherwise well-written literary story with events in front-story time.
Make dialogue active
Dialogue needs to have action. This is accomplished primarily by word choice and ideation. It is also helpful not to have questions in dialogue directly answered. Here are examples:
Example: (Failed dialogue.)
“Is that a bear?” Joe asked.
“Where?” Sam said.
“Damn. I think it is a bear.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
Example: (Dialogue with elements of surprise and action.)
The bear reared back on its hind legs, roaring.
“Don’t move!” said Joe.
“I’m going to throw up.” Sam said.
“He’s seen us.”
“I dropped my rifle.”
“Start making noise. Maybe we can scare him.”