Substance over Style: Five Ways to Let Your Story Tell Itself.

One of the trickiest things about writing a book or screenplay is finding the balance between imbuing it with your voice and style while also moving the narrative forward. Putting yourself in the reader or viewer’s shoes where you’re figuring out what you want to say and honing your story, while also making it “yours” is a constant challenge. 

Here are some tips and questions to ask yourself, that may make the process a tad less daunting

1. What is the emotional and compelling purpose of this scene?   

We all want to sound brilliant. Flashy camera moves and big words telegraph that, and yet also yank the reader out of the story. Whenever you sit down to write that next sequence, do it, let it flow, but allow that little voice in the back of your mind to ask, why do we care? Why does this matter? Does this description of a tertiary character or the flowers on the porch tell us anything important? Do they come back later and have a pay off? If they don’t - skip it. Get to the point of the scene. It should reveal something we don’t already know, that we want to find the answer to...so we keep on reading.

2.  Can I tell this scene visually rather than with dialogue?

“Show don’t tell” is a tired yet tried and true maxim. If you’ve been told you’re good at dialogue, great. If you’re going to have the characters talk, make sure you’re revealing an important clue - the subtext - that escalates their agenda or reveals something critical about their past that impacts the story. But if there is way to do it visually, that should be your default. Does your character hide something they’ve found? Do they have a secret that is hinted at visually, rather than them revealing it in dialogue to a surprised group of people? 

3. Do I need this scene in this setting?

If your scene is a filler place holder - where you’ve constructed three pages, a whole setting, but all it tells us is one thing, i.e. That the person we meet lives in a shack and it makes him likeable, think again. Is there another place in the story where you can reveal this character that intersects with the main story, or contrasts with it, so that it serves as a misdirect? Or lights a fire or conundrum to the main engine? Or - ask yourself if it’s just a bridge to the next sequence. i.e. The guy gets in his car and drives to the next place. How about cutting to the next place instead and leaving us wanting to find out? If this scene counts, he better make a phone call to someone important in the story or have a flat tire that is an obstacle on his course - or better yet, both.

4.  When do I introduce my big twist?

 Many writers, when diving into a new project, have a super cool reveal that makes the reader go “holy shit I didn't see that coming”. I always think of the brilliant “The Usual Suspects” where that last twist ending makes us rethink everything that came before. But if what came before didn’t make us actively put the puzzle pieces together on our own and think we’ve come up with the answer, then that twist will fall flat. Use your twist to give the story and characters their motivation - subtly. Drop those Easter eggs and send us down a different path that makes that ending “inevitable but unexpected”. Use your biggest idea sooner and make it count. 

5.  But how do I put myself, my voice and point of view into the story? How do I separate the two?

The odds are that if you’re already embarking on writing the thing, you have an inkling - or someone has told you (besides your mother) that you have something to say. That you’re funny, or curious, or are a wonderful storyteller. That you have a sense of pacing, or that you get people and how they talk and behave. The only answer to this questions is - trust that.  Trust that your style will come out - that it will be triggered organically - as you move through the experience of your main character, without having to engage it consciously. Let go of whether you have earned an MFA in creative writing or majored in English or went to school for writing at all.  Take a breath, spread your arms out wide, and embrace the story you yearn to tell, and who you are will be the canvas that you paint your story on.

At the end of the day, what you (truly) have to say can only start with a big hunk of clay that you continue to sculpt. Most of the time, we fear that hunk of clay and don’t know how to begin to carve out our story from it’s larger than life, amorphous form. But it must begin there. Honor it, look at it from all sides, and ask yourself why and what you want it to convey. And then begin to chip away from there. Tell that little voice, your ego, that is screaming at you to sell something, be a writer, make it big, and all of those (understandable) dreams, to shut the fuck up. Look at that dump of clay. Revere it. 

And let it lead you.