CJ's Creative Studio - The Craft of Writing and the Art of Storytelling

There is an argument within writing circles that seems almost as old as time. Can writing be taught? On one side you have those who claim that only those with innate skill can write, while on the other side are those who claim just as vehemently that writing is nothing more than an assembly of building blocks and rules of thumb that can be taught to anyone who is interested.

Those who are in the "art" camp feel that any attempts to teach writing beyond the very basics is little more than a fraudulent exercise, meant only to give encouragement to those people who want to write but who will never have what it takes to write anything worth reading.

The "craft" proponents feel that with several millennia of writing history already in the books, the process itself can be sufficiently codified that anyone can learn to be an author indistinguishable from all but those who are in the rarefied air of the true writing geniuses.

I fall somewhat in the middle. While I feel that the bulk of writing is little more than a craft, there is a percentage of it that will, and likely always shall, be that ineffable something that turns a formula into a story. I think that the "art" can be encouraged and shown by example, but it is that thing that the writer themselves have to bring to the table.

On the face of it, the rationale of whether a story is artistic or formula seems silly. Of course we want stories that are artistic.

But honestly, do we?

Look at the various courses/methods out there that espouse, essentially, writing to a formula. It could be Truby's 22-step story structure class, or Vogler's Hero's Journey, or Dramatica's 12-essential questions, or...well, you get the idea. These sorts of guides fill walls of bookstores for aspiring writers eager to learn some magic path to becoming paid (or otherwise recognized) authors.

Hollywood has historically been especially fond of formula writing. The tongue-in-cheek anecdote is that it is because the producers feel that things might go so much smoother if they didn't have to deal with writers. The truth is much more banal -- producers (and studios) simply want some way to guarantee a hit. When they run every script through Dramatica, or see if it follows the steps of the Hero's journey, it's only for the purpose of trying to ensure that the script will not be a reason why the movie tanked.

If you look at romance novels, you see that the same can go for the print world as well. Guidelines for the format and content of romance novels is amazingly strict and guarded. The reason they don't change much is because pretty much everyone within their authorial stable writes to the same formula. Innovation isn't greatly encouraged as it entails risk. Better to have steady profitability rather than risk everything to the whims of the writers -- no need to stoop to that level.

Even among the consumers of visual and written arts, you see a lot of contradictions. Romance novels continue to sell well. Though derided for being formulaic, viewers continue to watch movies and television shows are are arguably very predictable. There is comfort in the familiar, but also stability. Sequels that stray too far from what made the original successful usually fail.

What prompted this hub was that I was trying to write something about teaching writing. But no matter what tack I took, I constantly stumbled on the same thing: someone who knows how to tell a story can tell it using any formula. Making the leap from craft to art is the part I wasn't able to really explain. The same sort of difficulty arises in the field of photography. You give a skilled photographer a crappy (but working) camera, and they will still walk away with compelling images, but give a top-of-the-line camera to some one who doesn't have "the eye", and all you will generally get is pictures, not photographs. Yes, you can teach the elements of composition, but you can't teach when to snap the shutter. That's up to the person taking the picture.

From having been a photographer, writer, and artist for more than a quarter of a century, I like to think that I've gotten a few insights as to what goes into creative expression. The word I use for it is "storytelling". Whether with a stream of words or a single image, the key is being able to convey a story. How that story is done is as varied as there are people who try, but that is the crux of it all.

"A picture is worth a thousand words," goes the cliché. Sometimes that's true. If you look at Dorothea Lange's "Migrant Mother", you have, in one image, a story as eloquent as any told by Shakespeare. What's not generally know is that this is one of five different images that Ms Lange snapped. The others, though serviceable reportage, weren't in the realm of storytelling. That was only achieved with this particular image.

"So, CJ," you say, "what makes a story?"

For lack of a better definition, I have to say that a storyteller takes what is most useful from the tried-and-true story-creation formulae, and then binds them together with audience relatability (AR).

Huh?

Yeah, yeah. When you simplify it, it seems dumb. Then again, so do the three Aristotelian steps which are so obvious that they, too, seem dumb. But there is a reason why so many clutch to the various writing methods. While each of the paths. left to themselves, are less than inspiring, they are all very adequate descriptions of how to structure and craft a story. They are the blueprints, lumber, and hardware necessary for building our creative edifice. With them you can build a shell that's more than sufficient to house the story. But we need to take it the extra step and make that house a storytelling home.

That's where AR comes in. My feeling is that a lot of AR comes from the characters (see Thoughts on Developing Interesting Characters as well as parts 1, 2, and 3 of the Building a Story series). You can have your grave-robbing archaeologist run from danger with his treasure, hop in a waiting plane, and escape to safer climes. This is formula. This is plot-driven. Exciting, perhaps, but...what if this guy were afraid of snakes and there was a snake on the plane? While once before we had a "hero" that was impressive, he was outside of us. With him having a very common fear that most of us can relate to on some level, then in a small way, we become him. We, the audience, are now part of the story. We are invested in the outcome.

That's the key, you see. As creative folk, in order to be storytellers we have to bring the audience into our tale -- not via their heads, but from their hearts.

How to grab the audience is an individual function of each writer. This is what YOU (with or without the help of your Muse) bring to the process. It's knowledge, it's imagination, it's feelings, it's history, it's understanding, it's all that and more.

Where is a writer to begin if it isn't magically bursting forth from your fingertips? I think by learning from others how they tackled the same problem. Read and/or view many examples of what are considered to be great works. Of the 60% or so of them that you like, think about HOW and WHAT the writer did that sucked you into the story. Don't copy it, just think about it.

Read books about people. This means both biographies, autobiographies, and serious scholarly works often found in the self-help or sociology sections. This helps to build your insight into the failings and strengths of people as well as how they interact.

(I should probably mention that you can be doing this dry research stuff while you are also writing...you have to learn the structure stuff, too, and that's only gotten by doing.)

I also strongly suggest that you read up on history. Not just the big history, but also the smaller histories involving small groups. The cliché that history repeats itself is, like many clichés, invoked because it is so often true. In your research, you will discover that people are remarkably consistent in how they do things (except when they aren't). As a result, you soon discover that what is happening now (or in your story) can easily be echoed in a very similar event in the past. "New" doesn't happen very often.

With this, we now expand our worlds of imagination. What started as being relatable primarily on a character level can now grow to touch the setting level as well. Events cease to feel contrived; they begin to feel more organic.

Though I've only rippled the surface of the pond of possibilities, you can see how much goes into forming the details necessary to give you audience a reason to care about the tale you are telling.

I mentioned analyzing previous works. Often, I find, looking at sequels can give a lot of insight. Let's look at the Terminator series.

The Terminator, the first film of the series, was largely plot driven. It was little more than a monster flick. The terminator itself was compelling because of it being so unrelenting. It would not stop until it completed its mission or was destroyed (a very tough thing to do). Reese, the hero, brought a history to the story because of coming from the future, having been a friend to Sarah's future son, and for having loved Sarah before arriving to save her. Arguably, the most important emotional beat for the movie was the soundtrack, which, much as in Jaws, raised the anxiety level of the audience, which sucked them more deeply into the story.

The key of the franchise has turned out to be Terminator 2: Judgment Day. While plot was still in evidence, this piece was very much character driven. Every character brought with them histories and assumptions that made the viewer care about what happened. And we found out that maybe, just maybe, a terminator could learn how to love.

This was a movie filled with shaded complexities and all-too-human contradictions. Nothing was wasted.

Since just about everything gained from the second movie was lost in the third, we turn our attention to the television series Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles (which also pretty much ignores the events of the third movie). Once again, the focus is on characters, human foibles, and whether a terminator can love.

Our analysis finds that the interesting installments of the series have been the ones that focused on those things that humans can connect with...mostly themselves. With a structure that holds together, it's these small details that create AR and keep people coming back for more.

To show you how a small change can alter the depth and AR of a tale, let's resort to something already short, the "world's funniest joke" (http://www.laughlab.co.uk/):

Two hunters are out in the woods when one of them collapses. 

He doesn't seem to be breathing and his eyes are glazed. 

The other guy whips out his phone and calls the emergency 

services. He gasps, "My friend is dead! What can I do?". 

The operator says "Calm down. I can help. First, let's make 

sure he's dead." There is a silence, then a shot is heard. 

Back on the phone, the guy says "OK, now what?"

Now, let's take exactly the same joke, but let's add a little something to that the last line:

Back on the phone, as the hunter stands over his friend and 

smirks, the guy says, "OK, now what?"

See how that tiny change has changed this rather straightforward joke into a story (a story that needs more fleshing out, but a story nonetheless)? Now there is personal intrigue. Histories are assumed. Motivations are questioned. This is the sort of thing you need to add to bland formula to make it storytelling. No...not psychotic friends with weapons (necessarily), but connective twists that makes the audience feel like they are "in" on it.

This is at the core as to why a show like CSI: Crime Scene Investigation has remained popular. On paper, it seemed to be this lifeless science-filled procedural show about analyzing crime scenes. Hardly the stuff of television legend. But there was one element that added AR and made this dry procedural a storytelling surprise: the passions of the investigators. No, not passions in that tawdry soap opera sense (well, not usually), but personal passions. Grissom, for example, is loyal to his friends and to science, but first and foremost, he's a bug guy. The man just loves his bugs. Even if you don't get why someone would love bugs, you do connect with the passion...for everyone seems to have at least one. And it isn't just Grissom, but the team as well -- investigators AND lab rats.

When I write, I am ever mindful that I'm not just putting down a stream of words--I'm telling a story. I will picture myself telling my tale to others as we are gathered around a campfire. Is how I present my story hooking them? Is it keeping them interested?

I'd be less than honest if I said that I thought I always succeeded with this exercise. Even so, when I'm mired in rewrite I will from time-to-time read aloud the entire work. My feeling is that if you can't do that, if you can't be a teller of your own story, then you risk losing those small touches that can elevate a work.

Unfortunately, there is no brilliant chapter, or hub, or article, or whatever that will reveal what those small touches need to be. Each individual writer has their own style, their own point of view. That is what makes every story unique. I think that is as it should be. Unfortunately, it's also one of the most vexing bits of becoming a writer. So...good luck with that. :-)

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