Authors: Jerry Cleaver
This becoming the character is called
identification.
That's our technical term. It can be called empathy, sympathy, vicariousness, but our term, our technical/craft term, for becoming the character is
identification.
And identification is what this whole game is about.
Identification is why the reader reads and why the writer writes.
THE PAYOFF
That's an answer, but still not a final answer. We can push it to a deeper level—to its limit, to its emotional extreme—to where we need to go
always.
We become the characters. We feel what they feel. OK, but if we're going to understand this story stuff, this story process, fully, we need to know why we are drawn to that. What does it do for us? What are we getting out of it?
We go to stories for this emotional connection, but why? Don't we have enough emotions of our own? Is there something missing in us? Are we deficient or incomplete? Why can't we just sit at home and experience our own emotions without going through all the effort it takes to see a movie? Wouldn't staying home with your emotions be easier than getting in the car, driving to the theater, paying to park, waiting in line for a ticket, waiting to be seated—just so that you can go in and sit in a room with a bunch of other people and feel the emotions of characters who never existed and never will, acting out a story that never happened? Make-believe! Is that anything for responsible
adults to be doing? Indulging in fantasy—what good is that going to do us? What does that have to do with reality?
Yes, what does it have to do with reality? What relevance does it have to the real world? What do we get out of it that we couldn't get if we stayed home alone with our feelings? First, we need to answer a question I raised earlier: are we incomplete, lacking, deficient? I'll answer that with another question: Do you have yourself all figured out? Do you know yourself so well that you'll never do anything stupid or make a fool of yourself again? Is your self-knowledge so complete? When it comes to knowing ourselves, we
are
incomplete, lacking, deficient. Each of us is our own ongoing problem until the day we die.
When we go to a movie and experience the emotions of the characters (identify), we're experiencing ourselves in a way we couldn't if we stayed at home. Experiencing their emotions puts us in touch with ourselves, expands us, in a way we can't achieve on our own. When we feel what the characters feel, we feel more of ourselves. In becoming them, we become more of who we are. So the complete story fulfills us, gives us a sense of closure—completes us, for the moment.
CAUSE AND EFFECT
So, where are we? What have I given you so far? I've given you an understanding of what stories do. But have I given you anything you can actually use to put together a story? I have not. I've given you theory, and I've talked about the
effect
of the story, but I haven't given you one thing that you can actually use to put together a story—haven't given you the first step to actually make it happen. Identification is what the story does—the
effect
, what it makes happen, but not
how
it makes it happen.
How
—that's the
cause.
And that's what writers work with—
causes.
It's important to understand the difference and to keep the two separate.
How do we put together a story that creates identification? Well, that's what this craft is all about, and that's the subject of the next chapter. There will be exercises within and at the end of that chapter and each chapter that follows. It's a good idea to be ready with what you need to write (notebook, laptop, tape recorder, etc.) so you can get right into it without hunting around for tools.
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Story
How do we do it—put together a story that gets to the reader, one that causes him or her to live and feel the experiences of the characters, to
identify?
Well, it can be done in a couple of ways. I can give you a definition, a concept, or a model. But stories aren't ideas. They're not concepts or definitions. They're experience. So, rather than tell you how a story works, I'm going to show you—show you by giving you a little story to see how much of an experience I can cause you to have, how much I can get you to
identify,
to live through the characters. Here's the story:
My wife and I have a friend named Larry who is going through a nasty divorce. His wife wants it. He doesn't. My wife ran into him at the mall. He looked terrible—sad and despondent. He sounded worse than he looked, so she invited him over for dinner to try to cheer him up.
Larry's an old friend, so we know what he likes. I bought a botde of his favorite Scotch and some fancy cigars he likes after dinner. We had a few drinks and were feeling pretty good. We let
Larry know we would be there for him whenever he needed us.
He could call anytime night or day. We renewed our friendship.
Larry felt better. We felt better. He went home happy. We went
to bed happy. It was a great night, all around, for everybody.
That's the end. How was it? Moving? Compelling? Dramatic? Did you identify? Were you gripped? Did you have the kind of experience you want from a story?
The answer, of course, is NO. You did not have an experience. You did not connect. You did not identify. You could not. The reason you could not was: I purposely beat the life out of it.
So, the effect was boredom and maybe irritation. The cause was a dead story. I presented you with an experience that left you cold, with a mistake. Why? Because mistakes are what we start with. We make mistakes constantly. First drafts are loaded with them. Remember Hemingway: "The first draft is shit." Expecting too much is the surest way to become blocked. The other reason I started with a mistake is: We learn more from our mistakes than from our successes—not from the mistakes themselves, but from correcting them.
So, if I'm right, if I know what I'm doing, I should be able to show * you how to turn this mistake into an involving story. But before I do, consider what's needed to make it happen.
MAKING IT WORK
What's needed to turn this dead story into something with some energy, some drama? Detail, dialogue, emotion, conflict? Well, I could give you reams of detail and keep the story as dull as it is. Dialogue? I could have the characters talking all night and far into the next day, and you would be even more bored than you were. Emotion? Well,
the story has emotion. The characters are happy, satisfied, fulfilled. How much more could you stand of happy, happy, happy? That leaves conflict. Conflict? Now, why would we mess up a perfectly enjoyable dinner by stirring up trouble?
TEN-MINUTE EXERCISE
Before I give you my answer, why don't you work on one of your own. See what you can do to give this dead story some energy. Take ten minutes to rewrite it (more if you get rolling). You can do it two ways. You can write it all out the way it needs to be. Or you can write some general, summary statements about how it should go—plan it out without doing it word for word.
You've done yours. Now I'll do mine. Here's another version of the same story. See if I can get you more involved.
In this version, I've got a touch of bronchitis or flu the day Larry is coming for dinner. I'm not feeling great, but I'm still up for dinner with Larry. Now, the flu is a minor detail, but I want you to decide whether you want it in or out. You don't have to have a reason—just a feeling. Most people, nine out of ten, prefer the flu in. Remember, this is not flu we're talking about. This is story, and in story,
everything counts.
Nothing is along for the ride.
So, the flu is in. Larry comes over. We have a few drinks. He and my wife are both smokers. Before we get to dinner, they run out of cigarettes. "I'll go get them," I say. "I want to get out of this haze and clear my lungs." I head out for the corner store to get their smokes.
It's a nice walk. I get their cigarettes and head back, but instead of walking up the front walk, I decide to take the shortcut down the alley. OK, point two: alley in or out? Like the flu, most people go for the alley. Flu and alley. Why? The answer to that is at the very heart of successful storytelling. It's not flu. It's not alley. It's story.
So, I'm walking down the alley, relaxing, breathing fresh air, look
ing at the yards. Now, our kitchen sticks out from the back of the house and is all windows along the side. I can see Larry and my wife in the kitchen. As I come through the yard, I see they're having a rather intense conversation. My wife is especially lively. I haven't seen her that spirited in months.
OK, what's on your mind right now? What are you thinking? Let me guess. You're thinking, hanky-panky, fooling around, touching, embracing, kissing, etc. Not only are you
thinking
it, but you're
wanting
it. Oh, yes. Not only do you give me the flu and make me walk down the alley, but you throw my marriage into crisis by making my wife unfaithful. Maybe not in reality, but in story, we prefer cheating to loyalty—always. We want chemistry, passion, fireworks! You don't go to the amusement park to ride the merry-go-round. You go to ride the roller-coaster.
THE ACTIVE INGREDIENT
I knew what you were thinking, not because I read your mind, but be-
»
cause I led you there—with story. I gave you an experience that hooked you in. Fine, so far, but where do we go from here? We left me standing there, watching my wife talking to Larry. What's next? Well, I've raised your expectations, so I have to give you what you want—or something better. Let's go with the kiss. My wife says something. Larry laughs, opening his arms. They embrace and have a nice long kiss.
What now? She kisses Larry. End of story. Yes? No? Why not? I'm sure you know in your heart that it's not over. Your heart is a good guide. It might be enough for an obvious example like this—might be. But when it's not obvious, when the problem gets subtle and tricky, when you get lost, it's not enough. To be a successful story-
teller, you have to know in story terms why a story's not over. So, what has to happen to complete this story, to give it a bang-up ending? How about this:
I figure,
Heck with it. What do I care? Everybody cheats. Look at Clinton.
Then I go in, we have a nice dinner, smoke cigars, renew our friendship, and wind up good friends just like before. A satisfying ending? Maybe the characters are satisfied, but we are not, and no reader will be either.
What I'm doing is playing around with the active ingredient, the one I'm trying to get you to see by putting it in and taking it out, by connecting you and disconnecting you—something you'll be able to do by the end of this chapter.
All right. If this story is going to hold anyone, I have to care, to feel betrayed and go in and
do
something about it. It could go like this:
"Hi, guys," I say happily as I come in. "Here're the smokes."
They thank me and both light up. Larry pours himself some Scotch.
"How'd it go while I was gone?" I say, flopping into a kitchen chair.
"Fine," my wife says.
"How about you, Lar? Enjoy yourself in my absence?"
He glances at my wife quickly. "I did," he says.
"Good. I was worried you might get lonely. But when I saw you through the window, I could see you didn't need me to entertain you."
"Well," Larry says. "We both missed you, and we're glad you're back."
"That's right, honey," my wife says. "It's not the same without you."
"Of course not," I say. "Say, hand me the butcher knife, darling."
"Butcher knife, what for?"
"No reason. I just feel like holding it."
"Don't be silly," she says.
"No, really. Indulge me."
"Will you stop?" she says.
"Stop what? You don't trust me with a knife? What is this: no sharp objects for the lunatic?"
"Very funny," she says.
Larry stares at me, smiling weakly.
"Afraid I'll hurt myself—slit my wrists—or my throat? What do you think, Lar? Can I be trusted with a knife in my own kitchen with my best friend and my loyal wife?"
"Of course you can," Larry says flatly, then downs his Scotch.
"Damn right. Hear that, angel? Larry trusts me. He trusts you. We all trust each other. So pass me the knife, sweets."
THE CRUCIAL DIFFERENCE
(Lifeblood of every story—and every writer)
All right, let's stop. The story's not over yet. (How we know it's not over, and what's needed to bring it to a satisfying ending, we'll get to later.) It can go in many directions. Each writer will do it his or her own way. The possibilities are endless. But no matter which way it goes, it must fulfill the basic story requirements, or it will fail.