CHAPTER ONE - THE SPORTS PEOPLE

Introducing David and Paula and their tentative romance

Oh the misery of it!

Paula stared through her back room window at the rain as if seemed to be cast down from the heavens by a cruel and spiteful deity.

“Angel's tears,” smirked her father.

“Daft b*****d!” she whispered under her breath.

He heard and smirked again before wandering into the front room to watch football on the huge plasma screen he'd bought for the purpose.

Paula was in her tennis gear because she had planned to go to the recreation ground with Simone and play … tennis.

It wasn't that she was good at the game, though she did enjoy playing, but she and Simone were magnets to passing lads, and she enjoyed that. She revelled in being watched and admired more for her body than her racquet skills. She had a good body, and knew it. She'd spent long enough gazing in her bedroom mirror urging her breasts to grow that little bit bigger, and they'd responded with a vengeance.

Her little dress was white and so short her dad wouldn't have let her wear it in public had it not been intended for tennis. He was particular about how much flesh she showed: he knew lads because he'd been one himself and could remember with almost painful clarity some of the things he'd thought of doing.

Only thought, mind you. He'd not been as bad as some, and it was that some that made his heart skip a beat when he thought of Paula wandering the streets dressed in nearly nothing.

She scowled.

The rain fell heavier.

Then there was a brilliant flash of lightning with the accompanying rumble of thunder hard on its heels

The rain beat down with such ferocity she feared for the windows that it crashed against.

She sat on the arm of the occasional chair, just out of range should the worst happen, and sighed.

David would be there, watching, and she rather liked David. He wasn't one of the more popular boys among boys, but he had the kind of rugged look that appealed, and his short hair was always clean and tidy. She liked clean and tidy. Though, at a pinch, she would have accepted scruffy and dishevelled as long as it was on David. Greasy even. She wouldn't have been too fussy, not if David was watching her, not if he was applauding her rubbishy shots and looking at her in that way he had about him.

Was the rain slowing down?

No! A vivid flash of lightning seared the neighbourhood, and the thunder was instant. It must be above, she thought, directly above...

And the roar from the front room confirmed it.

“Bloody hell!” roared father, “the telly!”

He lumbered into the doorway from the front room.

“It's broken!” he raged, waving the remote control as if it was a broken toy.

“What is?” she asked.

“The bloody telly!”

“It can't be...” She forced her way past him and stared at the black glass face of their huge screen. It was dead. Deader than dead, by the look of what might have been a wisp of smoke still curling from somewhere behind it.

“The lightning...” he groaned. “And they were about to score!”

“Who were?” she asked almost absent mindedly as she peered behind the television set and, being practical, checked that it was plugged tightly in the wall socket.

“I dunno. Whoever was playing. I''d only just switched it on.”

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“I'll watch it on the spare set, in my bedroom,” decided Dad. “It's a bit smaller, though, and I'm not that keen on smaller.”

He stalked out of the room, and no sooner had she heard him clump into his bedroom than the big television set came on all on its own. She switched it off: she didn't like football very much. David didn't play football. At least she didn't think he did.

Outside the storm raged to a standstill and, miracle of miracle, a finger of sunlight poked straight into their front room and lit up her heart.

“It's working!” she called upstairs, loud enough not to be heard.

The front doorbell rang and she opened it.

Sophie was there. In her whites, terribly tiny skirt and revealing top. But that's not what made Paula go suddenly pale and a monster start eating her brain from inside her skull.

Draped all over her best friend like he'd always been there was David. Her David! The one boy in the Universe for her! And he was holding Sophie's sweaty fingers as if he actually liked her!

“Hello,” smiled Paula, as brightly as she could, which was amazingly brightly considering the red rage roaring around her brain.

“Tennis,” smirked Sophie. She knew, of course. She must. Paula had said times many that one day she'd be offered a glimpse inside David's underpants and she'd take it! That was the way she and Sophie talked, sometimes, when they were being secretive and daring, both at the same time. Not dirty, but definitely risqué.

“I'm watching football,” said Paula. “With dad. It's a special match.”

“But you're dressed for ten...” began Sophie.

“I was going to come out,” grinned Paula, “but it is a special match, and then Dad wants to take me to the pub to celebrate...”

“To celebrate?” asked David in that gawkish, useless, cowardly voice of his, the one she'd always found so … depressing.

“My car,” she smiled. “Yes. For my birthday. My car... Look, I'll see you around, some time … promise I will...”

And she closed the door on them. She actually managed to close that door on David before the tears streamed down her face and she found herself burying her head in her teddy bear.

“Crap match,” groaned her dad from the top of the stairs. “Like watching paint dry, watching those two teams. I'm off to the pub...”

Then he saw her face and the tears.

“Come on, pretty Paula,” he said, “I'll tell you what... get something decent on and you can come too... I've never taken you to the pub before and you're just about old enough for the kind of drink that'll put a light in those pretty eyes... Sport, eh? Who needs it...”

Reviews

[JayG]

You’ve worked very hard on this. That’s obvious, which is why I hesitated before beginning this. It’s not going to be easy to take. But still, it’s not about you, your talent, or even the story. It’s about a basic misunderstanding we all have when we turn to recording our stories. We leave our school days believing that we learned how to write.

In some ways, we have. We’re fully competent to write a report, an essay, and letters—skills out future employers want us to have. What we’re missing is an understanding of the strengths and limitations of the print media, so far as presenting fiction. We’re missing knowledge of the structure of a story, and even the elements that make up a scene—and how they differ from the same thing on stage, screen, and verbal storytelling.

In our school days no one even mentioned how to handle tags, why scene goals are important, or why a scene nearly always ends in disaster. So it’s not that we come to writing misinformed, it’s that we aren’t aware that our trained writing skills are wholly inappropriate to the medium. As Mark Twain put it, “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

And because of that, we end up working very hard, and falling in love with our characters, then wonder why editors and agents aren’t equally thrilled. But who’s to tell us? Everyone we know shares that misinformation. I wrote six solidly rejected novels before I paid a pro to tell me what I was doing wrong. And that was like a kick in the chops from a mule.

Here’s the problem: Every bit of writing technique we learned in our school days is author-centric and fact-based—designed to inform the reader clearly and concisely. So when we apply that to storytelling on the page we inform the reader on the details of the plot, and what they mean. And for us, as we read it back, it works perfectly, because when we read the first line our mind holds full knowledge of who the protagonist is as a person, where they are in time and space, what’s going on, and why.

Moreover, we can hear the emotion in our voice as we read, which gives the story life. But what about the reader? They have only what the words seem to suggest to THEM. For them the words have none of the emotion you place in your voice because they-can’t-hear-you. They can’t know the facial expression with which you illustrate the protagonist’s reaction and feelings. So to them, a dispassionate external observer is talking ABOUT the story and the people in it, informing a reader who was hoping to be entertained.

You know this story from your viewpoint. For the moment look at the reader’s perception of the opening, and what questions it raises in their mind:

• Oh the misery of it!

Misery of what? Is this dialog? A thought? And what’s “it?” Is this the narrator commenting or the protagonist bemoaning something we’re unaware of? In short, “Huh?”

And while you might say, “Read on any you’ll find out,” the reader won’t. They have no assurance that you will clarify, and in any case, that clarification isn’t retroactive, and can’t remove the confusion they felt as they read it. And really, who wants to be confused?

• Paula stared through her back room window at the rain as if seemed to be cast down from the heavens by a cruel and spiteful deity.

Only if we know who Paula is as a person, and what’s going on can we have context. You’re presenting her reaction—effect—before we know the cause. So how can it have meaning? This is an effect of the fact that we’re not with her in that room. Instead we’re with the narrator, hearing what matters to that external observer. But suppose you’d opened with,
- - - - - -
Paula shook her head at the downpour outside her bedroom window. It wasn’t going to ease up by afternoon, and even if it did, the court would be too wet to play.
- - - - - -
That’s Paula’s observation, and is the motivation for her reaction—her judgment that she won’t be playing. With six words more than the original (actually, one more if you count the no longer necessary first line) the reader knows Paula’s mood, the cause, and has had a bit of character development. I had her shake her head, a sad reaction. Had I had her curse the situation, an angry reaction, Paula would be a different person. And her reaction is of far more importance to a reader than the literary reference to angel’s tears.

Now, as we move on in the story after an opening like this, we know what’s going on (and have a pretty good idea of what game she would have been playing), where we are, and whose skin we’re wearing. What did we know at the end of the original? That it’s raining. The difference? Instead of explaining the story, we’re inviting the reader into it, and presenting emotion-based and character-centric writing that entertains instead of just informing. In other words, we’re in her viewpoint, in the room with her, in real-time.

Make sense? It’s one of the tricks of the trade, but also something we probably won’t see for ourselves unless it’s pointed out—which is pretty much true of the craft of any profession. So, it’s no big deal, just something to work on and fix. And the good news is that the local library’s fiction writing section is a great resource.

For more on the motivation/response trick I used above, try this article. It’s the best summation of the technique I’ve found:
http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/art/scene.php

And if, after you play with it a bit, you think it’s worth knowing more about, look at the book the article’s author based it on. It’s filled with things like that, and the best book on the subject I’ve found.

The articles in the craft section of my blog are, for the most part, based on that book, so digging through them will give you a kind of overview of the issues. The link is below.

I truly wish there were some more gentle way of presenting this, but I’ve not found one. The good news is that by training your talent you’re giving it wings, replacing the sturdy dray horse we’re given in our school days with Pegasus. And mounted on a winged beast, who knows where you’ll fly to?

So hang in there, and keep on writing. The world needs more crazies who can be staring out the window, and when asked what they’re doing can honestly say, “Working.”

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/

[Peter Rogerson]

Thanks for what is clearly well-intentioned criticism. I wish you'd told me before I published the dozen or so novels that bear my name. The story here, though, isn't one of those. This is the first of a series of 24 chapters I wrote a couple of years ago as an experiment in writing for younger people.

I'm afraid that I would never follow the advice in any book on fiction writing because such advice is, by necessity, one person's opinion and each of us is different. If such advice had been freely available a century and a half ago would Dickens have written half of his magnificent output, and would the Bronte sisters have attained such stirring heights in their fiction? No, probably not, because we all have different ways of ploughing through life. The chapter here (deliberately written within half an hour, as were all the other 23, and on consecutive days) is one attempt at an unnatural discipline (writing swiftly and outside my immediate experience) because I wanted to do it. It was posted, at the time, on another site. It's a good job I saved it because I've forgotten which one.

When I first read your review (on the tiny screen of my mobile phone) I thought I was reading something truly clever, but when I saw more on a larger screen in order to react to it I realised it was less than that. Every character in every work of fiction has to be introduced and there are thousands of ways of doing that. Paula was depressed by the weather. I probably was at the time.

By the way, you're advising a septuagenarian who can't have that long left in which to train his talent so you'll forgive me if I treat your review with the humour I believe it deserves.

[JayG]

• Thanks for what is clearly well-intentioned criticism.

Sorry, but that was the professional opinion of someone who has owned a manuscript critiquing service. The points I made are the kind of thing you’d get in the first week or so of any commercial fiction writing course—really basic stuff.

• If such advice had been freely available a century and a half ago would Dickens have written half of his magnificent output

Yes, it was available. Dickens didn’t simply pick up a pen and start writing, and somewhow, magically know how to construct and present a story to best effect. In fact, he conducted classes for his employees, to be certain that they were competent writers.

In fact, the first recorded case of a writer advising hopeful authors to just read, in order to learn how to write, was from a man whose name escapes me at the moment, but who was a trained professional, and he said it not to help other writers, but to misdirect them so as to help eliminate competition for publishing slots.

• I'm afraid that I would never follow the advice in any book on fiction writing because such advice is, by necessity, one person's opinion and each of us is different.

Were that even remotely close to being true they would not offer four-year majors in writing fiction at the universities, and the best selling writers would not have backgrounds in the profession. But they do.

You had to learn how to write when you were a kid, as did we all. And the style of writing we learned is nonfiction. It's author-centric, fact-based, and meant to inform. That’s not opinion, it’s verifiable fact. Public education was instituted during the industrial revolution for one purpose: to provide employers with a pool of potential workers who had a necessary, and predictable, skill set. So we’re given the skills necessary to become productive and self-supporting adults. We are NOT taught the professional techniques of creating a story for the print medium. That writing needs to be emotion-based and character-centric—designed to entertain.

And in demonstration that reading fiction doesn’t teach us the necessary skills, two points:

First, visit your local library. Without looking, can you tell me what is different about the first paragraph of every chapter in over 50% of the fiction on the shelves there? Nine out of ten people can’t, and it’s something we see every time we read. Some have to have it pointed out even after they look. And if we miss something so obvious, how much that’s less obvious have we missed?

And the second point is that based on your own sales, and the fact that no publisher has paid you for the right to sell your work, we can only conclude that you are missing either some magical ability to write, or a learned knowledge of the tricks of the trade. And in the words of those who know:
- - - - - - -
“It’s none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way.”
~Ernest Hemingway

“Self-expression without craft is for toddlers.”
~Rosanne Cash

“There are far too many would-be works of fiction in which plot and character are not revealed, but explained.”
~ Peter Miller

“In sum, if you want to improve your chances of publication, keep your story visible on stage and yourself mum.”
~ Sol Stein

“Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader, not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”
~ E. L. Doctorow

“It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”
~ Mark Twain
- - - - - - -
You can, of course, write in any way you see fit. No one is twisting your arm, least of all me. But I strongly urge you to look at the book I suggested. After all, if you invest no time and money in your writers education, can you call yourself serious about writing?

• By the way, you're advising a septuagenarian who can't have that long left in which to train his talent.

Nonsense. I’m 78, and still learning. Writing is a journey, not a destination. And we do it because we enjoy it. The goal is to write a little better today than yesterday.

Obviously, you’re not happy with me, and not hearing anything you hope to hear, so I’ll close by wishing you luck with your writing.

[Peter Rogerson]

Do you know what, I'm sorely tempted to delete your comments. This post here was never intended to be entered for the Man Booker prize. Your analysis of what I should have written is way over the top and I find it positively hurtful. I'm sorry, though, that you're 78 because, like me, your remaining time on planet Earth is limited and might be spent better using kindness, generosity and love for your better half as a goal rather than writing in what someone else considers to be a better way. I'm tempted to wonder why you've found it necessary to search out so many expert advisers. Maybe it's the American way?

[JayG]

• I'm tempted to wonder why you've found it necessary to search out so many expert advisers. Maybe it's the American way?

To value education over guesswork? Absolutely.

Bottom line: The people I quote and recommend are professionals. Swain, for example, had a student list that read like who's who of American fiction. He's a man who filled auditoriums when he went on tour. Sol Stein was a success in virtually every aspect of writing, film, stage, and publishing. These are the people you find beneath notice.

I claim no special talent or writing skill, but as someone who owned a manuscript critique service I've helped more than one or two people achieve publication. You repudiate the idea of acquiring a writers education, but your own sales record argues in favor of them.

As for seeking experts, aside from my own view that education is an excellent working substitute for genius, I'll let Holly Lysle speak for me:

“Michaelangelo did not have a college degree, nor did Leonardo da Vinci. Thomas Edison didn't. Neither did Mark Twain (though he was granted honorary degrees in later life.) All of these people were professionals. None of them were experts. Get your education from professionals, and always avoid experts.”

If it helps you rationalize your position feel free to remove my comments. It harms me not at all. You might think about the fact that someone you will never meet took a fair amount of time they didn't have to give you, to help you become a better writer. And I did it because you posted it in a public forum, where critiques and reactions are expected and sought.

You're welcome.

[Peter Rogerson]

I won't do any removing as I don't believe in censoring even when the author of that which I might care to censor has gone way over the top in his examination of a short piece of prose intended for a teen market rather than the scholarly intention of the critic.