Friday 30 March 2018

Info-Dumping

You probably know what an info-dump is. Basically, it's dropping a wad of back-story into the text to "prime" the reader for what is to come. For instance, if Dave gets into a space shuttle and starts the engine, and then spends three paragraphs thinking about the history of space travel, that's infodumping. It doesn't matter that Dave is a spaceship pilot, or that this is a journey into space: after all, I don't think about the history of the internal combustion engine every time I start my car.

The problem is particularly bad in science fiction and fantasy (and I could imagine it being bad in historical stories, or any with an unusual setting) but it happens everywhere. A few lines about how the history of a specific character  is fine. However, the further back in the past and the more generalised it becomes, the more like a background essay it is starting to become, and the more it takes the reader out of the narrative, ie what's actually happening in this story.

Once you've finished reading this background info, you're allowed to read the story.


Now, here's the thing: the reader isn't as interested in your back-story as you are. You may have laboured hours to produce a something like this:

In the late 29th Century, the North American Conglomeration merged with the Democratic Federation of Colonies to produce the Galactic Alliance of Free Nations, which is now commonly called the Alliance. When Duncan Poke, the beloved president, was assassinated, laws were passed enlarging the space fleet and granting the navy new photon-based weapons for their capital warships. However, the Galactic Senate...

This may be fascinating to you, but let's be blunt: to a reader, you might as well say "It's a space empire and a bit like America" or just "You know, kinda like Star Trek". To drop a potted history like this on a reader runs the risk of simply boring them. Further, some settings are so familiar that you just have to say "steampunk" or "noir" and people will have a solid idea of what to expect. It's not the things that make the setting predictable that are interesting, but what make it different.

"Kinda like Star Trek."

 In some ways, this is a good thing. Anyone who's seen a bit of pop culture knows the basic rules of, say, epic fantasy. There is magic, armies fight, it's a bit like Medieval England. You don't need to explain why it's like that unless it's of great importance to the narrative - and even if that is important, you really shouldn't drop the reason on the reader in a heap of background information, like a travel guide.


What really matters is the stuff in the foreground, not the stuff that happened before the story began. It's not that a bunch of religious maniacs have staged a coup, but whether Offred is going to survive or be murdered by the secret police. Because, ultimately, it's her story. And, by following her, we learn about the setting - not because it was forced on us like a pamphlet, but because it appears naturally, in the course of the book.


Monday 12 March 2018

Action - Reaction - Discussion

I was going to call this post "the rule of three", but then writing and life in general seems to be full of rules of three. And it's not exactly a rule. Anyhow, please be aware that spoilers follow for Alien. If you've never seen Alien, stop now and watch it, because it is one of the best films ever made.

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One of the problems facing writers of a lot of genre stories is how to demonstrate what the characters are like without slowing the story down too much. I've always felt that an action plot shouldn't include much except action and characters planning more action. That's fine, but it doesn't give much opportunity to learn about what the characters are really like. They may all be deadly killers, but is there anything more to them than that (there should be) and, if so, how do we show it to the reader?

One way of doing this is in the action-reaction-discussion cycle. It works like this: an event happens, the characters discuss the event, and then the characters either talk more generally, so that we learn more about them as people. Then we repeat.

In Alien, for instance, Science Officer Ash is disabled by Ripley, Lambert and Parker. That's the "action". Then comes the reaction: they talk about the fact that Ash is a robot. That's the discussion of the event. Then, the characters talk about what to do next (with Ash's questionable help). In that discussion, we see the characters acting in the way that characterises them the most. Ripley is tough and smart, Parker is tough and aggressive, and Lambert is smart and weak.



A lot of fiction involves things becoming steadily worse or more extreme for the characters until they either succeed against terrible odds or die trying. Each new problem creates an opportunity for the action-reaction-discussion cycle to begin again.

Now, there are plenty of stories where this doesn't happen, and I don't suggest that you try to use it to construct a novel. It's more a tool to be wielded retrospectively, in analysing something that's already there. But it is useful to note, because it keeps in both the action and the characterisation, meaning that not only do the characters have to face risks, but the stakes rise through the author showing what the characters are like, and encouraging us to root for them.

Sunday 11 March 2018

Authorial Punchbags: Thoughts on Sympathy and Dynamism

When you set out as a serious fiction writer, you'll soon be told that you have to make readers care about your characters. You'll also be told pretty shortly afterwards that the way to do this is to put them in jeopardy. Give them some problems, and away you go.

To an extent. Logically, a character should become more sympathetic the more woes you heap on them. However, there comes a point where the character's problems become excessive and their miseries actually start to make them less sympathetic to the reader.

Why? First, "pitiable" doesn't mean the same thing as "sympathetic" or, more accurately, "readable". A character who has been kidnapped by a villain and is now shivering at the bottom of a pit is wretched and deserving of pity. But reading about them is something of a chore. Once you've realised that they're cold and terrified, where is there to go? Chances are, they're going to die. They won't have the opportunity of doing anything very interesting before they die, so what's the point?

Consider the same character at the bottom of the pit, cold, frightened and hiding a piece of sharp stone. Sooner or later, someone is going to come to find him, and then he'll make his bid to escape. Will he succeed? The odds don't look good, but there's a chance. The only way to find out is to read on.

I think Thomas Harris realised this when he wrote The Silence of the Lambs. The kidnapped girl, Catherine, is more than just a puppy to be kicked: she comes up with a plan to escape, and is putting it into action when the final showdown takes place.

My own feeling is that - in terms of making a reader want to keep going - dynamism is just as important as likeability. A character who has a goal and a plan to achieve it is just as readable, if not more, than a character with whom we sympathise. Of course, a dynamic character with whom we sympathise is almost a sure thing in terms of audience enthusiasm - but the knowledge that we are reading about someone who, by their actions, will drive the plot forward goes a long way.