No I in Team - On Perspective and Voice

Anyone who's survived high school English has received the lectures on the use of passive voice and first-person perspective.

Anyone who's done any writing after high school knows that both those standpoints are crap.

In all fairness, it's more accurate to say that both arguments are simply oversimplified.  Passive voice in the wrong scenario can take all the impact out of the case you're making.  First-person perspective in the wrong hands turns your short story into little more than an extended blog post.  It's easy to see where they're coming from.

The lesson they should be teaching is that voice and perspective help shape the whole tone of your work, and ignorance of either can lead to stiffness in the best of cases.  Unfortunately, most high school teachers barely have time to cover half a sonnet before students lose interest, so I suppose it's an understandable oversight.

Voice first, since it's the easiest to misuse:  passive voice, for those fuzzy on the details, is not just a liberal use of the words "There" and "It" at the start of a sentence.  Don't feel bad, even Strunk & White bombed identifying passive voice three times out of four.

Passive voice is a flipping of the traditional sentence, usually with a helping verb involved.  It places the recipient ahead of the action being done to him, her or it, which can change the stress of the phrase.  "I was cheated by my bookie" places the emphasis on the "I," while "My bookie cheated me," the active voice, focuses your attention on the bookie.

Understanding what that inversion does will help you spice up your style and bring the readers' attention where you want it.  "I was cheated" makes the narrator sound any of: self-centered, pitiable, gullible or paranoid, depending on the situation.  "My bookie cheated me" has more chance of making the reader angry at or suspicious of the bookie, and takes the focus off the narrator and onto the bookie and the action performed.

You can use the passive voice to keep attention on a central character while they're being affected by several outside sources, giving the impression that they are in the middle of a storm of actions either good or bad.  Avoiding passive voice entirely limits that focus control and can force you to wrap some very awkward clauses around an active-voice sentence just to keep the reader's mind on the character at the heart of it.

Perspective provides a similar function in both directions.  The typical third-person limited puts focus on your main character without making them seem accidentally arrogant (or yourself accidentally a huge Film Noir fan) by overusing the first-person perspective.  That said, once you've gone third-person, it's bloody hard to go back.

Third-person is the most mobile and flexible perspective, which is why it's legitimately the most popular, and why first- and second-person novels will often stand out boldly if they can hold the reader's attention and beat down their knee-jerk reaction to the more intimate attention.

To keep your third-person viewpoint fixed purely on your main character makes it seriously "limited."  While you can use third-person perspective to write a first-person novel with a bunch of he/she pronouns instead, there's a great deal of power unique to the third-person angle that should not be overlooked.

Consider the poor analogy of a camera crew.  The action on which everyone is focused tends to go through one particular lens for much of the program.  You can start with the high angle shot that zeroes in on the more localized focus of your story, but the motion doesn't stop there.  Switching between lenses provides not only a fresh angle on the subject, but a noticeable shift that can generate all manner of emotion, even in a written work.

In a typical 3PL gambit, when your protagonist ends the night of her awkward date with a clumsy kiss before the door to his apartment shuts, leaving her out in the cold, she sulks off downtrodden, assured she has ruined her chances with the love of her life for good.

With a more flexible third-person take on the same scene, you can let your protagonist slink away, and then flip to the far side of the door where her date is slowly smiling to himself, unable to think anything further than "...she kissed me."

Separate takes on the same combat or political equation can lend an entirely too-true shape to an otherwise flat us-versus-them scenario, humanizing both sides so that the reader is forced to consider the implications.  Alternatively, you can show what a rat bastard the bad guy really is as he works his way through the countryside, delighting in his reign of havoc as he watches the villages burn with a sadistic grin.

Don't feel like your narration is velcro'd to the back of the hero's head.  Take your perspective for walkies from time to time, it could use the exercise.

First- and second-person get a little more dangerous, but that doesn't mean they're out of the question.  Just understand what they do to your reader's sense of comfort.

Third-person is passive and voyeuristic, arguably a kindred companion to the readers themselves.  It rests alongside them, unaware of their presence and dictates to the room at large the tales of Sir Whatsit of Woebegone.

First- and second-person address the reader directly.  First-person may be talking about herself, but she's talking to you, and second-person cuts out the middle man.  Both have the potential for evoking strong emotion, which in turn means that both have the potential to scare off or annoy your reader.  Use with caution.

First-person is best kept to the sort of diary-style monologues people actually find titillating:  the sin-rich detective who doesn't yet know she's searching for redemption, the well-meaning scientist who is dictating his final moments while the product of his inventions claws angrily at the door to the lab, the unexpectedly-personified narrator (see: housecat), and so forth. 

This is, by no means, a comprehensive list, but consider the sort of stories where the captivation and necessary focus of first-person perspective lends something extra to the work that helps draw the reader in.  If it sounds more like the 40-something bachelor with a comb-over reliving his glory days, chances are you're doing it wrong.

Second-person is by far the most dangerous, as even casual statements can be taken as accusatory depending on your reader.  Any therapist will tell you the danger in using "you" over "I," so be cautious of the type of box you may be seen as standing on.

Second-person tends to be best kept to more friendly narratives.  The tales of a local hero from the perspective of a man sitting in a rocking chair on your grandmother's porch is just one example.  Another could be a series of letters from a lover (or would-be lover) kept distant by duty, describing their adventures with the pang of longing and familiarity.

As with anything, have a reason for doing it (something other than "but I like these pronouns...") and be aware of the consequences to your reader.  Those effects can be what makes your story more than just words on a page.  And never listen to anyone who tells you there's no place for the second-person take in real literature.

Clearly, they need some perspective.

The Act of Creation - Sci-fi from the Ground Up

Many writers get their start in the areas of science fiction, fantasy and the myriad of genres that incorporate or border on one or the other.

One common assumption is that it's easier to build your own world than to work within the confines of an existing one, so that when you begin to write about things more interesting or grandiose than those you've done yourself, you don't have to waste time on any pesky research or risk straying accidentally into potential hot-button areas of the modern world and its many sensitivities.

In a sense, that's true:  when you write the world, you write the rules.  Want laser swords?  Look at that, laser swords.  How do they work?  Who cares!  They're laser swords!  Welcome to soft sci-fi, friend.  Take a seat next to the hemophage and make yourself comfortable.

The age-old joke of "a wizard did it" is actually at the core of a frighteningly high percentage of first works (and sometimes entire series).  Why bother with rules when you can just chain a number of cool scenes together on an arbitrary set of environmental factors that just crapped out for the heck of it.  It makes the backdrop to your stunning foreground an effortless exercise in "because I said so."

The difference between the slurry of such half-assed pseudo-settings and an iconic world that keeps a series alive even when you kill the characters off every other book is the dedication to building yourself an honest-to-god world.

If you're taking to sci-fi or fantasy with any seriousness, you've got to look at your setting from the perspective of the skeptic.  Every science from physical to social is involved in crafting a new world, a new time, a new species or culture.  The moment you step off the well-defined rock, you had better hope you are prepared for the void of empty space between yourself and the believable setting you crave.

That's not to say you have to triple-major just to craft a fantasy epic.  There are holes in the science of some of the greatest fictional settings of all time and no one much seems to mind.  What's important is that you recognize where the sticking points are in a setting so that at least your second-tier readership don't bang their heads against the wall trying to reason out the presence of Olmec writings in North Dakota.

First, the physical:  if you're going with a new locale, it's important to start roughly at the beginning.  If your setting is stable and planetary, use the basics of what you know here on Earth to support it.  Altering the overall climate, the ratio of land to water or properties of the metals used will give it an alien feel without having to redefine physics as we know it.

Be careful of going to extremes.  While they can emphasize a point and lead you into an entirely new feel for how people survive, most systems we're familiar with work on the perspective of equilibrium.

Too much of anything tends to come with some fairly drastic drawbacks or environmental repercussions.  If you can provide the reader some evidence of that backswing or an external point against which the extreme is balanced, it settles the brain from wondering why the whole thing hasn't teetered into the abyss already.

Life systems are far more complicated to intertwine.  Metals or elements with new properties are simplistic and pure enough that readers can adapt to rocks that float and liquids that crystallize under new and different stimuli, but life is a system unto itself, which when wrapped inside a larger ecosystem creates a sort of Sierpinski Triangle effect that can become infinitely recursive.

If both these terms are alien to you, you might want to consider going with fantasy instead of sci-fi.

When it comes to life, remember that every quality something has was at some point an evolutionary advantage.  It doesn't have to be an obvious one (in fact, sometimes all the better when it isn't), but if it's unnecessarily complicated or doesn't have at least the hint of a practical application towards survival your readers are likely to guess you're just playing with the scenery.

Though they may not necessarily mind.

Life is connected both to its environment and to each other, so if you're going to toy around with the ecosystem, you may want to start with what you know.  If you need help emphasizing the alien nature of the new lifesystem within an existing context, look to our finest and weirdest examples:  deserts, jungles, and deep under the ocean.

Depending on your story, the social element can be more vital, and much more complex.  As I mentioned, life interacts with both its environment and each other.  The same is true from a social perspective:  cultures evolve, grow, interact, impact each other, absorb, blend, conquer, trade, intermarry and collapse.

If you're planning on building a social/political world, don't just build up the city or kingdom where the story takes place:  have an idea in mind of the outlying lands.  Distant nomads, enemies abroad, a land across the sea:  even if the local knowledge is sparse, rumors and legends will abound.  It helps prevent your setting from being Castle #187 and blends it with a new canvas of worlds that tantalize the imagination and leave you open for far-ranging sequels.

Time is another realm where you can insert a good bit of mystery even in more modern settings.  History is not always perfect or clear, and the past leaves treasures galore in the ghosts of civilizations long since past their time.  Just remember that even The Ancients had a culture and a reason for being.  Leaving behind ruins or abandoned technology doesn't make much sense if you haven't thought about why the people are no longer there in the first place.

Politics is an entirely different can of worms.  If your story involves an organized society, there's bound to be law and rule and possibly even those who dispute that rule.  Understand the basis for that structure before you start to impose it on the world.  You don't have to explain it at length to the reader, just ensure that the parts of it which impact your story are internally consistent, else you risk wandering into Disney Villain territory.

There are dozens of premade ways to rule and philosophies on how best to govern a society, from militaristic martial law to free-thinking, laissez-faire, communal democracy, and none of them are inherently good or evil.  Just because a dictator is totalitarian doesn't mean he doesn't have your best interests in mind.  Just because the fate of a people is in their own hands doesn't mean it's in the best hands.

Again, be careful of extremes:  history tells us that we rise up against too much law or in the absence of any.  Humanity and its kindred ilk strive for some degree of balance and stability.  Again, use the environment to help stabilize an otherwise lopsided situation.  A city on the dangerous frontier is more given to martial law that a large urban center far removed from any immediate threat.

Don't be afraid to be fancy.  Need a unique form of government your readers likely haven't seen before?  Look no further.  Just remember that every style has its place, and it weaknesses.  Look for them in your setting before your readers find them for you.

When it comes to world-building, don't feel pressured to reinvent the global wheel.  There's a great deal of variance on our own terrestrial home, it's easy enough to switch things up and keep it interesting without having to build everything from scratch.  But if you're looking to make your own place out of the pieces floating through your mind, just be sure to fill in the blank spots between.

Try to follow the dots you're drawing and see if they add up to anything sensible.  Want laser swords?  No problem.  Just have in mind a rough sketch of how they work.  "Magic rock" here is an acceptable answer (in fact, it was), because a rock is already a more attainable concept that "my sword glows like a Christmas tree on steroids."

Remember, too, that you don't have to explain all this to the reader.  We come to sci-fi and fantasy wanting a little mystery and magic and mysticism.  But if you start to build for yourself rules on which that mystery is based, you run into fewer problems when the pieces don't seem to add up.  It's enough to keep the larger part of your audience satisfied (and brainstorming new ideas) so that you can get your story out without any distractions.

And when the Comic Book Guy's of the world try and tell you it's still not good enough, remind them that when wookies are the norm, they can overlook a little thing like hyperdrive.

Fight Club - Writing John Woo

Some media have it easy.

A photograph can capture with the press of a button what a writer would need hours to recreate.  When it takes more strokes to pen the words than it would a brush across canvas, you know you're looking at something truly beautiful; something you may have little chance of conveying with any power through words alone..

Accents are easier to write (and to read) when there's true audio involved.  An otherwise delightful cockney lilt becomes a gushing river of dropped word-endings and apostrophes the likes of which God himself has never seen. 

According to conventional wisdom, video equates to 24,000 words a second.  Not even Steven King can match that.  At least, not yet.  The man has written a successful story about a possessed Plymouth, I put nothing past him at this point.

As an amateur musician and playwright, I know first-hand that every media has its downsides.  Writing has its own brilliant constructions that other methods have to strain themselves to mirror.  The sheer poetry of the right five-word phrase can bring even theater to its knees, to say nothing of the ability to quantify emotion as part of the standard narration filling every foreseeable crack on the page.

That said, there is one area where writing gets its comeuppance:  when it comes to the deeply technical, visual media win out time and time again.

The ember that has set this particular flame burning with new life lately is the myriad of fight scenes required to complete The Order.  I've covered action scenes in general previously, but this particular discussion veers into new territory, and it isn't limited to fight scenes alone.

To clarify the point:  imagine a fight between two real people.  It's ungraceful and uncoordinated, a flailing hodgepodge of misguided attempts to get the other person to stop hitting you back.  Now imagine instead a fictional fight:  a deeply choreographed sequence of fluid movements leading to regular shifts in supremacy resulting in a climactic final flurry with the clear victor walking away.

The former is not terribly impressive through any medium, although the writer can add to it all manner of meaning that it might otherwise lack, bringing light to the private internal struggle exploding within each combatant.  The latter, by contrast, is extremely entertaining to watch, but loses something of its original grace when delivered via the written word.

It comes around to the same old song:  that which is visually stunning is not always passable in print.  If you're looking for the skillful fight between experienced opponents, the unnaturally orchestrated exchange of blows, then you need to take into consideration a few significant modifications to achieve the same result.

The initial trouble (and the natural lure) are the technical details.  If you have a visual imagination or find it easiest to base your scene on what you've seen, you will want to describe each move as it happens: 

The hero brings his arm back at its full length before shifting all its new-found momentum into a singular declarative strike at the chin of his reeling opponent.  The target of this concentrated malice meanwhile raises his arms in defense, cutting short the deliverance of vengeance and instead levying his own haymaker to the hero's solar plexus.

With the exception of a narrative voice that border on the obscene, the above isn't necessarily all that bad, but break it down:  this is about two seconds of action, total.  That's thirty words a second.  Compared to the rate of film doesn't seem so bad, but film also captures more than just the blow-by-blow.

To keep your fight engaging, you have to involve the environment around them.  As the fight moves to new surroundings or the elements in the room become part of the action, you have to ensure that you not only convey what the characters pick up or slam into, but that those objects were there all along.  You have to dress the scene as you go, placing Chekhov's fabled guns in each new room they enter.

More words and all the white space between now creates a second problem, this time for your reader:  the pacing will shift.  Reading "and then he totally kicked him in the junk" takes longer than watching it, if only just.  Add in even the slightest poetry to your narrative and the scene starts to stretch like so much silly putty until it becomes too thin to sustain itself.

Both issues also apply to highly technical scenes.  When describing intense operations with which the general populace isn't already intimately familiar leaves you with a lot to explain before the reader can have any hope of knowing what's going on without already being a professional in the field.

The more common examples include hacking, military operations, invention (also known as "the entire pull of the MacGuyver series"), bypassing security (or generally being a sneaky thief), piloting and nearly any mechanical operation or maintenance.

In order to truly convey the scene, you have to fill in the missing pieces in your audience's knowledge, and that means straying into the same arena as lecture material and technical manuals, neither of which are exactly flying off the shelves.  You're left with selling exclusively to those already in the field or looking for a way to convey what normally takes a six-year degree to understand in half a paragraph.

Thankfully, there are tricks to circumvent all these issues (or at least con your audience into thinking you did). 

Addressing pacing:  start by throwing out what you were taught in English class.  Formal sentence structure and big words can interrupt the flow and kill the rhythm of a fast-paced scene.  I don't care of the wounding was egregious, if your reader has to pause to fetch a thesaurus, you're generating the wrong kind of action.  Don't get flowery.  Flowers have no place in fight scenes, except when in vases hurled at people's heads.

Quick descriptions, short sentences or interwoven run-ons will keep the momentum going.  If it doesn't feel like time for a period, blow past it and keep writing.  If you reach the end of a page and the closest thing you have to ending a sentence is a misplaced semi-colon, you may way to give the reader a chance or two to breathe.  Otherwise, chain away.

As for getting the necessary additives out of the way, there's only so much you can scrunch:  without a reliable familiarity with the jargon, you can't boil down a complex process with phrases like "bubble sort" and "electroplating."  Instead, look for analogies.  Transpose the process you want to describe to something so basic (and, hopefully, poetic) that your readers can connect with it.

For those thinking it's an overdone trope, you're right, but it remains the best method for getting your meaning across without simplifying the process itself and thus risking offending the core readership (i.e. those who actually know the process you're describing).

If you're concerned with appearing unoriginal, bring it within the confines of the fourth wall and let the characters involved in making the analogy comment on it directly.  If they're just as baffled by the analogy or recognize it as a "dumbing down" of a situation the other character clearly has a handle on, it gives the reader a chance to laugh at the situation without feeling like the joke's on them.

Barring the easy solution, it's time to think about your end-game:  you want to convey to the reader that what's happening is involved, complex, difficult, challenging, fragile or similarly unattainable to those without skill and/or luck in unnaturally high quantities.

Eschew accuracy.  Look for ways to convey the same meaning without describing the technical specifics.  If you've set one of your characters up as a the resident genius or ace in a given situation, sometimes all it takes is for the other characters to be in awe of the mystery of their machinations as they work to solve the latest crisis impacting the crew.

All you have to describe is the end result, the surface evidence of their very involved underpinnings.  If you have the opportunity, mix their actions with another concurrent chain of events that can take the focus off the pilot/hacker/mechanic between their moments of effective brilliance.

Back to the original issue:  fight scenes.  When you can't squeeze, it's time to truncate.  There are dozens of moves and counter-moves in a cinematic duel because that's what it takes for quick punches and flicks of the wrist to fill a solid three minutes of film.  In a book, it doesn't take that much combat to fill the pages.

Boil it down to the major turning points.  It's rare you're going to impress someone with the mere description of a feat of skill inside a fight scene.  If they can't see it, it doesn't have the same allure.  All that matters is how close to danger their hero is that second, and how close she might be to overcoming the odds and winning out against her foe.

It all comes down to the same thing:  when it comes to writing the things that look better on screen, remove the bits you don't need in order to maintain the pace and pulse rate you're seeking.

Now if only I had a cool graphic of someone drop-kicking the word "egregious" out of the middle of a sentence, I'd be set for life.