Medieval Scaffolds of the Blank Page - CW@CSM 2
After having two delirious weeks, in comes Peter's coverage of structure.
This write-up is going to be far less formal (hand-outs sure are handy). Lets start here:
We must limit telling over showing. Don’t tell your will do’s, doing’s and done’s. This goes for your reader or your friends.
(We’ll circle back on this next write-up)
It’s also the last thing we might do in structuring a text. We not ought to restrict the creative flow, setting instructions that form hard stops where and when we get struck by lightning ideas.
Structure certainly connects the three do’s here: WILL DO, DOING, DONE.
When we begin writing it’s a single moment of drama, whatever the nature, and we feel inclined to continue - or go back? Where are we? Who are we? What’s this bubblegum about?
We can go headstrong into the ether of imagination still, but prolonging that state in the long term seems unfeasible. We dream to be Stephen King or Dostoevsky, though the circumstances of character are remarkable (not to mention, they planned). We cannot write On the Road (Jack Kerouac) with similar impact, Peter states. So even then, for point A reaching point B it is necessary to consider what point B is. If you want to reach point Z, brother, you’re going to have to draw that line first.
It’s here, Peter uses a George Saunders (ext. A Swim in a Pond in the Rain) line:
“A story is a linear-temporal phenomenon. It proceeds, and charms us (or doesn’t), a line at a time.”
What magic lies in Saunders’ wisdom is that we balance the congruent with flammable happenings: characters, wisdom and tone. These things shift without losing our line. A (poor-mans) example:
Ryan hates beaches because he nearly drowned at sea. He falls in love with Milly, she takes him to the beach and as Milly swims, Ryan watches nervously from the dock, and not the beach.
The linear: Point A: Ryan hates beaches Point B: Milly takes Ryan to the beach. Point C: Ryan watches Milly swim from the dock.
The temporal: Ryan, in the past, nearly died (a memory). Ryan experiences love (a feeling). Milly doesn’t know Ryan hates beaches (an unknowing), Ryan can trust a dock, but not a beach (a superstition).
What is temporal often relies on perspective, and most intriguing is the shifting sands which perspective lies. Linearity pushes us along, trotting through time. They desperately need each other.
Therefore, to become architects of story, we build structure without impeding the writing of story. When writing, the placeholders of horrors, the highs, the obscurities, the every day and idiosyncratic become real. It’s not real until its on press, Peter says. So structure - partly the treadmill of character, partly saunter of action.
That Medieval Scaffolding Metaphor
Awfully long-winded introduction. Let’s get into the neato metaphor Peter uses. First, an example:
Pictured above is a doodle and some beginning questions to the story I’d like to write. I’m beginning with questions, some prompts and metaphors. I’m no structure maestro, except I know I can return here, page one in my sketchbook, and remember why I’d like to write this work.
Barring questions, you might begin with character (much easier if its you, or you adjacent). Who is this your writing about? It doesn’t have to be permanent. Start with plot! In simple sentences, outline what happens. Questions and character might unfold from there.
Everything stated here is Bones. Structure is a skeleton, it’s your Franken-story before the lightning - that’s your creativity as you write.
Structure is outside the house we call ‘writing’. We need quick and adaptable scaffolds to reach the heights of climax, tension and scene. We need congruent facts, fears, places and faces that know what they mean without saying what they mean.
Medieval Scaffolds are rope and wooden planks. Light and durable, knotted in a jiffy to reach such heights. They support the building (the writing). That’s the medieval scaffolds metaphor.
Architecture of Action
I’m choosing not to extrapolate. There’s still a ways to go. Here’s the handout:
Ed Stern’s Architecture of Action details instances that provoke good story. We can armor ourselves through the story by taking account of these in structural work. I’d argue these are not all necessary elements. Not every great novella has to feature overt CRISIS, or may choose not to use PROTAGONISTS, opting for perspectives.
What matters is Sterns Architecture is deeply investigated where it aids you - establishing these nodes will no doubt ease you into writing.
That’s sort of it. So in a roundabout conclusion now:
Nothing is really ‘in’ until you write it in, so if its in your notes, it’s not real! But at least you’ve thought about it. It’s handy to track the definitive characteristics, to interrogate the purpose of writing, or scribble a funny flaw in your lead character. It’s there to support you as you build your house.