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Written by Elizabeth Genco
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Tuesday, 14 June 2005 |
Your readers expect big story payoffs for their money and time. If you don't perform, you may find yourself out of a job.
So, like most creative people, I do my time working for the Man when I'm not writing. It's got its ups and downs, like anything else. I rejoice on some days and curse it on others. Regardless of how I feel on a given day, I get up in the morning (and sometimes in the middle of the night -- it's one of those kinds of gigs) and get to work. I work hard. Then I get a paycheck.
Now, I don't need to belabor the reasons behind this common scenario. I'm really lucky on the employment score, actually. I get a lot more than a paycheck out of the deal.
But let me ask you something: how do you think the situation would change if there was no paycheck?
Right.
Now let's turn to stories. How do you feel when you've devoted minutes or hours of time to a tale, only to get to the end and discover that there's nothing to collect? That's time you'll never get back, remember.
Right.
The comparison of a story's payoff to a day job's paycheck is cynical, sure. But let's face it: reading some of today's stories, especially in the comics form, feels like work. Even when it doesn't, I'm still giving the creators the most precious resource that I have, hands down: my time. You know, like work.
Giving away my time for free really, really pisses me off.
Have you noticed that nothing comes for free? One of the basic rules of human interaction is the expectation of exchange. You do something for me and expect to get something back. What, you're telling me that you do things sans expectations? Be honest with yourself for a minute. Sure, I'm generalizing, but I'm not out to lunch. Exchange is expected, even when the terms aren't stated up front. It's part of human nature.
Ergo, when I spend my time reading a story, an unwritten contract is formed. I spend the time, your story scares up the pleasing endorphins that only good narrative can. Break that contract, and we won't be doing business any more. And I'll probably tell all my friends not to do business with you, either. Because giving my time away for free really pisses me off.
I've learned that good writers understand their unwritten contractual obligations. They count on it. And they bust their chops to deliver.
A sub-clause of the writer's contract is the delivery of a smart, solid ending that pays big dividends. That's a given. But the job is actually harder than that. To keep readers in love with you (or at the very least, turning pages) you'll have payoffs scattered at well-chosen, discrete intervals throughout your story. Bypass that and readers will probably put your book down. I'm guessing it's because they don't like giving their time away for free, either.
That said, if by some miraculous chance you've managed to keep a reader going despite a dearth of intermittent payoffs, a big finish can save your ass -- if it's really good. A couple of days ago I read the first issue of a new series by a writer whose work I really want to like (don't ask). I was bored stiff, but kept at it. The ending came out of nowhere; it was clever and solid. I forgave the writer. Almost.
So how do you deliver a good payoff, or seven? I have a few suggestions, straight from my own practice. They're fairly obvious.
One, have someone else read the damn thing and give you their honest opinion.
You do have beta readers, don't you?
Beta readers are the subject of a future column. Here's a preview: get some. You're not a genius, you need a second opinion. A trusted opinion, that is. Perhaps a third or fourth (if they're trusted).
Two, payoffs are all about story structure. You should know story structure like the back of your hand. My strategy on the story structure tip has been to study it like a grumpy academic, then practice by writing a lot of crap that nobody (except my beta readers -- cha!) will ever see. That might not be your deal, but your goal should be the same: a story structure muscle so tight, it'll perform without you having to think about it. Much.
[There are lots of books that'll teach you basic structure, and I'm sure you've heard them namechecked a dozen times before if you're reading a column like this. You'll also have to consume stories by the bushel, then take them apart so that you can see the structure up close. But that's for another column, too.]
Three, plan ahead. Now, sometimes this isn't always possible. A few years ago, one of my favorite writers had a series that was yanked out from under him in the middle of a storyline. He had to wrap the whole thing up in one issue or something. There was no way that he could have woven in all those loose ends neatly (knitting metaphor, sorry) in his remaining pages -- there are laws of physics, after all. But when the situation is totally under your control, it behooves you to have at least some sense of direction. Case in point: remember the X-FILES? Is it just me, or was that whole conspiracy macro plot written by the seat of some collective pants? It sure as hell came off that way. I lost patience sometime during season five. (Incidentally, for me to stick it out that long is really saying something.)
On the topic of "to wing it, or not to wing it", most professional writers I've talked to tell me that they at least have the beginning and the ending of their tale in mind, even if they have no idea how to get there. In general, I don't advocate writing a story (well, something that's not an exercise or exploration, anyway) without knowing at least something about where you're headed, even if winging it is your style.
Unless, of course, you write your greatest endings by accident. Then, by all means, run with it. I'm not here to tell you what to do, only to share what I've picked up thus far. And, like an employee, I really don't care how you pay up in the end.
I only care that you do.
Elizabeth Genco juggles a dozen writing projects in Brooklyn, New York. She lives in mortal fear of letting her readers down. |
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