the room and slam them shut one at a time, enjoying the stinging in my ears as each bang echoes through our tiny apartment.
David is in the living room. I know he is. I know he knows I'm mad. But, I'm not supposed to say anything. He said if we were going to make it living together, I would have to stop nagging. And I agreed.
All right, are you still with it? The same amount? More? Less? Most people are even more involved. Why? First, because the character took action against the problem. Second, because the plot "thickened," as they say. "Thickening" means the trouble gets worse, more threatening. What makes it worse is almost always another person, in this case David. Here's the next part:
Most days I could do it, not nag that is. Even if an irritable mood is out there itching to sneak up and grab me, I can push it away. But when I see every goddamn cabinet open, I lose it. I just can't take it. It drives me -mid.
All right, where are you? The same? More involved? Less? Most people are sliding away with this passage if not a good deal less involved. There's a writing reason for it, always—a craft/technique reason for every problem. Can you figure out what story technique is at issue here? How about telling? Ideas versus experience, remember? Let's go over the piece bit by bit so that you can see what's working and what's not.
"Most days I could do it, not nag that is.' "Most days"? Why is the character (author) taking us off into "most days." We don't care about most days when we're right in the middle of this day and this tense, high-energy scene. Next: "Even if an irritable mood is out there itching to sneak up and grab me, I can push it away." This again is an idea (telling), but even more abstract and intangible. It further interrupts the scene, which was unfolding so well. Last: "But when I see every goddamn cabinet open, I lose it. I just can't take it. It drives me wild." These lines are ideas, general statements that tell us what we've just seen happening with out own eyes. We've lived it, so we don't need to be told what we've just experienced.
If I were editing this piece, I would cut this passage, this telling, out. I left it in because we learn most from mistakes and from fixing them. It's important to understand that every writer does this. Every writer tells, overstates, drifts off into the abstract, points out the obvious. There's no way to prevent it, because you can't control what flows out of you without getting in the way and getting stuck or blocked. So, don't try. Just pour it on the page and then go back and rework it later. And the telling is certainly no reflection on this writer, who is doing a fine job. Here's the last of this piece:
It's worse than white Jockeys or Gold Toed socks hanging out of the dresser drawer. Just one nudge of the finger is all it takes to make everything neat. Just one nudge. But I guess that's too hard.
"David," I say as I lean against the kitchen door, arms folded in front of my chest like a shield.
He looks up from his TV chair with cool, watch-what-you-say eyes. "Yes," he says.
His eyes spook me, and a shiver trills up my back.
How was that stretch? Are you back into it? Most people are, in a major way. Why? What's going on in that stretch that wasn't before? Action again, but directed at the real cause of the problem (obstacle), at the more threatening part—the person himself.
That's all there is of this scene. But we can still work with it—not only with what's there, but with what isn't. The question is, Is it over? Of course not. Can you figure out a possible ending? It shouldn't be hard, because you have a real beginning (want + obstacle + action). When you have a real beginning, the ending almost writes itself. "The end is in the beginning" is the old writing rule. What that means is you have two forces (want + obstacle) pitted against each other. One wins, and one loses (resolution). In this case, some possible resolutions are: they split up; he
David is in the living room. I know he is. I know he knows I'm mad. But, I'm not supposed to say anything. He said if we were going to make it living together, I would have to stop nagging. And I agreed.
All right, are you still with it? The same amount? More? Less? Most people are even more involved. Why? First, because the character took action against the problem. Second, because the plot "thickened," as they say. "Thickening" means the trouble gets worse, more threatening. What makes it worse is almost always another person, in this case David. Here's the next part:
Most days I could do it, not nag that is. Even if an irritable mood is out there itching to sneak up and grab me, I can push it away. But when I see every goddamn cabinet open, I lose it. I just can't take it. It drives me -mid.
All right, where are you? The same? More involved? Less? Most people are sliding away with this passage if not a good deal less involved. There's a writing reason for it, always—a craft/technique reason for every problem. Can you figure out what story technique is at issue here? How about telling? Ideas versus experience, remember? Let's go over the piece bit by bit so that you can see what's working and what's not.
"Most days I could do it, not nag that is.' "Most days"? Why is the character (author) taking us off into "most days." We don't care about most days when we're right in the middle of this day and this tense, high-energy scene. Next: "Even if an irritable mood is out there itching to sneak up and grab me, I can push it away." This again is an idea (telling), but even more abstract and intangible. It further interrupts the scene, which was unfolding so well. Last: "But when I see every goddamn cabinet open, I lose it. I just can't take it. It drives me wild." These lines are ideas, general statements that tell us what we've just seen happening with out own eyes. We've lived it, so we don't need to be told what we've just experienced.
If I were editing this piece, I would cut this passage, this telling, out. I left it in because we learn most from mistakes and from fixing them. It's important to understand that every writer does this. Every writer tells, overstates, drifts off into the abstract, points out the obvious. There's no way to prevent it, because you can't control what flows out of you without getting in the way and getting stuck or blocked. So, don't try. Just pour it on the page and then go back and rework it later. And the telling is certainly no reflection on this writer, who is doing a fine job. Here's the last of this piece:
It's worse than white Jockeys or Gold Toed socks hanging out of the dresser drawer. Just one nudge of the finger is all it takes to make everything neat. Just one nudge. But I guess that's too hard.
"David," I say as I lean against the kitchen door, arms folded in front of my chest like a shield.
He looks up from his TV chair with cool, watch-what-you-say eyes. "Yes," he says.
His eyes spook me, and a shiver trills up my back.
How was that stretch? Are you back into it? Most people are, in a major way. Why? What's going on in that stretch that wasn't before? Action again, but directed at the real cause of the problem (obstacle), at the more threatening part—the person himself.
That's all there is of this scene. But we can still work with it—not only with what's there, but with what isn't. The question is, Is it over? Of course not. Can you figure out a possible ending? It shouldn't be hard, because you have a real beginning (want + obstacle + action). When you have a real beginning, the ending almost writes itself. "The end is in the beginning" is the old writing rule. What that means is you have two forces (want + obstacle) pitted against each other. One wins, and one loses (resolution). In this case, some possible resolutions are: they split up; he
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