Posts by mindfulwriter

Hippy, book-loving aspiring author, with years of writing experience under her belt, and two or three words of wisdom to share. Obsessed with the seventies, meditation and reading. Convinced that the particular trio of obsessions is the key to writing success. Or maybe not. It's a trial-and-error kind of path.

The Only Thing That Ever Made Sense To You

 

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I have not yet emerged and you don’t know my name. On October 2017 I joined a freelancing platform to try and earn some money but they said no. They were ever so sorry to inform me that the platform was saturated with writing services and that I should try and get skilled in something more sought-after, like rocket science, and return when I’ve mastered the skill.

Sure enough, I have considered taking six months to learn basics in Java and re-introduce myself to the world as a sought-after specimen. As a programmer, I would be able to eat takeaway Chinese every day and, in the privacy of my own bathroom, take shits that, in the marketplace, are worth infinitely more than 20 freelance writers and all their experience combined. You bet I want to know how that feels.

Similar thoughts have probably crept into your reality if you have writing aspirations.  Some of you might even have gone with them and now have actual marketable skills. If that’s the case, there are a few things I would like to ask:

How do you feel?

Are you satisfied?

Fulfilled?

True to yourself?

Self-actualized?

Is the existential crisis finding a pathway to your dreams?

I’m asking for a friend.

Because…

Because I have come to believe that the excitement of shitting gold wears off quickly.

There were many things that I couldn’t imagine myself doing just a year ago. One of those things was learning Java. The other was writing and sending out the most personal of essays to publications. In those writings I was giving myself in ways I did not think possible – but there’s a difference between these particular difficulties- between learning programming and learning how to give myself.

If you have writing aspirations, you are equipped to fight off the demons that programmers aren’t. If you are a programmer, you are equipped to fight off the ghastly creatures that writers can’t even look in the eye.

If you are a writer, you know where those demons lie – and it’s not in the lines upon lines of a Java code. They lie in the endless rejection letters and e-mails, blank pages, clunky syntax, and abstract rules about the appropriate levels of verbosity. You know this. You’ve known it ever since you could read, ever since you could write. You’ve had this confirmed every time the classroom clapped when you’ve read your essay, every time you’ve won a writing contest in school, every time you got an assignment and disappeared for hours into a state of otherworldly concentration where you forgot to breathe.

In maths, so much attention was placed on the rules. They were carefully laid out, you were given tasks upon tasks to ensure you understood them, and yet, you understood nothing. In your free essay subjects, however, you had no rules. You learned next to nothing about where the topic sentences go, what a thesis statement is, what a leading idea is, what an outline is and yet – you somehow knew. 

There was this entire etherial world you were connected to without being taught a thing. Like a wizard, you were communicating with a source of information unavailable to other humans. And that’s a clue. If it wasn’t then, it should be now. Abandoning that world that has unselfishly chosen you, that is throwing itself at you, is a waste. It’s a travesty. It’s alienation from self. And it’s a recipe for a disastrous life.

Much of what I do is confusing and ends in failure. I burn lunch. I can’t do accounting. I get lost in a town I’ve lived in since birth. I freeze during conversations. Java makes no sense. Marketing makes no sense whatsoever. But somehow, somehow when I write about all those things I fail to understand, everything falls into place. When I arrange argument after argument and elaborate on them – I begin to understand them. When information is stacked so neatly the world is a cohesive place. And when I fail to explain the world to myself like that – everything falls apart.

I’m not saying abandon everything in order to write. Hey, homelessness is a rational fear to have after all. But losing your grip on the world is too. Because, some people think in numbers, some in images, and you know full well that you think in topic sentences and character arcs and plot points. And once you’ve denied yourself this mode of thinking, this mode of making the world a cohesive place to inhabit, the next stage, I fear,  is what Joan Didion calls the final turn of the screw, where one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

 Because, I feel, the world stops making sense once you’ve abandoned the only thing that ever made sense to you.

 

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4 Ways To Implement Symbolism Into Your Novel

Meditation has had many great effects on my writing process. In fact, you can read about one of the epiphanies it caused here.

Now, I’m not here to rush you into the lotus position and tell you that making your mind into an actual metaphor for you biggest fear – the blank page is something that you need to do straight away, but I will  tell you that what happens in a state of meditation is straight-up creative enlightenment and you can only do yourself a favor by trying it. But if you are one of those people that will go: Oh, but meditation is hard and it takes time and I want to get my creative juices flowing right about now because I have a job and deadlines and seven mouths to feed – fret not! There is another state of mind which can help you, and it’s the one you (hopefully) visit very often.

Think back to the wildest dream you had and the events in it. Were they cohesive? Could you understand them on a conscious level? The answer to this question may very well be that it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you felt them. Yes, you guessed it! I’m talking about dreams.

You need to grip your readers in a way a vivid dream or a nightmare grips you. And you do that by communicating with them in the same way you dreams communicate with you. This means that there is a dimension of your novel that you make your readers experience the same way you experience a dream: subconsciously. And you do that by implementing the language of the subconscious: the symbol.

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Whether it’s a metaphor or an archetype, there are only so many ways in which they can manifest in a story. In hopes it will help you, here is a list of 4 ways to implement symbolism into your novel.

1) Symbolic Action

Body language can be used to symbolize character’s emotions in a show-don’t-tell kind of manner.

Imagine a dystopian story where our protagonist is a ballerina. She wakes up in the middle of a war and, instead of going to a ballet class, has to go fight off the bad guys. As you can imagine, this kind of stuff doesn’t come naturally to her, and you have to show that in some way. How do you do that?

The idea is that you don’t just plainly tell your readers that she’s ill-equipped to fire a shotgun, you make an entire visual metaphor to showcase that. Maybe she’s walking whilst holding a shotgun over her shoulder. She looks badass until she starts going down the stairs and gently tiptoes and hops downward. There is a clear contrast in that scene and while your readers won’t get that on a conscious level, they will feel something. They will sense the oddity and the contrast. This is exactly how you want your readers to react to the symbol.

In this exercise it is important not to spoon-feed and hit your audience over the head with the meaning – you must remain subtle. No reader will sit there and think: Wow, this writer has a brilliant grip on their symbolism, I like how they showcase the character’s reservations towards war in this subtle scene. You might think that this is a reaction you want, but it’s not. Your reader feeling that and internalizing that information subconsciously is what you want. Because now you’ve got their attention on a subconscious level. So don’t be afraid that they won’t get it- they will.

2) Object Symbol

Object is probably what most people think of when we mention symbol implementation. It’s the rose that symbolizes the War of the Roses, or a Coat of Arms that symbolizes aspects of a Nation. Object in a contextual way is, however, a little bit different. Anything might mean something else depending on the character.

For example, for our dystopian hero ballet shoes might at first symbolize innocence and passion. But at a different stage of a novel, the symbol might turn ugly for our hero. After she looses her family and her country to a war it might symbolize a life she once had and can never return to. It can be a ruminant of what she once was- gentle and care-free. But it can also symbolize weakness that she came to despise, now that she’s become a veteran with a shotgun and a substantial body-count under her belt.

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In this example from Breaking Bad, Walter White is looking at a painting he sees a few more times through the show. What’s important here is that he sees it after waking up in a hospital. It’s a picture of a man saying goodbye to his family and it showcases all the relevant emotions Walter is feeling in the midst of his battle with cancer. Showing just a glimpse of this painting in a crucial moment like this is an example of brilliant and subtle symbol-implementation and you should all hail our god Vince Gilligan (and take a few notes from him).

3) Symbolic Atmosphere

The atmosphere is a bit more complex than the previous two as it can include both an object and an action symbol in it. There really are 5 things that make an atmospheric symbol: weather, place, lighting, object and/or action symbols.

Our ballerina is walking in the woods late at night, and she goes by a moonlit lake to throw her ballet shoes in it. The rest of the woods is dark, only lit parts being the lake and the ballet shoes. If we examine this scene we see an action symbol – throwing away of the shoes, we have the shoes themselves as an object symbol, and also the light that does its job – putting our hero in the darkness and lighting only the symbol of innocence that she is trying to get rid of.

4) Lucid Scenery

Lucid scenery can be a dream or any kind of hallucination or a vision bestowed upon your character. Just like the atmosphere, scenery can include any of the above symbols in it.

For example, our ballerina is dreaming of walking in the cold and dark woods at night (weather, light). Her ballet shoes are hanging from a tree (object) and she is pacing timidly towards a battle happening within walking distance. Her ballet shoes are moonlit and she can see them clearly. But, the shadow starts moving and her shoes are being slowly swallowed by darkness. The more the darkness swallows her shoes, the more determined her steps become as she is approaching the battle until, finally, the shoes can no longer be seen, and she runs towards the battle as determined as ever.

 

This showcases the gradual disappearance of her innocence and her changing as a person with regards to that. The less of her innocence is left, the more of her bloodlust is present.

What’s very fun about lucid scenery is that you can go wild. You can have the ballet shoes float in the air, the moon smiling or crying, the trees talking. Whichever feeling you want to communicate you can do so without limitations in a kind of allegory.

I hope that you understand now why symbolism matters and have understood the means of communicating it. If you feel that you have gained any kind of practical knowledge about implementing the symbol I feel like I’ve done my job. If you have any additional and/or contrary thoughts feel free to comment below – I would love to hear them! Also, if there is any particular topic you wish for me to cover I’d gladly hear it out.

Anatomy of a Good Book Ending

I had this friend that I was frightened of up until I grew as a person (started meditating). The reason she scared me and why I needed growth (meditation) to connect with her was the intense approach she had to socialization. You see, that friend, let’s call her Madeline, never liked small talk. The ramification of this was the absolute lack of conversational foreplay and an immediate cut to the How’s your sex life part of the tête-à-tête. But now, I like to think I understand her. She never really wanted to know what was happening to me or what I was doing, but what kind of person I was at the given time. She wasn’t interested in the surface of goings-on in my life, which usually make up the small talk, but in the mechanisms behind the scenes that create that surface. It was Madeline (and meditation) that made me look at the deeper layer of the plot and, as a result, inspect the anatomy of a good book ending.

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Layer 2: Externals of a Book Ending

I see a problem when I google for the book ending advice. It’s not so much that it’s wrong, but that it gives only half the story, the surface of the journey. When people tell you that you should avoid Deus ex machina or that a plot twist might be a good idea, they’re talking about the Layer 2 of the story.

Imagine a tale about a mother, named Dorothy, trying to bring her son, David, a lunch box which he forgot to take to school. The whole plot is about the mishaps and obstacles she faces in this endeavor. The taxi won’t pick her up, she loses the box, she stops to buy something else to bring him etc. In the end, she manages to meet David and give him the lunch, therefore reaching the external objective of the plot. Here’s a…graph (?) illustrating what her journey might look like:

Layer 1 graph

(I made it in paint because I’m inbred)

This is all well and good, but it doesn’t tell Dorothy’s full story.  Jumping straight to the second layer is problematic because the second layer stems from the first one. It is completely based on it. And when we work our way around this foundation we end up with a structure that might crumble. This story is not about an eventful day of a mother, not really. No story is about events, every story is about people and what drove them to those events. And this is what we get to know from the first layer, the one no-one ever talks about.

Layer 1: The Anatomy of a Good Book Ending

Layer one of the story is the depth that makes the atmosphere, the sentiment, every decision, every bit of body language. It’s the threads and the fabric that make the universe, it’s the heartbeat and the engine and the mechanism under the skin. Everything but the first layer is just polishing the surface that stemmed from it. Unlike external plot, this dimension of the story is obligatory. This is where the character arc comes full circle. This part has to be dynamic otherwise the story didn’t need to be told. When you’ve got layer one down, when you’ve got the engines running smoothly the book writes itself. When the foundation is solid the surface falls into place.

Imagine Dorothy never reaches her son to give him lunch. She sets off on her journey but has a few encounters that make note on how David is seventeen and he can take care of himself and his mother coming to school to bring him lunch won’t look good. So she goes home while her morning tea is still hot, returning to the starting point of the plot and the story ends. In this example the external goal of the plot was not reached but the character arc went full circle.

Layer 2 graph

(This ‘graph’ is an example of a custom DIY content you won’t get anywhere else. Fortunately.)

Necessity of External Movement

The thing that bugs me the most when seeing all the advice focusing on the second layer is that you don’t even need a second layer. Look at this completely accurate and well-put together graph on the internal and external movement of Kafka’s Metamorphosis:

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Okay, maybe I wasn’t fair, I should have put a little fall for when he goes from laying in bed to falling off the bed, that’s technically a movement. But you get what I’m  saying. And no, the internal layer is not an accurate display of his emotional journey, this is just for description’s sake. The point is, external movement is virtually non-existent. And this is the downfall of all the advice focusing on the second layer of the plot: Everyone is giving tips on how to structure a good ending by telling you to do something that is completely optional.

I say, don’t look at your story in plot points and twists, look at it in layers. There isn’t really a characterization or a plot segment of the novel-crafting – they’re the exact same thing. Characterization is the plot, just a different layer of it. Before the final full stop, don’t ask yourself where should your character end up. Ask what has your character become. Don’t ask yourself whether you should include a Deus ex machina or have the protagonist save the day, ask how their sex life is doing instead. And that just might answer your question.

 

The Point of No Return Is Not a Plot Essential

One of my favorite past-times is browsing the web for writing advice. It’s a nice way to procrastinate whilst feeling productive (I know you know what I’m talking about, I see you there). When it comes to tips and tricks editors are a go-to. They have been of immense help to me on my writing journey, so much more so than accomplished authors themselves.

There is, however, a particular piece of advice that always unnerved me. The point of no return has been proclaimed a plot essential by every single editor I came across, and I just can’t help but disagree.

 What Is the Point of No Return?

If you’re an aspiring writer you’ve probably heard about it but, just in case you haven’t, here is, verbatim, a definition taken from an Oxford dictionary:

The point of no return is the point in a journey or enterprise at which it becomes essential or more practical to continue to the end instead of returning to the point of departure.

What this translates into in storytelling is:

  • There must come a plot point at which your hero can no longer physically return to the point at which they started.

Or:

  • There must come a plot point at which your hero decides it is no longer practical or in their interests to go back to the point from which they started, and they can achieve more by moving forward.

Or:

  • There must come a plot point at which the stakes are so high for a hero that, even if they’re willing and able to go back, a huge loss is inevitable if they do (The hero opened the door to get the princess but saw an invincible dragon guarding her. He had an option to flee, go back home, make a cup of tea and let it all blow over. But the princess has been previously set up as a high stake and therefore it is not practical for him to go back).

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So, why do editors like this PONR stuff so much? Why do they insist on it? Well, it’s because they want to avoid the reader asking one simple question. They want to avoid the dreaded –Why don’t they just go back- line. The premise is: If the readers find themselves asking this question this means the story is boring. If at every turn the main character has the option to go back to the point of departure the story is not exciting. It’s simple, right? If we just insert PONR at various intervals in the story that question would not be asked.

So, why do I think that the point of no return is not a plot essential then? It’s because I think that why don’t they just go back is not a bad question. I believe that the whole premise the point of no return is based on is wrong, and the reason for me thinking that is a little something called the sunk cost fallacy.

The sunk cost fallacy is a cognitive bias which keeps people engaged in endeavors bad and unprofitable for them simply because they’ve already invested time and resources in those endeavors. It is a fallacy present in gamblers in which, after a winning streak, they keep gambling rather than withdrawing their winnings and walking away.

Think about it. The hero manages to save the princess while leaving the dragon unharmed. He has the option to take her home and live happily ever after. But, it just so happens that the dragon is guarding a golden egg that would make him crazy rich. So, instead of walking away with the princess, he remains engaged in a dangerous situation risking losing both his life and the princess. Why? Because he’s greedy. Because of his character flaw.

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The sunk cost fallacy contradicts the point of no return and it seems as though they cannot co-exist. This means that while building your story you have to choose one. And my advice would be to choose the sunk cost. The main reason for this option would be far superior character development. The protagonist has the option to go back at every turn, every plot point, every second of the story but they choose not to. This makes their obstacle internal and on going. There is a difference, you must admit, between making a bad decision once and making bad decisions constantly one after another. That makes their character flaw that much more of a plot-driver and this is what you want, this is what you always want.

And before you start worrying about boring your readers because they asked the why don’t they just go back question, think back to Breaking Bad and the fact that Walter White had the chance to stop making drugs at every single point in the show. Think back to any gambling movie where you just knew that a winning streak had to end badly. You were yelling at the screen, weren’t you? You wanted them to withdraw their winnings and go home before they lose it all. And, tell me something, while you were sitting there yelling at the characters to just go back – were you bored?