Scenes, Parts, Chapters.
Jul. 7th, 2008 11:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lenora_roseAs part of a critique for a friend, looking for a pithy one-word definition for one particular writing flaw, I ended up sifting through a lot of old posts by multiple people about writing theory.
One of these, papersky's "What is a chapter?" caused me to realise one thing about my own process.
I don't think in chapters. I pretty much can't.
She does, to the point where she's unconsciously absorbed a given length for a chapter to be. (About 3k). Others have talked chapter structure in strong and minute detail (And reasonable lengths seem to range from 1.5/2k up to 6k or 7 if it's a climactic chapter or a reversal).
Mostly, I think and plan my novel structure in two formats: in scenes, and in parts. Chapters come after the fact, when I decide that this cluster of scenes work together, and the break point works best *there*.
Scenes are not chapters; it may chance that this time, the two structures match, but the next time, they totally do not. But chapters feel to me, when I try to analyze them, like a solid frame, the skeleton structure of a building or, well, a skeleton. A scene is best defined as a single ongoing action that either clearly defines or clearly alters some aspect of a story, ending usually where that action is either completely defined (Until it gets altered in a later scene), or completely altered. It's not a skeleton; it has all its own muscle and sinew and veins and skin already in place. It's a movement of a part of a larger body. Nice, and put together with others, it makes a whole, but you can't get there from framework. X and Y sneak up on an enemy site, and get a bunch of assumptions shaken. Y and Z are swordfighting while A and B are talking, and we get to see B's reaction to something really incongruous in the fight that the fighters themselves missed. Scenes range from 1000 words to 10,000. Or possibly more. (I have one that's not only about 13k, it's the only scene in that *part*. It's that big and that unified. That would be about four chapters for Ms. Walton, and two or three for me.) The characters go in one side, emerge from the other newly scathed.
Parts are different. Each part encloses a long strip of action or time that is distinct from the parts before or after it by one of several means; point of view, geographic location. Time passage. But each one tends to end with a major, visible turning point in the story. A fire door, as Jim MacDonald describes them, where nobody can go back once they've stepped through; or, if they try, have to go another route, a long way around, with plenty of chances to get sidetracked or kidnapped. A major set piece of a very particular kind. Scenes can involve little set pieces; a conversation that reveals character and shows you something about the culture and setting. Parts end on the big notes. The enemy's true face is revealed. War is declared. Someone is teleported to a whole new world.
If these are short enough to be chapters, you're doing something very wrong. One would exhaust readers having those kinds of peaks often enough to call them chapters.
Usually there are three to five of these per book, at least if the book has a traditional pattern, like rising action, three act, or five act structure. (With certain kinds of series books, divided by publisher's whim or by long-range planning or artificial bloating, all bets are off). More if it's longer. The Serpent Prince had four, but is starting to look like it rather suddenly grew a fifth. (Since the third is a major centrepiece, this is probably a good thing; five parts puts the centrepiece back in the centre). Bird of Dusk I think has seven, but it's hard to count on an unfinished project. Another indicator of how scary long and complex Raising the Storm got is that it has eleven.
The thing I find about both these definitions is that they're not about word count, or structure in the usual sense. They do make the shape of the story, but it's a nebulous kind of shape, a series of clouds, obviously all the same kind in the same stretch of atmosphere, blown by the same wind, but that one begins to look like a stampeding horse, and that one's an angel.
Jim MacDonald has said at least one of his series, he can draw the structure as a specific celtic knot, it's that firm. Mine could never be that straightforward; sometimes I could almost say it's a series of slide images. Other times, one's an image, the next is a song, the next is the sudden yelping sear when you stick your hand over a candle.
But everyone expects chapters, so after the fact, I go in, and I choose clusters of scenes to link together. Sometimes I'm even proud of the results. Other times it's just a mechanical exercise. Yet other times, I have orphan scenes, that sit between chapters and demand to be called interludes, or something else, to explain why they're so different. Does this scene end on enough of a mini-peak to count as a good chapter close? The next one starts with a lot less tension, and chapter breaks are good for warning people they've moved from a peak of tension to a trough.
Anyhow, I've been thinking a fair bit about what it means that I insist on using these organic, complex structures when I think about my story shapes, and can't use stiffer, stronger, more traditional formats, even though they should be familiar from a sufficiency of reading. Whether it's a positive thing I should exploit (Write chapterless books like non-YA Discworld?), a negative thing I should overcome (people seem to like geometrics and less-organic celtic knots and strong patterns) or just a thing.
Or maybe I'm using it as an excuse not to think about the scene that I just tried to write and fell flat. The writing was doing very well up until then, both new scenes and retreads, but this one, a key turning point and close to the end-point of this particular "part", won't gel.
Partly, it seems, because this draft took a sharp turn after the centrepiece. Odd; all the same things happen, if in a marginally different chronological order. But the consequences are going explosive. This is good; most of the disaster is going to be directly the fault of the protagonist, instead of the fecal matter only chancing to slap into him after it hit the rotating blades. He's practically picking it up and throwing it.
But this scene doesn't want to work to make that happen. The character with two obvious motivations doesn't seem to want to work with either of them. The structure is too repetitive, and not in the good way. Nobody seems to be remotely doing what they should be doing, or even screwing up in the right ways. (I'm getting quite fond of seeing my good guys screw up in all the right ways, with the best intentions in the world.)
Ah, well, I thought I should take other projects with me to Folk Fest on the Dana, in hopes this scene will let go if I give it a little time. I'm debating between two or three other entirely random projects. All novel length. So the question ends up; virtually universally bisexual and insane fox people, or snarky teenaged gods, or Diana Wynne Jones/Jim Henson pastiche?
Or scrap it all and try to redo the scene from scratch.
Sigh.
One of these, papersky's "What is a chapter?" caused me to realise one thing about my own process.
I don't think in chapters. I pretty much can't.
She does, to the point where she's unconsciously absorbed a given length for a chapter to be. (About 3k). Others have talked chapter structure in strong and minute detail (And reasonable lengths seem to range from 1.5/2k up to 6k or 7 if it's a climactic chapter or a reversal).
Mostly, I think and plan my novel structure in two formats: in scenes, and in parts. Chapters come after the fact, when I decide that this cluster of scenes work together, and the break point works best *there*.
Scenes are not chapters; it may chance that this time, the two structures match, but the next time, they totally do not. But chapters feel to me, when I try to analyze them, like a solid frame, the skeleton structure of a building or, well, a skeleton. A scene is best defined as a single ongoing action that either clearly defines or clearly alters some aspect of a story, ending usually where that action is either completely defined (Until it gets altered in a later scene), or completely altered. It's not a skeleton; it has all its own muscle and sinew and veins and skin already in place. It's a movement of a part of a larger body. Nice, and put together with others, it makes a whole, but you can't get there from framework. X and Y sneak up on an enemy site, and get a bunch of assumptions shaken. Y and Z are swordfighting while A and B are talking, and we get to see B's reaction to something really incongruous in the fight that the fighters themselves missed. Scenes range from 1000 words to 10,000. Or possibly more. (I have one that's not only about 13k, it's the only scene in that *part*. It's that big and that unified. That would be about four chapters for Ms. Walton, and two or three for me.) The characters go in one side, emerge from the other newly scathed.
Parts are different. Each part encloses a long strip of action or time that is distinct from the parts before or after it by one of several means; point of view, geographic location. Time passage. But each one tends to end with a major, visible turning point in the story. A fire door, as Jim MacDonald describes them, where nobody can go back once they've stepped through; or, if they try, have to go another route, a long way around, with plenty of chances to get sidetracked or kidnapped. A major set piece of a very particular kind. Scenes can involve little set pieces; a conversation that reveals character and shows you something about the culture and setting. Parts end on the big notes. The enemy's true face is revealed. War is declared. Someone is teleported to a whole new world.
If these are short enough to be chapters, you're doing something very wrong. One would exhaust readers having those kinds of peaks often enough to call them chapters.
Usually there are three to five of these per book, at least if the book has a traditional pattern, like rising action, three act, or five act structure. (With certain kinds of series books, divided by publisher's whim or by long-range planning or artificial bloating, all bets are off). More if it's longer. The Serpent Prince had four, but is starting to look like it rather suddenly grew a fifth. (Since the third is a major centrepiece, this is probably a good thing; five parts puts the centrepiece back in the centre). Bird of Dusk I think has seven, but it's hard to count on an unfinished project. Another indicator of how scary long and complex Raising the Storm got is that it has eleven.
The thing I find about both these definitions is that they're not about word count, or structure in the usual sense. They do make the shape of the story, but it's a nebulous kind of shape, a series of clouds, obviously all the same kind in the same stretch of atmosphere, blown by the same wind, but that one begins to look like a stampeding horse, and that one's an angel.
Jim MacDonald has said at least one of his series, he can draw the structure as a specific celtic knot, it's that firm. Mine could never be that straightforward; sometimes I could almost say it's a series of slide images. Other times, one's an image, the next is a song, the next is the sudden yelping sear when you stick your hand over a candle.
But everyone expects chapters, so after the fact, I go in, and I choose clusters of scenes to link together. Sometimes I'm even proud of the results. Other times it's just a mechanical exercise. Yet other times, I have orphan scenes, that sit between chapters and demand to be called interludes, or something else, to explain why they're so different. Does this scene end on enough of a mini-peak to count as a good chapter close? The next one starts with a lot less tension, and chapter breaks are good for warning people they've moved from a peak of tension to a trough.
Anyhow, I've been thinking a fair bit about what it means that I insist on using these organic, complex structures when I think about my story shapes, and can't use stiffer, stronger, more traditional formats, even though they should be familiar from a sufficiency of reading. Whether it's a positive thing I should exploit (Write chapterless books like non-YA Discworld?), a negative thing I should overcome (people seem to like geometrics and less-organic celtic knots and strong patterns) or just a thing.
Or maybe I'm using it as an excuse not to think about the scene that I just tried to write and fell flat. The writing was doing very well up until then, both new scenes and retreads, but this one, a key turning point and close to the end-point of this particular "part", won't gel.
Partly, it seems, because this draft took a sharp turn after the centrepiece. Odd; all the same things happen, if in a marginally different chronological order. But the consequences are going explosive. This is good; most of the disaster is going to be directly the fault of the protagonist, instead of the fecal matter only chancing to slap into him after it hit the rotating blades. He's practically picking it up and throwing it.
But this scene doesn't want to work to make that happen. The character with two obvious motivations doesn't seem to want to work with either of them. The structure is too repetitive, and not in the good way. Nobody seems to be remotely doing what they should be doing, or even screwing up in the right ways. (I'm getting quite fond of seeing my good guys screw up in all the right ways, with the best intentions in the world.)
Ah, well, I thought I should take other projects with me to Folk Fest on the Dana, in hopes this scene will let go if I give it a little time. I'm debating between two or three other entirely random projects. All novel length. So the question ends up; virtually universally bisexual and insane fox people, or snarky teenaged gods, or Diana Wynne Jones/Jim Henson pastiche?
Or scrap it all and try to redo the scene from scratch.
Sigh.
