Erin Thomas

So I read the other day on Twitter that the world is ending this weekend. And really, if the world were ending, where else would you find out about it? If you can’t trust Twitter, what can you trust?

It reminded me of the last time I heard about the world ending. This happened a little over ten years ago, back when I was a technical writer for a software company. You’ll think I’m talking about the Y2K crisis; I’m not, although I do remember the panic around that. The software company made more than a little money off of Y2K projects.

But no. This is something different.

The company was small enough that we shared office space with another software company. And one of their senior consultants (we’ll call him Bob; plenty of Bobs in this world) was sure that the world was going to end on May 5 (the Cinco de Mayo) of the year 2000.

This was something out of the Mayan calendar. And something to do with the planets all lining up on the opposite side of the sun from the Earth. I didn’t quite follow all of what he said, but I gathered that major tectonic shifts and world-ending weather anomalies were expected.

Bob was a smart guy. Scientific, well spoken, successful. He had a lovely wife and three or four bright, well-behaved kids. And also, he had planned his life around the coming apocalypse.

I hesitate to consider whether the three or four kids were part of the plan, but he had studied local fault lines and predicted the likely outcomes of earthquakes before buying the property where his house was built. Out in the country, of course. I believe that there was some kind of fallout shelter involved, well stocked with water and canned goods. The family was as self-sufficient as possible, at that time, as far as water supply and electricity; they had the land, if not the time, to grow their own vegetables. He was ready for disaster, and he talked openly about it.

Had he not fixed a date to the disaster, he would have been prudent. Environmentally friendly, even. But he had a specific date in mind. He knew when, and how, the world would end, and that was the driving force behind many, if not all, of his actions. And that made him interesting. Weird, but interesting.

I was reading something recently about how characters need to have a passion. I believe it. We’re drawn to people who are different, who are passionate, who are motivated. Action is interesting. If Bob had just talked about the world ending and not done anything about it, I probably wouldn’t remember him nearly so well.

So there are a couple of things I want to point out here, from a character development point of view.

1. I know he really believed the world was ending, because he took action accordingly. He didn’t just pay it lip service. He didn’t just think about it. He acted. Makes me want to look at my characters and make sure that, right or wrong, they’re acting on their convictions.

2. The fact that he was wrong didn’t make his conviction any less interesting. In fact, it made it more so. So the take-away there is that it’s okay if your character is barking up the wrong tree, as long as he has a reason for it. And honestly, the more I see him act on it, the less convincing I need that his reasons are valid. I know that he thinks they’re valid, and that carries a lot of weight.

3. Bob was not a paranoid, shelter-building recluse. He was a senior consultant. Good with clients. Friendly. Respected. Extremely intelligent. Which is another reason why he sticks in my memory, and the stereotypical guy on the street corner with a sign that says “the end is near” gets forgotten. Contrast is good.

May the 5th fell on a Friday that year. I think he was off-site, or at least not in the office that Friday. Because I remember the following Monday, the 8th, as being the awkward day. What do you say? “Good morning, Bob. Nice weather we’re having, eh? And hey, look — we still have weather!” Smile.

I think we left it at “Good morning, Bob.” Or at least, I did. I can’t speak for the guys in the stockroom. They were their own sorts of characters, and acted on their own convictions.

It seems to me that as writers, we could do worse than push our characters outside the norm and let them act on their convictions. Let them be different. Let them be weird. Let them be right, or take a real risk and let them be wrong. Let them follow their beliefs and fall on their faces doing it. And learn from it, or not. Either way, it will make them memorable.

P.S. You may gather from this post that I don’t believe the world is any more likely to end this weekend than at any other time. I’m not an expert in these matters, but it has been my experience that apocalyptic events rarely run on schedule. But if it were ending?

I’d want to write. Maybe read a little. Spend time outdoors, spend time with my family. So that’s what I’m going to do. How about you?

I spent last weekend at a Screenwriters’ Summit in Toronto, with fellow children’s writers Lena Coakley, Cheryl Rainfield, Karen Krossing, Jennifer Gordon and Urve Tamberg. My brain is still on overload. But I learned stuff. Oh, yes, I learned stuff. (No, I wasn’t just there for the movie clips.)

The speakers: Syd Field. John Truby. Linda Seger. Michael Hauge. I felt like I was meeting my movie stars. It was amazing. And the ideas! My hand nearly fell off, I wrote so much.

Here’s some of what I learned:

Linda Seger

Linda differentiates between art, craft and the creative process. All three are important, and all three need to be cultivated.

Art is the “voice” of the writer, which ties in to the writer’s outlook on the world. Is most of what you write optimistic? Pessimistic? Do you have an agenda? Will you use an intellectual tone, a paranoid tone, a warm tone? Voice is something that emerges over years and over a body of work.

Craft is technique. It’s the part of writing that you can learn. It’s reading books on writing, reading books as a writer, not just as a reader. Watching movies and thinking about the structure of them. Trying new things and failing. Trying again.

Creative Process is unique to the writer. The point here is to learn your own work habits — are you most productive in the morning? At night? — and be aware of them, so you can plan your work time accordingly.

Linda had a lot of other great things to say, too, but some of it has already been touched on in Lena’s and Karen’s posts. Make sure you take a look! Linda’s books are also worth checking out.

John Truby

I’d love to write up John Truby’s talk in its entirety and share it here. I think that was the part of the weekend when the hand cramps started. I just couldn’t write fast enough to keep up with all of the fascinating things he had to say. He’s got a book. Trust me, you want to read it.

One thing to start with: differentiate between your main character’s need, and his desire or goal. The character’s need is a weakness. It’s something holding your character back. It’s the root of your character arc.

The character’s desire is specific to your story — maybe she wants to be an astronaut, but if your novel is about striving to get the highest mark on the grade twelve physics exam, that’s the desire. (Obviously, you’d want to put the astronaut thing in there, too, because that’s just cool.)

And your antagonist? That’s the guy who wants to keep your main character from reaching her goal, of course. Probably because he wants it, too.

Syd Field

Syd Field talked mostly about setting up and establishing story. A lot of what he had to say was kind of specific to the movie business (voice-overs, anyone?), but here’s one thing that I thought was interesting for the YA writers out there.

What Syd calls a “circle of being” event (sounds a bit California for me, frankly), is a traumatic experience that affects the characters life either emotionally, physically or mentally.

This experience usually takes place between the ages of 13 and 20. That’s important, because those teen years are when the family stops being the absolute centre of life. Teens turn outward and rely more on friends and there social circle. It’s an emotionally charged time.

A “circle of being” event might be the loss of a parent, or a move to another city. It might be an accident that permanently changes the character, as in the movie The Lookout. The ripple effects of this event will follow your character throughout their life.

Sounds like inciting incident material to me.

Syd, of course, has a book as well.

Michael Hauge

Michael Hauge was, I think, a little nervous about following all these giants. He didn’t need to be. His talk was amazing. It was another one of those sessions where I wished I had brought a spare hand along with me so I could write faster. (No, I’m not ambidextrous.)

His book (a new edition!) is on my wish list now.

My favourite part of Michael’s talk, besides the bit where he bribed us with schmancy bookmarks printed with his take on plot structure, was when he lined up the arcs.

Michael has his own take on three-act structure. Now I’ve read a lot of versions of three-act structure, and I had just listened to John Truby explaining that there was no such thing, but I like Michael’s take. I like it because he showed how the outer journey, the external arc of the story, lines up with the character’s inner journey, the inner arc. You don’t just lay a foundation for change and then have the character suddenly flip in the last scene. The change happens gradually. A character wavers back and forth between who he was and who he might be. It made a lot of sense, and helped me understand some issues in my own works-in-progress.

It was an intense weekend, filled with lots of great new information. I was glad to be there with friends. “Pssst — Cheryl! What did he just say? What movie was that?”

It was kind of like university all over again. Except better. Because this version featured Harrison Ford clips.

To learn more about the summit, read what Cheryl Rainfield, Lena Coakley and Karen Krossing had to say.