Techniques of the Selling Writer (33 page)

So much for the distinction between stated goals and true goals. Now, how do you use
that variance to help resolve your story problem and reward your hero?

Here, the issue is one of character dynamics. We’ll discuss it at length in the next
chapter.

How do you satisfy an emotional need?

You so change your character’s outlook that he achieves fulfillment.

Fulfillment is a feeling, a state of mind. State of affairs runs a poor, poor second.

To change a character’s outlook means that you let him see what he really wants.

That is, you allow him to perceive and achieve the true goal that lies behind his
stated goal. You help him to understand that work or adventure is more important to
him than girl or money, or that success isn’t always suburbia and Brooks Brothers’
suits. Facing up to the fact that you don’t have the talent to be a concert star can
free you. Some marriages are better broken than mended. There can be happiness through
the tears when a son or daughter finally finds the strength to leave home.

Even death can upon occasion be a triumph. If you don’t believe me, take time out
some day to read Talbot Mundy’s fine story, “The Soul of a Regiment.”

How do you change a character’s outlook?

You show him the negative side of his stated goal and the positive side of his true
goal.

Let’s say the issue is vengeance. All through your story, Character has lived for
the moment when he could plunge his knife into the villain.

Now, that moment’s here. Evil, arrogant Villain lies at Hero’s mercy.

To slay an evil, arrogant man can be a triumph. It gives you a sense of power and
virtue.

But suppose this proud figure now breaks and cringes . . . crawls in the dirt and
begs for mercy. What does that do to your stated goal?

Before, you saw Villain as strength and menace incarnate. As such, he was a challenge
to you.

Now, his mask is torn away, his façade shattered. What lies revealed is fear and weakness.

With that change in Villain comes an end to challenge. You’re really the strong man;
he, the weak. To kill him now would serve only to degrade you. His humiliation is
enough.

That’s the negative side of your stated goal.

Simultaneously comes realization that the fear and self-doubt that earlier drove you
on have vanished, and it dawns on you that those flaws in your own self-image, not
Villain, were your true opponents.

Because this is so, from here on out you can face the world serene and unafraid. Never
again will you need to question your own stature.

That’s the positive side of your true goal.

Add positive and negative together, and you have tension released, desire attained
. . . fulfillment; resolution.

Or suppose your fondest dream has been to marry a girl with a million dollars.—Not
just any such girl, you understand; one particular one.

To that end, you’ve gone through hell in terms of the rising action of your story.
But the climax turns the trick. At last Girl stands ready to accept you. You’re about
to attain your stated goal.

Now, however, you discover that her idea of marriage is to keep you as a sort of house
pet—and that’s certainly a negative aspect of your stated goal.

Nor is this totally her fault. She’s the product of her background, her upbringing.
Her view of the world is something that she takes for granted.

Seeing this, you reconsider your own motives . . . realize at last that what you’ve
felt for Girl isn’t love, in fact, so much as it is a drive for status, which you’ve
misinterpreted as the quickest road to independence.

Independence: That’s what you really want; that’s your true goal.

And you can achieve it better without Girl than with her . . . besides which, she
deserves more than a parasitic husband who doesn’t really love her.

A positive angle on true goal, right?

Girl faces the facts, when you explain it. She can’t change; neither can you. Your
differences are too great to resolve.

The parting scene is tender, touching. And you go off fulfilled, even though sans
girl.

How do you resolve a story?

You know your focal character.

Then, you let him know and be true to himself.

As a writer, you have no higher duty, to yourself or to your reader.

And this in spite of the fact that said reader may never realize the source of his
satisfaction.—Which is as it should be, of course. Story technique is the writer’s
business only. It’s like plastic surgery: The best nose-bob or face-lift is the one
that goes undetected.

What about the negative character . . . the weak man, the evil man, the man who can’t
or won’t make the right decision at a story’s climax? How do you resolve
his
story?

You punish him.

That is, you deny him his goal, in letter and/or in spirit.

You do this because such a character prizes self-interest above principle. He proves
this in climax, when he chooses the easy road instead of standing firm for right.

In so doing, he demonstrates himself to be unworthy of reward.

If, then, in spite of his misdeed, you
do
reward him, you create a conflict in your reader.

How?

Your reader, too, has emotional needs. One of the deepest of these, as we’ve pointed
out, is his desire to believe that there is order in the world; that life holds meaning.

In reading, Reader seeks reaffirmation of this belief. He wants to feel that cause
leads to effect; that deed influences reward.

Deny this, in your story, and in effect you tell him that his whole philosophy is
wrong; that he’s a fool for all the sacrifices he himself makes daily.

Result: frustration. So, tension doesn’t slack; it builds. And Reader loses his precious
sense of story satisfaction.

This is why adolescent cynicism proves such a blind alley as a theme for fiction.
The clever criminal who gets away with crime, the man of principle made a fool of
or destroyed by circumstance, the woman who cheats successfully on her husband, the
triumph of the ruthless and the evil—they mark your work as amateur. In life, such
people stand as the exception, not the rule. In fiction, almost invariably, they draw
a quick rejection.

As a matter of fact, even the so-called “biter-bit” story (in which
the central character receives richly deserved punishment at the climax) has only
the narrowest of markets. Make your “hero” a murderer who’s trapped because he overlooks
one tiny clue and, count on it, the yarn will prove twice or three times as hard to
sell as the story with a positive central character.

Part of the reason for this is because the pattern itself has grown so worn and trite.

More important, however, is the established fact that most of the time, most readers
would rather read about the worthy man who wins.

So much for the mechanics and dynamics of reward.

Once reward is bestowed, the story question is answered. Suspense drops sharply. Most
reader tension is released.

But you still need to round out your story, briefly, and bring it to a neat conclusion.

With that in mind . . .

Face one fact: The moment your story question is answered, your story itself ends,
for all practical purposes.

Therefore, don’t hold your reader any further past that point than need be. Stall
a bit too long, and you may lose him. Your job from here on out is to say good-by,
in as few words and pages as you can.

At the same time, you don’t dare move too fast, or you’ll lose emotional impact.

Ordinarily, a few pages—certainly not more than a chapter, even in a novel—of denouement
should be enough. Long explanations will prove unnecessary, if you’ve snipped off
subordinate threads early, in accordance with instructions.

So, work for a
short
concluding section.

On the other hand, be careful not to leave characters unaccounted for or loose ends
dangling.

How do you avoid such?

You go back over your work. Painstakingly. Check plot development, point by point.
Ask yourself if there are questions that you’ve left unanswered.

Often, too, a reading by someone who doesn’t know the story will bring holes and loose
thinking to your attention.

Be careful, though. What you need is honest appraisal, not flattery or half-baked
critical opinion.

Finally . . .

How do you write a proper punch line?

You strive for euphoria.

Euphoria may be defined as a sense of well-being and buoyancy. It’s the feeling that
follows the draining off of the last vestiges of reader tension.

To create it, you hunt for a final paragraph, and a line to end it, that will epitomize
your character’s or characters’ fulfillment.

Since a story is the record of how somebody deals with danger, this final paragraph
and line should make clear to your reader that said danger—and the tension and trouble
it created—are at an end, so far as the characters are concerned. Completely.

On the other hand, “. . . and so they lived happily ever after” isn’t quite enough.
Life goes on, and your reader knows it.

Therefore, you need to include some indication that your characters still have a future.
Other troubles may come. In fact, assorted woes may be hanging fire right now. But
they’re not yet on stage, so your people can still glow happily in the relief and
release of this moment’s triumph.

The actual writing of a good punch line can be a nerve-racking, floor-pacing, time-consuming
job. The most common approach, perhaps, is simply to jot down each and every idea
that comes to mind, no matter how remote. Then, settle for whichever one seems best.

Beyond this, here are three tricks which may help:

Throughout the story, Hero’s been striving to make time with Girl, without success.
You conclude, “This time,
she
was kissing
him
.”

Conceivably, your reader may decide that Hero has indeed attained his goal.

Exhibit A: “Words came through the tears: ’Steve . . . oh, Steve, you’re
home!
’

“The steeldust kept on grazing.”

Actually, no one gives a hoot about the horse. It’s just that by shifting attention
to him, we confirm that danger is dissipated.

“Seth cut in: ’I’ll take care of it soon’s I can, Ed. But right now, Helen and me
need to run over to Red Rock. We got some things to take care of.’ ”