I’ve been thinking about pinch points lately, those intervals in a story when you realize how difficult the hero’s task is. They occur (optimally) at the 3/8th and 5/8th point in a story and structurally, they serve a two-fold purpose: to show how vulnerable the hero(ine) is and what will happen if he/she loses. But structure never interests me as much as character and pinch points teach and clarify these better than anything else. The same thing is true about people. Pinch points are what we learn in the worst of times. The axiom says failure teaches more than success and the essence of a pinch point is failure. For example, the first pinch point of LOTR’s The Fellowship of the Ring happens at Weathertop, when Frodo succumbs to temptation and puts on the Ring. He becomes vulnerable to Sauron’s most powerful agents, the Nazgul, and the resulting injury nearly destroys our hero. Frodo never fully recovers from the experience but both the reader and he learn from it. Frodo shows a resilience and physical fortitude after the injury that most other beings don’t possess. And his character is strengthened after the failure. Strong as they are, the Nazgul never successfully distract…
I like to believe that somewhere out there, someone reads what I write. (To quote one of my favorite plays, In a world where carpenters get resurrections, anything’s possible) If so, they’ve seen alterations in the name of this place, patiently reading while I tried to find the phrase captures the idea and atmosphere I’m trying to create here. The search hasn’t been easy. Initial Title: A good start but not yet there. I started out with “The Stories that Follow You Home” a phrase I love because I believe some stories do just that. While trends change and popular poems, books and plays appear and vanish like popular music recordings, some stories put down roots in your soul and imagination. They stick with you, like a good friend, and when you re-read them, you find gifts you didn’t see before. I love those rewarding tales and the people who feel the same way. I love people fascinated by the structure and function, and power of story. But, what are those people called? Is there a term for a lover of stories? We all know what lovers of books are called: bibliophiles. It comes from two old Greek words, biblion (meaning…
It’s no secret that I love stories: reading, writing, or telling them. Reading stories is easiest for me to do; all I need are the words and my glasses. Once I find the narrator’s voice, we’re off and all I have to look for is when to take a breath. Telling a story is scary and a whole lot of fun, especially if there’s an appreciative audience. When I’m telling stories, the hardest thing for me to know is when to shut up. (I’ll admit it, I’m a natural-born ham.) Writing stories is a different cat altogether; in fact, writing is a cat with claws. As soon as my fingers hit the keys and letters show up on the screen, my inner critic emerges and starts pointing out the obvious flaws. At that point, the tale that was bubbling and aching to get out locks itself behind a gate in my brain. So, what do I do? I’ve learned to take a walk. Taking a walk is something Stephen King mentioned in his wonderful book, On Writing. (Seriously, I’ve read a stack-load of books on the craft of putting down prose and this one makes me believe I can do…
When the stores said fall was upon us, I didn’t believe them. Stores put out their “Back-to-School” signage before the summer is half way through. On the other hand, the calendar’s decree of fall’s arrival comes far too late. By that time, classes are well-started and my old school has won at least three football games. No, you can’t predict the seasons by anything man-made. The long, slow slide away from summer started about 3 weeks ago, according to my early warning portents. I know when the year starts to turn by the leaves, the nuts and the spiders. A 2 day haul of acorns and pecans.Anyone want to pick up the rest? Some people say they see the signs of fall. Me, I hear about it first from the trees. When the leaves are still green and the thermometer hovers above 90, trees signal the change of season with a series of small bombing raids generally known as the falling of nuts. Phooey. These nuts don’t fall. From the sound of them hitting our roof, they are hurled and God help what they hit when they land. The impacts and ricochets sound like gunfire and the noise initially scares the…