Writing inspirations – Hollywood-style magic from the golden age of deco

Today’s writing inspiration – for NaNoWriMo entrants and for writers of all persuasions – is a photo I took in Napier, New Zealand. The self-styled ‘art deco capital of the world’, and a place where architects consciously looked to Hollywood and the magic of the movies when re-building the city after a devastating earthquake in 1931.

Party time in Napier's main 'art deco' precinct, February 2014.

Party time in Napier’s main ‘art deco’ precinct, February 2014.

I took this during the annual Art Deco weekend in February 2014. It was a wonderful moment to be in a city that deliberately looks to the magic of the age of deco. Not deco as it was, but deco as we want it to be; art deco in which Clark Gable or  Ingrid Bergman might step out of the nearest doorway; art deco of the golden age of cinema. And that, I think, is inspiring for any writer.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

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Essential writing skills: grammar – the writer’s playground

It was Winston Churchill, I believe, who once insisted that ending a sentence with a preposition was something up with which he would not put.

Wright_Typewriter2As any of us who have dragged through High School English know, grammar is often touted as the basic building block of writing. Which, in many ways, it is; you can’t write things that scan properly without it. It’s there for a reason.

The onus is on authors to get it right, though that doesn’t mean losing perspective. Grammar is a tool, not an end-goal. The so-called ‘grammar Nazis’ who nit-pick authors for any technical glitch that they can attribute to the writing don’t achieve much other than showing themselves up as small-minded.

It happens though. Some years ago a book reviewer – not someone writing the reader commentaries one gets on Amazon, but a journalist commissioned to prepare a discursive article about one of my books – took a ‘point off’ for my use of ‘impacted’ as a verb. I’d done it deliberately, and it’s correct to do so. ‘Impact’ began life in the early seventeenth century English as a transitive verb. It’s still such today, though it is more often used as a noun. A fact that gives due context to the remark – which was, of course, an attempt to put me in my place; simple bullying of a kind that, alas, happens quite often in this sort of book review. (‘I can’t write books myself but I will trawl your work for anything I can claim proves that you are incompetent and ignorant as a book author’).

So the point about grammar? Just like musical rules don’t constitute good music alone, grammar alone doesn’t constitute good writing. There has to be a dynamic to written style – something that isn’t contained in the grammar rules, but which exploits them, perhaps even bends them. Advertisers and journalists do it all the time – how often do you see sentences that start with a conjunction?

This doesn’t mean being ignorant of grammar. You have to know the rules in order to break them. But once you have them down pat you can play with them. For stylistic purposes, the rules to bend are typically those associated with words – like, don’t start a sentence with a conjunction.

Actually, judiciously, you can. It means finding a balance; bending the rules enough to be interesting, without being blatantly egregious. It’s a skill, but one that comes with enough practise in writing. It’s as much an essential skill as any other – giving your writing what, in due homage to Frank Zappa, I always call ‘writing eyebrows’.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

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Fun, sun and the usual Spinal Tap hilarity on the other side of the ditch

It’s time for a weekend get-away, and She Who Must Be Obeyed and I decide the other side of the Tasman is, once again, the place to be. Sydney is one of our favourite get-away destinations, cheaper to reach than parts of New Zealand and alive with a vibrancy that underscores its place as one of the world’s great cities.

Sydney Opera House on Bennelong Point, with Circular Quay beyond.

On Sydney harbour: I recklessly took this from the Manly Ferry as it cut its way to Circular Quay.

We’ve been there often enough before, and these weekends usually don’t turn into Spinal Tap adventures until we get there. This time the shenanigans begin when She Who Must Be Obeyed picks up the tickets from the travel agent.‘I see you didn’t take the fourth night free.’ ‘What free night?’ Turns out the other staff member, who we’d booked with, hadn’t mentioned it, and we are stuck with three.

Oh well, it’s still an extended weekend in a good hotel up from the historic district. Until the shuttle-bus rolls up at a different establishment at the eastern end of the CBD, a place with the same name but thoroughly down-market air, awash with tour groups and fading nineties tat. This is what the agent has ACTUALLY booked. But hey, I think as I skid on the body hair of the last occupant, possibly left by the cleaners as a kind of memento on the bathroom floor, we’ve stayed in worse places. The only major down side, to my wife’s annoyance, is that the TV remote keeps sticking on channels showing Dr Who.

Sydney Opera House.

Sydney Opera House with Circular Quay to the right.

We head into central Sydney where a walking tour departs at 2.00 pm from the Archibald Fountain in Hyde Park, ‘every day, rain hail or shine’. Except, we discover in true Spinal Tap terms, today. ‘Sorry, not enough people,’ explains the guide. ‘I’m really sorry, it’s not worth my while. Maybe tomorrow.’ Not my definition of professionalism, but hey… We side-step into St James Church on King Street, where we scan the memorials on the walls for New Zealand historic figures from the 1840s. I find some I’d missed last time. And then we dive into the shopping district where – predictably – we discover the retail stores carry exactly the same brands and range we get in New Zealand, at much the same prices.

The Opera House Bar.

The Opera House Bar.

Dinner is at our favourite sushi train, a place on Liverpool Street whose hard-working staff prepare it in front of their largely Japanese clientele. We go there every time we’re in Sydney. It’s great sushi, and the sense of theatre is underscored by the concierge calling every time someone enters, repeated in unison by the chefs. Careful questioning reveals it isn’t some kind of good-luck ritual, as I fondly imagine, but – mundanely – ‘customers arriving’.

My view from the Makoto sushi bar, Sydney.

My view from the Makoto sushi bar, Sydney. I took this with my phone – I wasn’t going to lug 1.5 kg worth of SLR and lens to dinner.

Another night we eat in a pub of a kind long since extinct in New Zealand – red 1970s carpet, half-tiled walls and an air of tired grandeur and extensive drinking. We find a table under a giant projector screen. ‘Nice to be away from all the New Zealand news,’ I say, just as the screen lights up with the Hawke’s Bay vs Northland game in my home town of Napier. In an effort to feel I am somewhere different I order an entire schooner of XXXX lager (yes, that really is the brand name), having forgotten that in NSW a ‘schooner’ tops out at 285 ml. The one I actually mean is the ‘Middie’, which is approximately 32.8 litres and can be knocked back by any good Aussie or Kiwi in the ten seconds between the start of the six o’clock time pips and the top of the hour.

Inside the Victoria Building on George Street - Victorian-age mall.

Inside the Victoria Building on George Street – Victorian-age mall. Click to enlarge.

Back at the hotel we discover that (a) a couple have moved into the room next door, (b) the soundproofing is in the same basket as the floor cleaning, and (c) our neighbours like each other very, very much. After the Beast With Two Backs makes its third Australian-accented intrusion into the room next door I’m ready to yell ‘get a bloody room’ through the wall despite the fact that, rather obviously, they already have.

We take the commuter ferry along Port Jackson to the historic farm-museum at Parramatta, where I look at Rev. Samuel Marsden’s desk and discover that I know more about its context than our guide. The thing about Sydney is that this is where New Zealand’s pakeha history began. Specifically, at this very desk, where Marsden the ‘Flogging Parson’, so-called because he used to get his jollies watching convict women being whipped, plotted to set up the first permanent pakeha settlement – a Church Missionary Society station – in the Bay of Islands. And managed it, finally, in 1814. Yes, it’s true – history is interesting, if a bit on the ewwww side.

The not-so-sandy end of Manly Beach.

The not-so-sandy end of Manly Beach.

On our last full day we head down to Circular Quay to catch the Manly ferry. Manly, out by the heads, is a great swimming beach, and the water is inviting apart from one small problem. ‘Sheet,’ I explain in my best Australian, ‘we left the cossies across the deetch.’ The calming presence of She Who Must Be Obeyed stops me saying anything more in Australian. Probably wisely.

A busy Saturday on Sydney harbour.

A busy Saturday on Sydney harbour. Click to enlarge.

Our adventures don’t end as we leave our hotel for the airport. We get to the departure lounge, but I can’t help thinking something’s missing. And it is. The aircraft. Then when it does arrive and we settle in, someone near the back decides they have Ebola or have left the eggs boiling back home, and the time is therefore Totally Deranged o’clock. More delays while officials rush about and take the passenger off, then disembowel the hold in a Lord Of The Rings scale quest for their luggage.

Eventually the engines spool up and we depart, 90 minutes late, with what looks like an attempt to taxi back to New Zealand but turns out to be a crawl to the furthest possible runway, all to a soundtrack of Jimmy Barnes’ ‘Last Train Out Of Sydney’. Apt, I think, as we finally surge into the air and the lights of that city disappear behind us.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

Essential writing skills: what Lucas and Tolkien show us about the hero journey

Sorting out a viable character arc and hence plot for your story is perhaps one of the trickiest aspects of writing to get right. But it’s also the most important.

Like all writing, it’s a learned skill – practise makes perfect, and you can’t play games with the structure until you’ve mastered it. For beginning writers perhaps the best way to approach that is to fall back on the fail-safe story – the three-act hero journey. This is absolutely classic structure and character arc, used and re-used by writers old and new, experienced and novice.  It’s the literary equivalent of the four-chord rock song. But that doesn’t mean every writer who uses it ends up with the same story – far from it. In fact, the onus is on you, as the writer, to make an original tale around that structure.

Yes, like a geeky Tolkien fan I had to pose in the entrance, such as it was - you could circle it, just like the door Aslan made to get rid of the Telmarines in .Prince Caspian'.

Yes, like a geeky Tolkien fan I had to pose in the entrance, such as it was – you could circle it, just like the door Aslan made to get rid of the Telmarines in ‘Prince Caspian’.

To show what I mean we need go no further than two classics, Tolkien’s The Hobbit, and George Lucas’ Star Wars. On the face of it, they’re radically different tales – different settings, different genres. But they’re both based on the hero arc. Check this out:

  1. We meet Bilbo/Luke in their normal world. They are set in their ways, but something niggles them – something is missing in their lives.
  2. They meet an older mentor figure (Gandalf/Obi-Wan), and a dramatic event pushes Bilbo/Luke, forcibly, out of that normal world (Bilbo’s ‘unexpected party’, Luke’s discover of his murdered uncle and aunt).
  3. Bilbo/Luke at first flounder; but the mentor offers guidance, and they begin to learn how to handle themselves. There is a first test away from the mentor (Bilbo vs the trolls, Luke sent to look for Leia in the Death Star while Obi Wan is dealing with the tractor beam) .
  4. Bilbo/Luke gain confidence from their experiences.
  5. There is a pivotal point at which they are stripped of their mentor (Gandalf departs to deal with the Necromancer, Darth Vader kills Obi Wan) after which the hero has to find their own strength (Bilbo versus the spiders, Luke leading the attack on the Death Star). Tolkien had a lot more space to explore this side of the arc than Lucas – Bilbo’s hero growth in The Hobbit was multi-dimensional and the Lonely Mountain sequences focussed on his ethical journey after he’d found his personal heroism.
  6. Bilbo/Luke achieve a great victory on the back of their new-found strengths (Bilbo uses the Arkenstone to try and reconcile the crisis over the unguarded dwarven treasure, Luke uses the Force to hit a small target and blow up the Death Star.)
  7. The story ends; the character arc is complete.

So there you have it; the hero arc – an arc which must be entwined with specific plot points to work. If done right – and both Lucas and Tolkien nailed it – the drama flows from the character development, and the narrative of the plot matches the essential pivot points of the character arc. That one-two punch keeps readers on the edge of their seat.

And if you need another example, go check out The Wizard of Oz. Same story.

More soon.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

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Essential writing skills: the core of novel writing

One of the many challenges beginning writers face when setting out to tackle their first novel – or their second, or their third – is the fact that ‘good ideas’ often come as snapshots of particular scenes, or a setting, or a scenario.

Wright_Typewriter01Characters – and the essential character arc – usually take second place in the planning and writing process. It’s a classic issue. The reason why it happens, in part, is because we are fed entertainment in ‘scenes’ and ‘settings’, around which part of the emotional pull is grounded. Some guy has a blue Police phone box that’s bigger on the inside than the outside and can go anywhere in space and time. Coooool!

The problem is that this isn’t the whole story. The structural priority in fiction writing – and, for that matter, in any writing – is the emotional journey on which the writer takes the reader. This is always based around the character arc, and always demands movement, a direction. More, in short, than a static scenario. The problem with a succession of snapshot ‘ scenes’ is that they often don’t link to that directional character arc.

The answer is to step back, reverse the whole process, and start with the character arc. Jot down notes about those cool settings and scenes on a set of cards. What is the appeal of that setting to you – the emotional pull? This could give insights into the kind of character that would inhabit it. Then start working on the characters. Focus on one character only to begin with. This is your lead character. Forget the setting. What does the character NEED to develop, to grow? What is their journey?

Once that’s sorted out, look back at the scenario and setting. Does that fit? Will it work with the character? The priority MUST be the character journey, from which all else follows. That’s because this is the core of the novel – the means by which readers are captured and then held. Narrative plot events, cool scenes, and cool setting all play a part. But they are the background – secondary to that character arc, around which all must pivot.

Want proof? Go check out that show about the guy with the blue box. The stories aren’t really about his TARDIS or the neat places you can go in it. Are they?

Copyright ©Matthew Wright 2014

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Essential writing skills: ways to build a real character for your novel

One of the ways to transform a ‘character’ in your story into someone ‘real’ is to start with a good foundation. What makes people tick?

At this level, people are simpler than you might think. One powerful motive is self-validation – feeling worthy and valued, even to themselves. This can produce all manner of outcomes, because there are so many different things people identify with – and so many different ways they validate themselves.

Photo I took of some essential writing fuel I was about to consume...

Photo I took of some essential writing fuel I was about to consume…

Let’s take one example – imagine a university Professor who, for better or worse, validates his self-worth by the status he imagines he has in his field of employment. What does that produce? He will see others – who ‘compete’ for the same status – as taking away his self-worth. This sounds ridiculous but it’s actually fairly common in the field – this is why academics end up fighting over what, to those of us in the real world, appears to be nothing. Would such a character have the confidence to confront someone they viewed as a threat? Perhaps, but let’s suppose they mix this with a fundamental underlying insecurity.

That opens up story narrative. When affronted by someone who they imagine has taken away their self-worth they respond not by confronting their supposed assailant, but sneakily through back-channels, a cowardly back-stab that means this Professor character doesn’t have to actually introduce himself to his targets. And if confronted; why, he is a Professor – how dare anybody question his status or authority?

What else can we add, to make a point of difference in character? Laziness? A sense of entitlement? And so we begin to build up a picture of a thoroughly unlikeable protagonist. A Professor, perhaps – someone, perhaps, who feels entitled to position and status, who does not work particularly hard but who draws validation from the little they achieve, presenting as ‘puffed up’ to any they work with.

sleeping-man-with-newspapers-mdStereotypically, one might also imagine a character of this nature to be physically lazy and over-weight. Of course, all this is purely to show the thought processes that might go into a character. I’ve deliberately portrayed a cliche – a classic bully. Such a character, you have to admit, is at best a pathetic one-dimensional caricature. Not compelling for readers – but by going to the extreme I have, I hope, given something of the basic mechanics of how characters might be developed.

The trick is to be a lot more subtle – to build from a strong skeleton, mixing and matching the surface elements to produce that most elusive of literary creations, Hemingway’s ‘real’ person. More soon.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

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Writing inspirations – the glory of Notre Dame Cathedral

Today’s writing inspiration – for NaNoWriMo entrants and for writers of all persuasions – is Notre Dame Cathedral. I took this photo late in the day after Evensong had finished, hand-held, using Fuji ASA 200 Supericolor stock. I had to guess the exposure, as my light meter decided to break just at that instant. But it came out OK.

I took this photo by guesswork after my camera's light meter broke. I was using 200 asa Fujicolor film which I figured was going to be pretty forgiving - and so it turned out.

I took this photo by guesswork after my camera’s light meter broke.

Notre Dame is an inspiring place in so many ways, bringing together as it does such a fabulous blend of tradition, culture, history, fantastic architecture – and mythology, right there in the heart of a wonderful city, Paris.

Have you been to Notre Dame? And does it inspire you?

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

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