Writing

What is a Scene in a Novel?

Definitions of a Scene

A scene is the smallest unit of narration. It is a story with a beginning, middle, and an end. One editor calls it the DNA of story. Cells of information shape the essence of a narrative, in which characters undertake actions in a vivid and memorable way on the journey toward a compelling goal. Scenes contain all the elements of story telling, such as point of view, voice, vivid characters, plot, and setting.

A long scene might run to more than fifteen pages; a short scene might fill only ten or fewer pages. Some scenes are as short as a couple of pages. Short scenes often make readers hungry for more. But too many long scenes may cause a lack of momentum; too many short ones might seem choppy.

What is a Chapter?

A chapter is comprised of related scenes that are, generally, all working together to make a similar point. Think of chapters as a sequence of scenes. Of course a chapter can be just one scene. Successful plot-based author of thrillers, James Patterson, sometimes writes chapters that are just one scene, and sometimes even just one page long. Think about making a new chapter when the character’s goal in the scene changes, or the direction of the story changes.

In fiction, the scenes in a chapter all lead forward to an intersection of purpose, and move the reader through changes, in a trajectory that makes sense to the reader.

Usually, the scenes within a chapter are related. Some novels have one scene per chapter for the entire story. Others have multiple scenes. Deciding how to structure the story is where your creativity comes into play.

Structure of a Scene

Most well-planned novels have some form of broader structure (such as three-act structure or narrative arc) ensuring that everything hangs together. And so it is for a scene. In written narrative such as fiction, section breaks are used to signal various changes in a story, including changes in time, location, point-of-view, character, mood, tone, emotion, and pace. The section break can be considered a transition, similar to a chapter break. It is marked by a space and/or by an asterisk or a fleuron or by other ornamental symbols.

The Part Reveals the Whole

More importantly, scenes must have a distinct function and purpose within the larger narrative arc of your novel. That’s right, you cannot tot up segments, or scenes, without being aware of the potential end product, or purpose of the writing. Think of scenes as being the individual beads strung together on a chain to form a lovely necklace; or lyrical notes to form a beautiful melody.

“To see the world in a grain of sand.” Blake meant by this that even something as minute as a grain of sand tells us about the world at large. Or, to put it another way, the part reveals the whole, by distilling it discreetly, bit by bit, throughout the novel. A scene works to show the reader, at any one time, a part of the character, the plot, the action, and the development. A larger, more intricate picture is revealed by the end of the novel.

Once you have learnt how to show and to tell, in combination, you are on your way to finding a satisfactory structure for your novel and for your scenes.

Questions to Ask Yourself About Each Scene

* What is the goal or purpose for this scene?
* What characters are involved and are they all necessary?
* What is at stake for the protagonist in this scene?
* What is the main conflict in this scene?
* How does this scene further develop my novel’s plot?

The Purpose of the Scene is Key

The purpose of the scene relates to the overall story. It may be to introduce the inciting event, present plot points, build suspense, develop character, show a climax, establish mood, describe setting, intensify conflict, move the story forward, or present the resolution. If you can’t articulate the purpose of a scene, think about removing the scene.

Where does the scene take place? Have I made it easy for the reader to visualize this?

What role does the setting play in how the scene unfolds?

When does the scene happen? Is it in chronological sequence with preceding events? Or is it a flashback? Have you made the scene’s time-frame in relation to the rest of your story clear?

Who is in the scene? Do you need more or fewer characters?

What happens in the scene? What is the scene about?

Why do the characters behave as they do in this scene?

These questions are all related to cause and effect, which is an important aspect for creating narrative drive.

Two Further Metaphors for Novel Structure

Emma Darwin thinks that most of us feel that the chapter is the basic unit, and happily “read” section-breaks or switches of narrator, as joints in a larger whole. She sees a novel as a bridge, with piers and arches, perhaps of different widths and heights, perhaps rising to a crown and down again, which embody the big, stretching strides.

national museum

Another favoured metaphor is a train. “If the major scenes are the carriages, and you write them in full, showy, almost-real-time glory, then the couplings are also crucial: not just the big steel hooks and chains, but the electrics, communications, brakes, platforms, doors and so on. You can’t have one without the other and any railway buff knows that the engineering of the couplings is as fascinating and crucial as any other part of the train.” Darwin trains-carriages

Sarah Domet “Because a scene combines all elements of fiction in harmony with one another, it isn’t just one aspect of craft—it’s all of them put together, artfully and thoughtfully, to achieve the same kind of balance you hope for in that extravagant dish you prepare for your dinner guests.”

cuisine

References:
The Writers Digest Blog: Writers Digest.com
Emma Darwin: This Itch of Writing

February 5, 2019 0 comment

Writing

The Sea Voyage: a metaphor

How to Write a Novel

After gaining a Teaching Certificate in 1965, I embarked on a journey from Australia to England, passing along the Suez Canal shortly before its forced closure by Egypt. My eventual goal was France, following in the footsteps of my older brother, William. I’d saved up my return fare for a berth on the P&O liner S.S. Oriana, a sparkling white vessel known as “the Queen of the Sea”. It was waiting for me to board it at Circular Quay in Sydney on the evening of 31st December, 1965. Along with three other teaching friends, I’d be arriving in Southampton on 24th January, 1966. This marked the beginning of my obsession with writing as I began to document, in a travel journal, my experiences during four years abroad. What I was to discover was that voyaging overseas was a great metaphor for the creative writing life. There were pitfalls for the traveller, like the dangerous rocks, winds and sirens that threatened Odysseus during his earlier travels; as well as great joys, during and at the end of the journey. Much would be experienced and learnt that no one could have taught me.

It’s the same with writing. You might have to experience its joys and downfalls before you figure out properly how to do it yourself. This applies particularly to writing a longer work, such as a novel or a modern memoir. Having been taught by several successful novelists for my postgraduate diploma and Master degree, and having read many “how to” books, I have come to realise certain things. Mainly, that finding a pathway towards publication is a minefield, and takes a great deal of perseverance and a good dose of luck on the part of a beginning author. And that even published writers may not be the most qualified persons to give advice about the craft of novel writing. Like the advice of one well-known author who told me to just “get it down” in segments, and then arrange cards in order to find a plotline and a story. This approach—called by some “pantsering“—may help; it did not help me. One thing that this excellent writer forgot to mention was that he had had mentors—editors and others—to assist in the structuring of a final work when he was writing during earlier decades.

Even Ernest Hemingway, who seems to have been “a natural”, had women and other writers, fawning over him, only too happy to assist him, if not with craft ideas, at least with confidence boosting and secretarial work.

January 13, 2019 0 comment

Book Reviews Writing

Alone not lonely in Apartheid South Africa

Alone not lonely is Maureen Mendelowitz’s second novel to be published by Ginninderra Press (2018). I attended the successful launch of the book at JewishCare Centre in Woollahra recently.

The date coincided with public awareness of domestic violence issues against women, including in Australia, and White Ribbon Day. The attractive front hall of the Centre in Saber Street was already packed with eager friends and visitors when I arrived.

Rada Pantzer, Jewish Care’s program co-ordinator for domestic violence, addressed this subject at the start of the launch, and spoke abut the concept of “gaslighting”, a form of emotional abuse based on humiliating the victim, that can lead to physical violence as well.

Domestic violence is a major theme in the novel. Another co-worker of Maureen’s, Charmaine Silove—who happens to be a member of Waverley Writers of FOWL—launched the book with a passionate review of its contents that whetted our literary appetites. Finger food and drinks were provided by Jewish Care, and Maureen happily got to sign many books at the end of the evening.

This is a heartbreaking, yet not totally negative, story that had to be told. And Maureen Mendelowitz, expatriate of South Africa during the Apartheid years, is the one to do it. Utilising her skills as a creative writer, the author gets across the horrific effects of the political system on its segregated inhabitants, especially women. She does it by creating vivid characters and settings, by applying humour and irony, by recreating realistic prosody—snippets of Afrikaans spoken by a coloured maid—and with the help of poetry. We are never, or rarely, told or forced to live the horrors, as Maureen and others had to. And yet we are shown what happened. It is often done metaphorically, as in the case of the “exploding dog” (page 31), an apt image of the violence of the system in South Africa. It goes without saying that young males and animals were abused in society as well. But this is a story about women in the society of the time.

The narrative is a universal one, with different faces and degrees of suffering, as instanced by the growing awareness of domestic abuse in the Australian society and media at the present time.

alone-not-lonely-cover

We feel empathy for the characters, especially for the downtroddden and abused maid, Milly, who is the real hero in the story, for simply surviving her abuse.

I loved the part where she up and leaves her abusive husband, placing the wedding ring on a saucer in the kitchen and never looks back. (page 46). A real triumph in the midst of such repression against the coloured minorities during the Apartheid years.

And the clever juxtapositioning of the stories about two women, one white, the other coloured, in the same novel, is poignant and telling. Dana, the spoilt yet fragile white woman, suffers a similar fate to her maid, Minny, although the abuse is emotional rather than physical in the former’s case.

Background is given to show how main characters have arrived at their current situations. One of the interesting aspects about Dana’s past, is that, as a child, she was gaslighted by a coloured maid, which might go some way to explain psychological damage, and an unconscious lack of empathy towards Minny, at least in the beginning.

In this way, the author ensures that no one character in the novel is totally good or bad. It is the political situation that is the real villain. Domestic violence is also a metaphor for the Apartheid system itself.

You can purchase this book on Amazon.

December 17, 2018 0 comment

Writing

Creating A Short Story

First a note about the painting, Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, that serves as a symbol for Joni Mitchell and her songs, and for the short story below. The focus of this post, I believe, is on love and beauty.

“For Plato – and so for the members of the Florentine Platonic Academy – Venus had two aspects: she was an earthly goddess who aroused humans to physical love, or she was a heavenly goddess who inspired intellectual love in them. Plato further argued that contemplation of physical beauty allowed the mind to better understand spiritual beauty. So, looking at Venus, the most beautiful of goddesses, might at first raise a physical response in viewers which then lifted their minds towards the godly. A Neoplatonic reading of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus suggests that 15th-century viewers would have looked at the painting and felt their minds lifted to the realm of divine love.” (Wikipedia)

Genesis of the Story: I wrote this story with the intention of practising the narrative arc, and of applying the “seven points” rule to structuring a short story. (See The Narrative Arc ).

The Seven Points: The Beginning; the Inciting Incident, followed by a crisis; the Midpoint/Reversal (2nd Crisis); the Climax (Crisis 3) ; the Falling Action; the Resolution; the End. I have to admit, however, that I did not pre-plan the story. I used the guidelines to re-structure the story after getting it down. Perhaps I was creating the structure subliminally, as I was writing the first draft.

At the Joni Mitchell Pool

Jeanie is one of these inch worm types. One toe in; one toe back. The cold has always been alien. From birth, really. Even today, with the water temperature around twenty degrees. Babies are gurgling in mothers’ and fathers’ arms in the pool, for God’s sake.

Cassius with the lean and hungry look is descending the stairs. Italian background, perhaps? You can’t help but notice him. He’s wearing long black tights. Nothing else. She sees the bulge as he mounts the cement block. Has he come from the yoga centre up the top? The Breathing Space? That would explain the tights.

A shallow dive from his perch on high. Shallow depth at this end, mind. Heart-stopping … gasp…! The thin man’s head emerges intact, midway down the pool. No problem. She breathes out, a sigh of relief.

Breaking the ice is the problem for Jeanie. Rubbing water on her legs, her arms. It doesn’t help much. She flinches. Retreats, as a small child jumps in, splashing her.

Immersing the neck and the head is the worst. Actual pain. What a waste, if you’ve just washed and primped your hair. Still, it’s over once your hair is wet.

She knows … knows it all…. Enlightenment, even, doesn’t help.

Cassius is doing laps. Such style. Such graceful ease, the arms arced at the elbows, breathing in and out on either side.

She’s immersed now in delicious liquid. The whole body baptised. Is the water getting warmer? Or has her body adjusted to the cold? There are warm spots in the water. Do adults urinate in the pool? Babies and children, perhaps? She thinks of the French word for swimming pool: “piscine”.

Jeanie notices people. The matriarch with the white cotton hat. Standing in the water up to her neck. Watching. Greek background? German, perhaps? The middle-aged man with white hairs on his shoulders, like a bear. A new baby makes swimming motions, safe in its father’s grasp. Little arms and legs moving back and forth like a turtle. The French family, doing perfect Australian crawl.

Cassius is heading for the block again. Another shallow dive. Effortless. She breathes through it this time, knowing now that he knows how to avoid smashing his head on the rocky bottom. Crimson blood rising to the surface.

The white-hatted woman stares at him. Frozen. He meets her gaze. She points to the signage at the steps of the pool. Dozens of small icons. Jeanie follows the direction of the sharp finger. Hard to see from here. A dog with a slash across it? A diver with a red cross through it? Is there one for urinating? She thinks not.

‘Diving is not allowed in here,’ the woman scolds, ‘it says so on the sign.’

‘I know how to do it,’ he says, ‘without hurting myself. From years and years of practice.’

He’d chosen a space when it was clear of bodies too. No children in the way.

‘It is to protect others,’ she says. ‘Children … from getting hurt.’

Jeanie can see both sides, now. She’s seen teenagers jumping and skylarking from the high cliffs at the Surf Club side of the rock pool here. No one’s ever said anything to them. Not even the lifesavers.

As she treads water, half-wading, towards the end of the pool, she meets his gaze. Dark eyes. Intelligent. Brooding?

‘It’s just a case of fear,’ she murmurs, ‘about people hitting their heads…’

‘I don’t care,’ he says, ‘about other peoples’ fear.’ She flinches inwardly, desiring to know more. Perhaps he’s read that recent book she’s seen somewhere: The Subtle Art of Not giving a F*ck”. Four-and-a-half stars on Amazon. She might download the kindle version. Much cheaper, really.

‘I’ve recovered twice from brain damage,’ he lets slip out, ‘anyway.’

She wants to ask questions, find out more about him, but he’s off, probably sorry that the words have escaped his secret mouth. Smoothly tanned, his hair a little longer than the norm, but neat.

She watches as he springs out of the pool at the deep end. Lithe. Self possessed.

On the rocks that lead down to the water’s edge, Cassius sits in a lotus position, facing out to sea. The Pacific Ocean, not always, though, she thinks. Sometimes even antagonistic.

But today it is tranquil. Calm as its namesake.

In profile, like a sphinx, Cassius is lost in meditation. Upright, lean and spare, solar plexus taut, his body merged into head and bust. Toes sticking out at the end of legs that have disappeared.

What is going on inside of him? Inside his belly? Inside his brain? His mind?

She has read about the kundalini, a dormant energy inside all of us. When she googled it, she found the word “dharma”, ancient Buddhist teachings, and the expression:

“The figure of a coiled serpent—a serpent goddess not of gross but subtle substance.”

Lovely words that have stuck in her mind. Words of poetry. Not to be confused with reality, of course.

Looking at the sphinx man, she imagines the snake uncoiling secretly within, tries to see the movement on the outside of the belly. Nothing. Not a move. Not a flicker. The surface hard and still.

Other words come to her now, slipping like small blue sea creatures out of the slumbering unconscious of her mind. Something about the thousand-petalled lotus at the crown of the head. Waves of light and energy coming from the lowest point in the body, to the seventh at the top.

“And with each awakening, the psyche of the person will be transformed.”

She moves away to the other end of the pool. To the shallows. When she looks back to the rocks at the deep end of the pool, the sphinx-like man has gone.

~~~

The next day was Friday. There was nothing in the flat to eat. She hadn’t eaten breakfast, so by lunch time, Jeanie was ravenous. She dressed to go to lunch and then a swim in the pool. She walked to the end of the beachfront and ordered a late lunch at the restaurant on the esplanade above the pool. Expensive, but it couldn’t be helped. She would take half back for her flat-mate.

She’d planned to go for a swim straight after lunch. But something led her to look at the program for the Yoga classes in The Breathing Space, next-door to the restaurant.

A sign on the wall read: “The world is the great gymnasium, where we come to make ourselves strong.” Swami Vivekenanda.

From the moment she walked into the yoga room, she felt a lovely warmth that engulfed her whole body. She found a spot in the corner at the back of the class, placed her beach towel on the floor, and sat cross-legged on it. The warmth of the room was in part from the sun streaming in. But there was something else. She took off the tee shirt she’d worn over her swimsuit, sat on her haunches, her palms face up on her thighs.

Straight-backed and peaceful, she thought of the sphinx-man at the pool.

The meditation teacher was a plump, motherly type in soft cotton harem pantaloons and a flowing jacket. Belly fat oozing over her waist. She exuded warmth and love. Her voice soft and maternal.

She began to feel quite spiritual. It wasn’t necessary to close your eyes, the matriarch was saying. Better to remain open, so as not to fall asleep.

The motherly leader came and moved one of the lit candles to glow in front of Jeanie. Then she placed a strip of paper at her feet with a wisdom mind mantra on it: OM A RAPA TSA NA DHIH: “May the wisdom mind find you” or something like that.

Jeanie felt her heart swelling within her breast. Pink, green, orange, all the colours of the rainbow filling in the shapes in the video at her forehead, flickering on and off, in tune with the woman’s voice.

She thought once again of the serpent goddess of subtle substance, and wondered if this was she. In manifest form.

The lulling voice of the teacher was telling them they could lie down now.

Ah, great! Horizontal.

The leader was talking about love now. About sending love rays out towards specific people, and to acquaintances. They were being asked to transmit love direct from the heart.

This meditation session was all about love, she realized.

Jeanie wondered how she would know if the objects of her love had received the message or not. It didn’t seem to matter.

She thought of the sphinx-like man and decided that he would be the object of her transmitted love. Why not? she thought. He was an acquaintance, if she saw him again, she would recognise him from the brief encounter at the pool.

Perhaps it was he who had brought her here. She never would have thought of coming, otherwise.

Was he real, or was he an illusion, like so much about life and love?

water-lily

This story was first published on Denise Baer’s blog: (http://baerbookspress.com/), along with other song theme-based stories.

April 26, 2018 0 comment

Writing

The Narrative Arc

I have recently been researching diagrams to represent the Narrative Arc. I had completed a personal memoir, River Girl, based partly on childhood memories, that was complex in structure. How was I to analyse and to improve, if necessary, on this work in terms of its overall structure? I had never mapped out plots and story lines beforehand, preferring to focus on creating believable characters and “zingy” writing in the first instance.

It seemed to me, in fact, that some genres e.g. detective stories and thrillers, were better suited to pre-planning methods, while other narratives depended on the writer “getting it down” first, and worrying about structural issues later on. I saw myself as belonging to the latter category, rather than to the former.

However, I also saw that at some stage in the writing process, any writer will need to consider the overall structure of a longer work. This might take place towards the end, or in the middle, rather than at the beginning of the task of writing a novel. So it became more and more important for me, as I came to the end of writing my works, to consider what makes a successful narrative in terms of overall structure. This led me to try to identify the elements and functions of the narrative arc.

March 17, 2018 7 comments