I expect every writers group has their own shorthand–a vocabulary able to sum up mountains of meaning in molehills of words. In my writers group, there are some very efficient phrases like 1) “good point,” 2) “I see” 3) “okay, I’ll get right on that,” and 4) “thanks,” which mean, respectively 1) “lousy point,” 2) “you totally missed what I was trying to accomplish with this clever twist on convention and yet, based on how monumental a task it would be to correct your glaring imbecility, I’ll pretend I actually appreciate your foolish critique,” 3) “I’ll change that when the sun has blistered the anguished recognition of your own foolishness off the shriveled-up face skin on your corpse” and 4) “I hate you.”
But there are others we use that are slightly more instructive. Two of these come from a writing professor that 3 of us had in college and 1 from the fertile brain of Todd Fahnestock who, as with everything he creates, stole it off another writer.
1) The Pig (courtesy of Todd Fahnestock with thanks to Ken Follett): After reading “The Pillars of the Earth,” Todd noted that the first eighty pages or so are primarily concerned with a man trying to reclaim a lost pig. Todd went on to note how Follett makes the reader care tremendously about this particular pig, flipping pages in rapid succession to see if the man will get his pig back. In the process we get sucked into a very richly detailed world and get hooked by a plot that has exactly nothing to do with said pig. Giles Carwyn, (Todd’s writing partner for the wonderful Heartstone Trilogy), would point out that the pig is what is technically known as a “bridging conflict” in which one is caught up by an immediate but short-lived danger/problem/adventure in order to get from one major part of the book to another (or from the opening into the principal action). The point of this all is that whenever I hit a lull in my dramatic arc I start rooting around like a pig in pig poop (in a Todd&Giles sex fantasy–for those of you who’ve read Heir of Autumn) for a pig of my own.
2) The Raft (courtesy James Yaffe, formerly of The Colorado College) I don’t even remember the precise context any more, but Yaffe often critiqued stories by telling us whether he was or was not “on the raft.” Perhaps he was referring to Huck Finn and how even when the only action in the story was two guys floating on a raft down the Mississippi, Mark Twain made damn sure we were right on the raft with them thanks to the humor, poetry and evocative nature of the language. In our group, being “on the raft” means that you’ll keep turning the pages and enjoying the sights just so long as the writing and storytelling maintain the same quality.
3) The Bus (again, courtesy James Yaffe) I think I remember the context for this one. Yaffe always told each class about this very nearly perfect story he once read about two star-crossed lovers who were brilliantly fleshed out by their author such that the reader was completely transfixed wondering if and when the two would finally get together. Everything is flush with building tension until the final scene when the guy walks out of a coffee shop ready to risk everything to win back his love and…he gets hit by a bus. To Yaffe, this was pure laziness on the part of the writer and Yaffe could not abide laziness. He would have been perfectly happy if the couple made it or didn’t, just so long as the resolution grew naturally from the set-up. He would have also been fine with a surprise twist at the end, as long as the twist had some basis in the reality of the story. Throwing in a random accident, however, was the ultimate evil. In my own writing, I have often struggled with endings, and even despite Yaffe’s warning have still managed to muck things up. But then I learned the ultimate truth that made all of my writing exquisitely flawless in all ways. All you have to do is … Ohmigod! What’s that! Oof!
…
Didn’t like that ending?
I see. Good point. I’ll get right on that. Thanks.