Proof: You Can Start on the Fly
By Kathryn Craft | December 14, 2023 |
photo adapted / Horia Varlan
Last week, while looking for a new show to stream, I came across Doc Martin, about a socially-changed surgeon who, after developing an aversion to blood, leaves London to serve as a family doctor in a small village in Cornwall.
Socially-challenged protagonists, such as Sean Murphy (The Good Doctor) or Sam Gardner (Atypical) on TV, or like Eleanor Oliphant (Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman) or Don Tillman (The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion), are like self-contained story machines. Their outsider status and keen-yet-selective observation skills give them an interesting perspective through which to view a story, their social obstacles are heart-wrenching and never-ending, and their ability to think outside the box makes for many creative ways to “make do” when the needed supplies aren’t readily at hand.
So I was predisposed to like Doc Martin, and excited to see that it was such a popular show that there were ten seasons.
One problem, though: only seasons 8 through 10 were available via PBS. Watching the earlier seasons required yet another streaming subscription. What’s a woman to do if she wants to give Doc Martin a try and she does not care to add to her array of subscription streaming services?
She starts watching in season 8, of course. Because for all the difference it made to me, I was starting from the beginning.
How can that work, when I was entering this character’s story right in the middle?
We readers do it all the time, when we open the front cover of a novel. Starting in Season 8 is an example of what it means to start in medias res, a Latin term that literally means “in the midst of things.”
The season begins with Doc Martin running from his house in a suit and tie and through the middle of a bike race to get to the shoreline, where a fisherman has his hand caught up inside a winch. By insisting on helping, the handsome-yet-bumbling police officer on scene only makes matters worse. The Martins’ nanny quits precipitously because she is marrying the policeman after an eight-week romance. When the happy couple goes to meet with the vicar the day before the wedding, they learn that a substitute pastor has been called to the town on short notice and will be conducting the wedding the next day. The policeman doesn’t want this less experienced curate to officiate, and to make matters worse, Doc Martin has treated her with a medication that makes her nose bleed while counseling the couple, which does nothing to engender trust.
This set up plenty of dramatic and comedic complication for the episode—and while watching, I felt perfectly oriented to it.
A story, after all, doesn’t begin with the Big Bang and end with the Total Annihilation—the reader will always enter, and leave, in the midst of something.
Story DNA at play
We can orient mid-story because every scene that belongs in your book will carry your story’s DNA. Scene structure ensures this: If each of the scenes in your novel marks your protagonist’s difficult yet well-motivated progress toward his goal, chances are your reader will be able to orient to the nature of the story no matter where she begins reading.
Example 1
Check out this line in The Arctic Fury, written by WU contributor Greer Macallister:
The worst part about being surrounded by water, thought Elizabeth Kent, was how the temptation to shove Caprice Collins overboard was a constant thrum in her blood.
Great opening line, right? Draws you right in.
But it’s not the opening of the novel—it’s the first line of Chapter 18, some 130 pages in. But, enticed to read more, what story DNA might you find this late in the book?
The next paragraph reads:
The idea of doing her mistress harm had, of course, crossed her mind many times over the years. It was Elizabeth’s firm belief that anyone who knew Caprice for any length of time fantasized about doing her in. She could tell the leader of their party, this Virginia Reeve, had no love at all for Caprice. Even if Mr. Bishop hadn’t gossiped to the other servants, Elizabeth would have known. Something about Virginia seemed to bring out the worst in Caprice. Heaven knew there was plenty of bad there to bring out. It wasn’t even buried very deep.
This is not a high-action scene, and yet we are in the midst of things. Our sense of story movement is driven by a shift in point of view. Without feeling like we’re being “told,” Macallister’s language choices provide this story DNA: Elizabeth is Caprice’s servant; Caprice is difficult and doesn’t try to hide the fact; and both Elizabeth and Caprice are part of a “party” led by Virginia. These relationships are at the heart of the novel, and so will continue to be threaded throughout. And it does raise an important question: what’s up with Virginia and Caprice?
But this wouldn’t be the right place to start the novel. It is Virginia, not Elizabeth, who, as the leader of a party of women to the Arctic, is the protagonist who’s been paid to solve the mystery of a woman’s missing husband and the Arctic expedition he led. The story of Virginia’s party as they journey over sea and frozen land is interwoven with its aftermath one year later, during which Virginia is on trial for murder.
Example 2
Let’s look at a different example, from Catherine McKenzie’s Smoke:
I wake up in the middle of an air raid as the low buzz of a fixed-wing plane rattles the house.
The windows shake.
An engine revs.
My heart pounds in my chest.
It takes me an instant to connect the dots. The fire’s being water-bombed. Big, heavy planes and helicopters equipped with tanks carrying water and fire retardant are releasing their cargo on Nelson Peak to try to do what the human crews couldn’t.
Considering that this is the story of a woman called back into the firefighting life she’d left behind once her own home is threatened, this could be the opening, right? It pulls you right in. But these lines are on p. 138, at the beginning of Chapter 17.
Example 3
Let’s put this theory to the ultimate test. No chapter opening shenanigans this time—for this example, I opened Cathy Lamb’s All About Evie to a random spread and dropped my finger on this section of dialogue, p. 222:
“What’s it like, Evie?”
“What’s what like, Sally?”
“To see the future.”
“I don’t see the future.” The bookstore was busy today. Partly because we were selling six-layer Chocolate Cake Ecstasy.
“You ran over to my house yesterday, coming out of nowhere, and stood under my tree right as Ellen was falling. You don’t expect me to believe that you can’t see the future.”
Look how strong the story DNA is here: this is a story about a woman whose life has been both plagued and blessed by premonitions, and who would much rather serve her community by running a bookstore that also sells cake and tea. Her challenge, however, is to learn the truth of her past, once a DNA test upends what she thought she knew.
Mad Skills to take away
I’m not making the point that the opening of a novel isn’t important. Of course it is; it’s key to understanding the premise of the novel, how it will be delivered, and how the plot will pressure your character to grow in order to achieve her goals. I’m merely pointing out that both reader and writer can learn much about that story on the fly.
Try this:
- When drafting, you need not nail your opening—you simply need to start. If you start with a scene, the agency required of your protagonist to pursue her scene goal will get your story moving.
- While revising, on a day when you wake up feeling refreshed and creative, rewrite your chapter openings. Woo your reader, over and over. And while you’re at it, rewrite your chapter endings so that they raise a question as to how the events of that chapter will impact what your protagonist will do next.
- When revising, play this game with your own manuscript: Open to a random page to see whether the scene you landed on carries the DNA of your story. Does your protagonist have a scene goal that promises movement toward her overall story goal? Are there premise-relevant obstructions that will push the character into her needed arc of change? Is some incremental manifestation of that change exhibited?
- Once you’ve finished the novel and are fully steeped in its DNA, that’s the time to write your novel’s true opening.
Want to put a novel passage to the Story DNA test? Show us how a chapter opening from the middle of your manuscript pulls the reader in. Or, open to a random place—in either a book from your shelves or from your own manuscript—and share what you found. Could a reader tell, from that passage alone, what the story was about? If not, how might you address that?
Kathryn Craft (she/her) is the author of two novels from Sourcebooks, The Art of Falling and The Far End of Happy. Her forthcoming book, Crafting Story Movement: Techniques to Engage Readers and Drive Your Novel Forward, draws from decades of experience as both a story consultant and a movement specialist/dance critic. Learn more on Kathryn’s website.
Love this so much, Kathryn! It calls to mind John Grisham’s advice: “Don’t write the first scene until you know the last.” At the risk of hubris, I would amend that to say: “Don’t decide which is your first scene until you know the last.” You may have already written it, without knowing which one it is.
That’s what recently happened to me with my WIP, when I had one of those head-smacking moments of realizing that Chapter Two made a far more powerful and story-intelligent opening than my present Chapter One. But I couldn’t come to that “solution” until I’d faced the “problem” (which I didn’t want to admit)—that my original opening (much as I loved that Darling) was a sort of red herring, rather than an invitation into the Big Story Question.
I came away from this experience with the idea (which, of course, I’m not brave enough to try) of writing little summaries of each scene on a 3 x 5 card, throwing them in the air, picking them up at random to experiment with different ways to start the story, just to loosen my writerly mind. I would love to know if anyone has ever done this, because I’m sure I’m not the first one to come up with the idea!
I am familiar with the process you describe, Barbara. With both of my novels, I rewrote the openings in the 11th hour—even after working with the editor at my publishing house!—to good effect. Not sure about the index card scramble, but hey, if you try it, report back!
Regarding index cards: After failing to get my first two novels off the ground, I found a writer on line who taught a class. (Not like Kathryn’s.) She was a firm believer in index cards, different colors for different aspects of the work. Maybe blue for scenes, green for character description, red for big changes; I don’t remember.
I ran right out and got myself a beautiful selection of cards, and a little box exactly the right size to hold them. The plan was to find a big cork board–a wall you didn’t care about would do–and write down all the scenes and beats, then try them in different combinations. But I’m a typing boy. And I’m a world-class procrastinator. I started thinking about doing a list of scenes and then hand-writing them all onto cards, and ….
I have several unopened packets of pretty 3×5 cards (don’t forget the container). Anyone who wants them can come and get them. They’d be good for recipes, too.
Haha oh this made me laugh, Michael! In the end we all have to find the way of working that works best for each of us, I guess!
Wow Kathryn! Awesome post. Great advice. We writers can forget that story relies on the characters who live in our work, who love and get angry, hurt and recover. Life is messy. Choosing Doc Martin is iconic. Love him and the series which always presents a problem to be solved (often based on true medical research which I love). But each episode is like a compressed novel that ends with a medical or human truth with laughter along the way. The DNA of a story that is growing will guide the writer and in the end a healthy story will be the result. Just ask Doc Martin.
What fun that you to are a patient of—I mean, appreciative viewer of—Doc Martin! I too love the mix of medical and relationship-driven drama with humor that often has me laughing out loud. I love how you say “characters who live in their work”—as a guiding light for characterization that feels so true, whether their work is a career, learning a skill, orbiting a good mom.
Rather than begin at the beginning, begin where it’s interesting. Great advice! And I hope that writers also grasp the second half of it: KEEP it interesting.
I notice certain things in your examples: commanding voice and high intrigue. Something unusual is afoot. We are instantly heading somewhere. The narrator isn’t wasting our time but getting right to it. There’s no set up, just up.
It’s the kind of writing we call lively. Perhaps the story DNA is simply that? A lively mind telling us the story in a lively way? Regardless, your post today is a power shot.
Cheers and Happy Holidays, Kathryn.
I love this crystallization of the post: “I notice certain things in your examples: commanding voice and high intrigue. Something unusual is afoot. We are instantly heading somewhere. The narrator isn’t wasting our time but getting right to it. There’s no set up, just up.” Well said!
Thank for stopping in, Don, and happy holidays to you and your family as well.
Hello Kathryn. Your suggestions sound workable to me: using a random method to see in a fresh way, and assess chapter openings. Especially in terms of a book taken off the shelf. But in terms of a writer’s own story, the writer is the source of her story’s DNA. She will see anything she chooses from that perspective, not as a first-time reader.
With that quibble out of the way, I can now urge you to do whatever it takes to see all of Doc Martin. The series’ DNA is fuelled by a doctor’s phobic fear of blood, and his atypically irascible nature. The main character is played by veteran English actor Martin Clunes. He also happens to be an excellent writer, and I recommend his book A Dog’s Life to everyone who loves dogs. In perfect alignment with Clune’s own love of dogs, his character Doc Martin loathes dogs. But they follow him everywhere. This grumpy spirit can be illustrated by a patient who needs an appendectomy. When he tells her she must have the operation, she says, “Well, it sounds as though I have no choice.” “Of course you have a choice,” he tells her. “You can suffer agonizing pain for a time and then die, or your can have the surgery.”
Sorry to use your post to pitch a TV show, but believe me, if you can’t find any other way to see Doc Martin, buy the DVDs.
Another Doc Martin fan—yay! You describe him and the situation he finds himself in beautifully. I’m alone in this at my house—my husband also has an aversion to blood, so the premise doesn’t attract him. And I assure you, after blowing through Season 8 too fast, and with only two more seasons to go, I have no doubt I’ll somehow circle back to pick up the first seven seasons.
As for this—”…in terms of a writer’s own story, the writer is the source of her story’s DNA. She will see anything she chooses from that perspective, not as a first-time reader”—you and I have no reason to quibble. To me, the story DNA is what the novel is at its most basic level; the story that drives it. And of course, that is a byproduct of the author’s creativity, and perhaps scraped from his own DNA. My point was that it will infuse the entire story and be visible at any point along the way. Even in subplot scenes, as they will reinforce the essential story from a different slant.
As always, thanks for stopping in Barry! It was great to meet you in person in Salem.
Kathryn–I reread your post, and I now see my quibble had little to do with it. It had to do with my own trouble in seeing what I’ve written with fresh eyes. After I write something, it tends to “firm up,” like cement on a new driveway. That’s why professional editors are so important to everyone, but especially to writers like me.
Thanks for the addendum, Barry. Seeing our work with fresh eyes is a bit of an oxymoron, isn’t it?
Happy holidays!
I always love your posts and the examples, Kathryn. This stood out to me the most: “Once you’ve finished the novel and are fully steeped in its DNA, that’s the time to write your novel’s true opening.”
Oh, the days, weeks, months I’ve spent writing, revising, and rewriting the opening of my novels, thinking if I could just get a strong opening down I could build upon that—when really, what I needed to do was write the danged story to find out how to best open it! If I could have that time back… anyway, with both of my novels, I rewrote the openings in the 11th hour and they ended up just right. Hope it works that way for you as well, Densie!
Wonderful advice and examples, Kathryn. Thank you. I remember reading in Hooked by Les Edgerton that you have to keep them hooked as you reel them in. Keep the tension. I decided to give my MC a break because I was feeling too much tension writing, but it was the absolute wrong thing to do :) Now I apply Don’s advice of microtension on each page. I love what he added to your discussion regarding set up vs UP!
Interesting, Vijaya, that you needed to give your character a break to ease your own tension! We do identify with our protagonists, don’t we? I loved Les’s book and all of Don’s as well, so we clearly have similar tastes in writing advisors. Thanks for reading!
There is pure gold here, Kathryn, both in your post and in the comments. Thank you for all of it!!
You’re welcome Susan, thanks for reading and happy holidays!
I just forwarded your post to a writer friend with whom i was commiserating about our MS. Next chat she and I have will be about how we applied your insights. Thanks Kathryn.
That’s so cool, Deborah, thanks for letting me know! Feel free to report back!
What a good bar to aim for. It makes the opening feel less intimidating to know that we’ll be placing hooks all along the story way. More fun to think up ways to intrigue the reader into the story. Thank you for this, Kathryn. So lovely to meet you in Salem.
Yes, exactly—”less intimidating.” I’m glad this helps, Lisa, and it was lovely meeting you as well!