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I Love The Handmaid’s Tale

Handmaid's

I Love The Handmaid’s Tale

I don’t pay to get scared—a rule I live by.  I don’t go to scary movies, I don’t bungie jump, I don’t escape to escape rooms. Yet I watch the dark, creepy and scary TV series, The Handmaid’s Tale.

Why?

Well, aside from deep psychological reasons I won’t go into, because The Handmaid’s Tale portrays a completely credible world (Gilead) in which I must immerse myself.

 I’ve discussed this idea in Creating the Fictional World. Here, I’ll discuss how the writers have created this believability.[1]

Two characters in the Handmaid’s Tale

I want to focus on two characters—Aunt Lydia and the Commander, Fred Waterford.

Aunt Lydia

Aunt Lydia, portrayed by Ann Dowd, prepares fertile women for their new and unwelcome role as the Handmaids to Gilead’s elite.

But Aunt Lydia is not a one-dimensional bad guy. She uses a cattle prod to keep the Handmaids in line but argues a disfigured girl should receive a treat. She demands the Handmaids stone a ‘guilty’ man but seems genuinely happy at a pregnancy.

Normally, in fiction, we have trouble with a character that possesses such opposing traits.

 

Despite this, the writers of the show have made Aunt Lydia credible and compelling. The character has bought completely into the Gilead system. Because Aunt Lydia truly believes what she is doing is righteous, any promptings to be human (compassionate, kind, empathetic) are sternly suppressed as shameful weaknesses.

This rings true because history shows that unbelievably cruelty is possible under the sway of an ideology. During World War II, SS concentration camp officers believed that killing Jews and others, while difficult, was nevertheless for the greater Nazi good.

Aunt Lydia, like the SS officers, does her duty—even if or perhaps especially when, it is distasteful (inhuman).

The Commander

But while Aunt Lydia is caught in a system not of her creation, the Commander helped to shape Gilead’s laws.

Joseph Fiennes plays Commander Fred Waterford, a high-ranking government official. Like Aunt Lydia, he believes in Gilead. But the rules are for the likes of her, not him. He acts as all elites have in history—providing themselves with exemptions not available to the general population.

Thus, despite Gilead’s credo that sex is for reproduction only, he takes his handmaid to a club where the elite indulge in sex for pleasure.

Yet at other times, he invokes the law. He has his wife’s finger cut off for advocating that girls should be taught to read. And is tremendously remorseful later while maintaining it had to be done.

You see, there it is again. Characters acting inconsistently. But it totally works.

Why does this work?

Some might be thinking, “Well, real people don’t always act consistently.” Absolutely right. But say in the novel you’re reading the protagonist is calm, reflective, and logical. Then she suddenly abandons her job and husband for a wild party in India. As a reader, you’d be taken aback unless the writer provides a credible reason for this personality change. Because fiction has rules, albeit often unspoken, that writers must usually respect to produce a story satisfying to their readers.

 

I think The Handmaid’s Tale works because the characters act in a world which itself rings true. And they act consistently within that world.

So, how do you create a believable world in which characters can live? Next post.

[1] For those who don’t know the story, IMBd has short summaries.

 

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Your Reader is Smarter than You

smarter

Your Reader is Smarter than You

Jack Bickam, a writer of fiction, quoted the above from a newsroom sign, somewhere, sometime. A warning to reporters to remember that readers are smarter than they are. A good thing for writers of any kind to keep in mind.

Now, I know that you would never condescend in this way. You’re not that kind of person. Would you? You can do it without meaning to.

Ways you don’t treat your readers as smarter

Too much background

As I’ve discussed in Exposition, giving the reader a lot of background before the real action starts slows down the forward motion of the story. It can also accidentally send the message that you think the reader is too stupid to pick up what’s going on unless you spell it out for him. But he can do very well even with a minimal amount of information. In fact, it can be intriguing. Who’s talking? What’s going on? Why did she say that? Readers can tolerate not only being puzzled but positively enjoy it. So enthrall rather than underrate.

Showing off your expertise

A related thing but it can happen at any point in the plot. I paraphrase an actual amateur writer’s approach.

“This dishonors my family!” he shouted. “I must have revenge!” He pulled out a scimitar, which is a short sword with a curved blade, used originally in Eastern countries.

Exactly the wrong time to drop in a piece of research. It can kick your reader right out of the story. If you really, really think your readers don’t know what a scimitar is and cannot get it from the context, introduce the term sometime earlier.

Telling them how to interpret your story

You want to get your message across. Of course you do. But it is both clunky and insulting to write:

This is a story of hope. Despite almost insurmountable odds, Ryan will triumph, showing the world that no disability can prevent his true spirit shining through.

This is what you want your reader to conclude (hopefully with less hackneyed words) once she has read your compelling tale of your protagonist’s travails and final triumph. Again, show don’t tell.

Driving the point home

Some writers think they can sneak in the message by one of the characters articulating it.

Brenda wiped a tear away. “It’s hard to believe Ryan could accomplish that with all his challenges.”

Gary nodded. “He’s an example of the unconquerable human spirit.”

Even if you write it more elegantly than this bit, you’re still trying to give the reader the ‘correct’ conclusion. The right one is the one the reader comes up with himself.

Trying to get away with something

You can run into a plot point which is needed but doesn’t fit with what has gone before. Yes, she’s a bitch but if she doesn’t volunteer at the shelter, she won’t meet Jake. Or The floor has to collapse. Otherwise, how do I get them to the underground cave?

The temptation is to motor along with what you need for the plot, hoping that your readers won’t notice. News. They do with annoying frequency. Whenever I have tried an easy way out, someone invariably says, “But wouldn’t they feel that the floor wasn’t solid as soon as they stepped on it?”

The answer is to go back and fix the bits inconsistent with where you now want to go in the action. A nuisance, I know, but you often get a better plot if you do.

It is easy to inadvertently give the impression you think you’re smarter than your readers. You can avoid it by being alert to unintentional slips.

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I’m Getting Awful Feedback—I Guess I Can’t Write

feedback

I’m Getting Awful Feedback—I Guess I Can’t Write

Okay, first, take a deep breath. Allowing others to read your writing is putting yourself on the line. It feels like a personal attack when you don’t get the kind of feedback you hoped for. And, if you are anything like me, you can’t get it out of your head, along with the conviction that this is irrefutable proof that you can’t write.

The curse of artistic endeavors is that, to create, you need to be sensitive, open to the world, and responsive to it. So your defenses can’t be up and thus you are more vulnerable to negative comments. But this is the time to let your analytic and logical left brain take over from your emotional and creative right brain.

Work through the follow steps to help your left brain kick in. The sooner the better.

Dealing with negative feedback

Step 1. Again, take a deep breath and let it out slowly. No, really do it.

Step 2. Set aside time for these steps—on paper or screen. Don’t just think the answers—that’ll just keep the judgments swirling around uncontrollably.

Step 3. Reread the comments or if the feedback was oral, write down what you remember. If you can’t bring yourself to do it right now, put the piece away for a day or so (no longer). But I’d try—otherwise, it just keeps festering.

Step 4. Pick the comment which hurts the most and answer:

  • Does it say that you can never be a writer or does it simply make an observation about your piece? One you are hurt by but still, probably about the piece, not you.
  • Can you reframe the statement as disappointing rather than world-ending? You’d hoped for a more positive reaction but didn’t get it. Remember, it’s about the piece, not you.
  • If you changed your story to accommodate this comment, would the piece be better for it? An acceptable answer is ‘no’ but articulate the reasons—don’t just react viscerally. Note: this is different from whether you have the skills to make the change.
  • If the change would help, do you know how to make it? If not, where could you get help to master this skill?
  • Make a plan (dates and specific actions, please) to make the change/get the help.
  • Take the next worst comment and repeat.

These steps will help slow things down enough to let your analytic side take over. If you work through the two or three comments that really hurt, you will usually find that you can move things from I know I’ll never be a writer to There are some things I can improve in the story.

When this won’t work

This process won’t work if the feedback comes from a person or persons who have a nasty streak. Knowing that this is a vulnerable spot, they go in for the kill. You know who they are.

Stop asking them for feedback, no matter how good their writing is. They are not going to help you to advance.

Does that mean you can’t write?

I know that this still leaves the question hanging—can I write? Let me put your heart at ease. Everybody has a story to tell and everybody can write if they are serious about mastering the craft and learn to manage the human side of writing (this post being a prime example).

Will you be Shakespeare or even a best seller? Don’t know. But you can write.

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He Uttered! He exclaimed!

uttered

He Uttered! He exclaimed!

“You almost always know when you’re reading a novice writer,” she uttered, “Because the dialogue goes something like this:

“I hope this works,” Sheila whispered.

“Of course it will!” Norm shouted.

“Well, no need to get shirty,” she uttered.

“Then stop second-guessing me,” he barked.

“I am not!” she exclaimed.

“You are always interfering!” he roared.

“I am not.” she protested.

What is wrong with this? Well, in the sins of the world, it’s not really high up, but consider this revision.

“I hope this works,” Sheila whispered.

“Of course it will!” Norm shouted.

“Well, no need to get shirty.”

“Then stop second-guessing me!”

“I am not!”

“You are always interfering!”

“I am not.”

Reads better, don’t you think? Even though all I did was remove most of the speaker attributions. Why is it more effective? Let’s talk.

Uttered, etc. is preening

A while back, in a post called Creating the Continuous Dream, I discussed how writers must create a world into which the reader can be totally immersed. And how even small things can kick the reader out of the dream and thus out of your story.

The use of fancy-dancy dialogue tags is an example of breaking the dream for the reader. You want her to be engrossed in your story and not pulled up short (i.e. ejected from the dream) to pay attention to the variety of your speech attributions.

But isn’t variety good?

Normally, yes. With most of your writing, you want to vary your terms. Look at this example: It’s important to understand the importance of not being a name dropper of important people. Clunky. It’s more readable to say, it’s important not to name-drop. So typically, you want to avoid repetition.

The one exception is speech attribution where using ‘said’ frequently or exclusively is the way to go. When characters are talking, you want to highlight the fascinating and insightful conversation without at the same time, implicitly communicating Look at me! Look at how erudite I am!

The emotion or manner of speaking needs to come from what the characters say, not how the writer tells the reader they are saying it. Look at the revised dialogue above. The feeling comes from the characters’ interaction; the reader doesn’t need the writer to tell her that.

Can I never use other tags?

Well, as in all writing, things are rarely cast in concrete.

For example, it’s okay to vary the tags if the reader needs additional information. In the above example, the reader probably should realize that Norm responded to Sheila’s whisper with shouting. You will undoubtedly explain why as the story progresses.

But often with a two-person dialogue, you don’t need tags at all once you’ve established who is speaking (as in the example above).

If you want to communicate how a character is speaking, substitute an action for an appellation. Let’s do the example once again.

“I hope this works,” Sheila whispered.

“Of course it will!” Norm shouted.

“Well, no need to get shirty.”

“Then stop second-guessing me!”

“I am not!” Sheila poked him in the side.

“You are always interfering!” He brushed her hand aside.

“I am not.”

Actually, I don’t love this iteration. I prefer to let the characters’ personalities speak for themselves but if you need to convey a reaction, use their actions to do so.

(Yes, I know I used ‘dialogue’ a lot in this piece—I think I can add another exception—technical terms).

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How to Show Emotion

emotion

How to Show Emotion

Showing emotion is often one of the toughest things to do—in the sense of having the reader feel and identify with the feelings of the character.

You can do it by “He was sad,” but that’s not showing the emotion—that’s just telling the reader your take on the character’s mental condition. Look at the image above. If you describe what the person in the middle picture is doing rather than labeling it, you might come up with, “He dabbed a handkerchief to one eye.”

While that description doesn’t necessarily tug at the heart strings, it could be the beginning of a more effective scene.

“I can’t believe she’d do that.” He was sad.

Versus

“I can’t believe she’d do that.” He dabbed a handkerchief to one eye.

See, there is a subtle difference. It is easier for the reader to connect with the character’s action than with the writer’s description of it.

Emotion is tough

Here are some thoughts about how to get better at emotion in your characters.

Be specific. As in the example above, describe the action rather than your interpretation of it. Not He was pissed but His lips straightened into a thin line.

Don’t name the emotion. In one of those perverse things that is just life, the most effective way to show emotion is never to use the name of the feeling you are going for. That is, you don’t say he’s bewildered, you show how a person would act in that state. It’s not always easy to do but if you can’t picture it enough to describe it, how can you expect the reader to get it?

Differentiate between you and the character. In order to have fully realized characters, you need to depict how the character feels in the situation not how you would feel. Your villain might chortle with glee when the heroine falls off the cliff; you might gasp. You want to avoid having your characters acting/feeling as you might—it makes for a homogeneous emotional landscape and is therefore boring.

Be in touch with your own emotions. This one follows on from the previous point. If you don’t have a visceral connection to your feelings, its lack will show up on the page in a mysterious way. If you are hiding you from yourself, it’s harder to create characters that have access to the full range of emotions. I know this is a big thing to lay down and then walk away from, but how you get truly in touch with your feelings is outside the scope of this blog. But is nonetheless very worthwhile pursuing, quite aside from the benefits to your writing. See, I told you this is hard.

You don’t need to do it all the time

When the characters’ emotional state is an important part of the story, then you’d probably be better off showing than telling. But when it is not, and this is likely to be the majority of the characters the majority of the time, you don’t need to. And in fact, an exhaustive description of how everyone is feeling will likely slow down the action and bore your readers.