Think about the last time you lost at a game. What was the process of thought that led to your loss? Now, replicate that moment in the dramatic structure of the story, except the story isn’t about games.
Casual games (especially those available on smartphones/tablets) often employ randomization. The ability to successfully complete a level may be set up to depend on the player giving in and buying one of the micro-transaction items that’s available to make winning easier. If one doesn’t, finishing the level is dependent on blind luck, and may be impossible without giving up and doing something else for a while until one has enough in-game currency to buy whatever item they’re trying to get you to purchase.
For example, in a particular level of Plants Vs. Zombies 2, the boomerang trees need something to block zombies so that they have enough time to fire enough boomerangs to finish them off. The Bonk Choy are more capable, but still need a little delay for some of the tougher zombies. The zombies carried by birds aren’t held up by the Spikeweed, so they wind up chewing through the randomly available defense units - unless one has enough money to buy butter pats to take them down, at 300 coins per shot…
Lachlan tossed and turned in his bunk, not sleeping at all. He kept running through that morning’s encounter, trying to figure a way in which it could have gone better. Having it go worse was easy enough to imagine - punching Pemberton in the nose would have been briefly gratifying, but that was assault and would have led to arrest and scandal. What he couldn’t figure was why Pemberton (and by extension, the rest of Miss Stewart’s household) was so dead-set on keeping the two of them from being friends. They’d gone through the whole ridiculous spy novel charade of passing carved animals back and forth just to maintain some connection, and now even that was gone.
When the obvious truth finally broke in Lachlan’s brain, he sat up suddenly enough that he smacked his forehead into the bunk above him. They’d both been thinking like children, when it came right down to it - not just the toys, or the playing at spycraft in the marketplace, but the whole situation between them. And if there was one thing a daughter of old money had to be aware of, it was her future beyond childhood.
And her household was making sure that Lachlan was not to have a place in that future. It wasn’t about his family’s wealth, or his working on a ship, or his personality - it was about him knowing his place. MIss Stewart would be presented to society soon, and while it was perfectly acceptable for her to dance with a junior officer or three at balls, service on a commercial ship didn’t carry the same social status that a commission did. The answer had been staring him in the face this whole time - and it all came down to the very thing they’d both decided didn’t matter - Class. She had it, he didn’t, and that was all there was to it. He’d never win over Pemberton, or finagle an invitation to one of their balls, or be allowed to approach her in public as anything more than a tradesman - certainly not as a friend.
Because they were worried about him becoming more than a friend.
Saturday, June 20, 2015
Writing Excuses 10.5: What Do You Mean My Main Character is Boring?
This particular episode was very helpful with regard to a story I'm working on. The plot arc made sense, but the stakes weren't as high as they could have been, and the whole thing just felt a little flat. Sure enough, the main character was kind of boring. Changing up the climactic scene so that his reason for "running away from his responsibility" has less to do with him being a huge chicken and more to do with needing to respect the chain of command before making a decision that will definitely have repercussions either way has me far more excited about doing more work on the story. But first, an exercise...
This week's Writing Prompt:
Take three different characters and walk them through a scene. Convey their emotional states, their jobs, and their hobbies without directly stating any of those. The scene in question: walking through a marketplace, and they need to do a dead-drop.
1. Mary stalked purposefully through the aisles of the home improvement store, heading for the nuts & bolts section. Flakes of mud from the morning's trail ride exploded from her riding boots as each heel hit the tile floor The kidnappers had been very clear on exactly which bin of metric lock washers she should place the locker key in, which meant that one of them had to be watching from nearby. An older man wearing a vest looked her way, began to offer assistance, and then very quickly decided that continuing to restock the duct tape was a better course of action.
She turned down an aisle to get away from the lines at the registers, and then realized she was in a dead end. Gritting her teeth, she retraced her steps while cursing the marketing geniuses who decided that the grid layout common to big-box stores wasn't good enough for this one, nooo. Her own tastes in retail decor ran to overstuffed armchairs, artfully arranged impulse purchases by the register, and aisles that encouraged browsing without trapping anyone in a back corner.
They'd taken her apprentice. Idiots. Evidently, given the ransom they'd demanded, they either had very optimistic ideas about metaphysical book sales or else they believed the old stories about her late husband's financial acumen. Odd, since most of those stories also had lurid details about his alleged ties to the Russian Mob. Maybe they hadn't heard that part of the stories. They certainly hadn't figured out that Mary was by orders of magnitude more dangerous than the mobsters whose money they were extorting.
The nuts and bolts aisle finally appeared, and she turned in, searching for the metric lock washers. She dug through a couple of drawers as if looking for a particular size, dropping the locker key into the one specified in the ransom demand, and then made her way back down the aisle, stopping to pick up a blister pack of Wobble Wedges. They'd be just the thing for that one bookshelf in the store on Colfax, and then it wouldn't look like she'd been stomping all over the store for no reason. Besides - now it was her turn to watch.
2. Lachlan made his way through the market crowd as if they were standing still. He wasn’t quite running, exactly - that could have called unwanted attention to his progress, and he had a mission to complete. He was, however, very good at finding spaces to move into that allowed him to flow through the market like a drop of quicksilver. Compared to making one’s way through an airship’s galleys during a storm, this was easy as anything. He grinned to himself, and increased his pace just slightly.
The market stall he was heading for popped up on his right. He casually passed by it, glancing quickly inside to see if anyone else was there. Miss Stewart’s servants, especially her manservant Pemberton, didn’t much care for Lachlan as his family was ‘in trade’. As if they didn’t make their money from being ‘in trade’ - what did it matter whether one operated the cash box directly, or hired someone to do it?
The shop was empty aside from the proprietor. Lachlan casually drifted back toward the entry, moving like the airship he’d just disembarked from. He moved back to the shelf where he and Miss Stewart had arranged their drop site, digging a carved wooden jaguar out of a cargo pocket. Some of his best work if he did say so himself. Livonia - Miss Stewart, he chided himself - would enjoy the new addition to her collection when she visited the market next. Palming the figure, he looked over the other carvings on the shelf, and when he turned away, the new occupant looked as if it had been there all along, between a giraffe on one side and a howler monkey on the other. Lachlan caught the proprietor’s eye and nodded, then turned away - and nearly collided with the middle button on Pemberton’s waistcoat.
3. Bob walked quickly through the mall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His head twitched from side to side as he looked back over his shoulder, ignoring the instructions (repeated over and over and fucking OVER) given by his unexpected guest not to look around, but just to walk through the mall until he got to a specific bench - the only one in the courtyard near the Macy’s with both a fake streetlamp and an operational trash can. The briefcase was getting heavier and heavier in his grip, and he nearly dropped it as a small child ran across his path. He managed not to scream, so at least there was that.
This didn’t seem nearly as cool as it did on TV, with people casually meeting in public places to make exchanges of money, information or hostages. On the other hand, those guys were trained professionals , and their training videos were probably better quality than the ones he’d sat through on customer service, proper topping placement, and the legality of taking one’s lunch breaks on time. The briefcase slipped again, and Bob tightened his grip, trying not to think about how much blood must have soaked into the handle before he’d been entrusted with it.
The bench! There it was. Bob almost ran toward it, then stopped himself. Just a few more minutes, and then he could go back to his apartment and escape back into his shows. Maybe he’s skip “Burn Notice” tonight, though. He sank onto the bench, his knees suddenly rubbery with relief. Checking his watch, he marked off the 4 minutes he was supposed to wait before wandering off, leaving the briefcase behind. He was hyperventilating now. So close…
A voice rasped in his ear. “You’re really not very good at this, are you?”. A large man in a windbreaker sat down next to him, his hand ominously tucked into the front of the jacket as if holding something heavy out of sight.
This week's Writing Prompt:
Take three different characters and walk them through a scene. Convey their emotional states, their jobs, and their hobbies without directly stating any of those. The scene in question: walking through a marketplace, and they need to do a dead-drop.
1. Mary stalked purposefully through the aisles of the home improvement store, heading for the nuts & bolts section. Flakes of mud from the morning's trail ride exploded from her riding boots as each heel hit the tile floor The kidnappers had been very clear on exactly which bin of metric lock washers she should place the locker key in, which meant that one of them had to be watching from nearby. An older man wearing a vest looked her way, began to offer assistance, and then very quickly decided that continuing to restock the duct tape was a better course of action.
She turned down an aisle to get away from the lines at the registers, and then realized she was in a dead end. Gritting her teeth, she retraced her steps while cursing the marketing geniuses who decided that the grid layout common to big-box stores wasn't good enough for this one, nooo. Her own tastes in retail decor ran to overstuffed armchairs, artfully arranged impulse purchases by the register, and aisles that encouraged browsing without trapping anyone in a back corner.
They'd taken her apprentice. Idiots. Evidently, given the ransom they'd demanded, they either had very optimistic ideas about metaphysical book sales or else they believed the old stories about her late husband's financial acumen. Odd, since most of those stories also had lurid details about his alleged ties to the Russian Mob. Maybe they hadn't heard that part of the stories. They certainly hadn't figured out that Mary was by orders of magnitude more dangerous than the mobsters whose money they were extorting.
The nuts and bolts aisle finally appeared, and she turned in, searching for the metric lock washers. She dug through a couple of drawers as if looking for a particular size, dropping the locker key into the one specified in the ransom demand, and then made her way back down the aisle, stopping to pick up a blister pack of Wobble Wedges. They'd be just the thing for that one bookshelf in the store on Colfax, and then it wouldn't look like she'd been stomping all over the store for no reason. Besides - now it was her turn to watch.
2. Lachlan made his way through the market crowd as if they were standing still. He wasn’t quite running, exactly - that could have called unwanted attention to his progress, and he had a mission to complete. He was, however, very good at finding spaces to move into that allowed him to flow through the market like a drop of quicksilver. Compared to making one’s way through an airship’s galleys during a storm, this was easy as anything. He grinned to himself, and increased his pace just slightly.
The market stall he was heading for popped up on his right. He casually passed by it, glancing quickly inside to see if anyone else was there. Miss Stewart’s servants, especially her manservant Pemberton, didn’t much care for Lachlan as his family was ‘in trade’. As if they didn’t make their money from being ‘in trade’ - what did it matter whether one operated the cash box directly, or hired someone to do it?
The shop was empty aside from the proprietor. Lachlan casually drifted back toward the entry, moving like the airship he’d just disembarked from. He moved back to the shelf where he and Miss Stewart had arranged their drop site, digging a carved wooden jaguar out of a cargo pocket. Some of his best work if he did say so himself. Livonia - Miss Stewart, he chided himself - would enjoy the new addition to her collection when she visited the market next. Palming the figure, he looked over the other carvings on the shelf, and when he turned away, the new occupant looked as if it had been there all along, between a giraffe on one side and a howler monkey on the other. Lachlan caught the proprietor’s eye and nodded, then turned away - and nearly collided with the middle button on Pemberton’s waistcoat.
3. Bob walked quickly through the mall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His head twitched from side to side as he looked back over his shoulder, ignoring the instructions (repeated over and over and fucking OVER) given by his unexpected guest not to look around, but just to walk through the mall until he got to a specific bench - the only one in the courtyard near the Macy’s with both a fake streetlamp and an operational trash can. The briefcase was getting heavier and heavier in his grip, and he nearly dropped it as a small child ran across his path. He managed not to scream, so at least there was that.
This didn’t seem nearly as cool as it did on TV, with people casually meeting in public places to make exchanges of money, information or hostages. On the other hand, those guys were trained professionals , and their training videos were probably better quality than the ones he’d sat through on customer service, proper topping placement, and the legality of taking one’s lunch breaks on time. The briefcase slipped again, and Bob tightened his grip, trying not to think about how much blood must have soaked into the handle before he’d been entrusted with it.
The bench! There it was. Bob almost ran toward it, then stopped himself. Just a few more minutes, and then he could go back to his apartment and escape back into his shows. Maybe he’s skip “Burn Notice” tonight, though. He sank onto the bench, his knees suddenly rubbery with relief. Checking his watch, he marked off the 4 minutes he was supposed to wait before wandering off, leaving the briefcase behind. He was hyperventilating now. So close…
A voice rasped in his ear. “You’re really not very good at this, are you?”. A large man in a windbreaker sat down next to him, his hand ominously tucked into the front of the jacket as if holding something heavy out of sight.
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