Learning to Write Sex Scenes

Posted on May 6, 2013 by Multiple Viewpoints

by Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

Be careful how many sex scenes you use in the novel, and the type of sex scenes you allow the characters to experience.

Limiting contemporary writers to two or three lusty graphic sex scenes is not censorship or catering to priggish preferences. An uptight morality is not the issue. It is one of craft and function in writing. Merely because publishers and public tastes support sexual license in novels is no reason for a writer to use what is not useful in the novel.

The purpose of the sex scene is to change the lives of characters and their relationships. To cause conflicts, or to resolve them. To reveal depths in character that cannot be revealed through another type of action. In fiction a sexual interval is a situation of physical\emotional\intellectual pressure. It is unique. It is noticeable. It is dramatic.

Unless the writer strains to put the sexual participants through remarkably erotic logistics, what they are doing is only a repetition of what they have done before. “Oh well, the jokers are at it again.”

Readers hurry into becoming involved in all of what the characters are experiencing. Their ambitions, romances, successes and defeats. Their dangers, intrigues, violences, desires, etc. Although the reader escapes into the adventures of the novel, they know it is all make-believe. But when the sex scenes appear, the reader/character relationship changes. The writer is now touching the nervous, real-life depths of the reader.

If the reader’s personal sexual experiences are gratifying, then watching the characters perform is more amusing than arousing. If the reader’s sex life is miserable, then the sexual pleasures of the characters cause resentment. If the sexual unity of the characters is ugly, the reader becomes annoyed for two reasons. First, it mirrors their own sex life. Second, watching people suffer in a natural function is not pleasant.

If characters become extreme and their coupling is a muscle spraining calisthenic, the reader is distressed because they are too lazy or decrepit to duplicate the positions. They can’t find someone to join them in such an unconventional effort. If the sex is bland and without graphic emphasis, then it is mechanical and the reader thinks, “Come on, get on with the story, please.” The writer doesn’t have to invent new types of sex scenes-he must give a newness of meaning to each scene he writes.

Inexperienced writers should realize that the sexual practices, preferences, and performances of the reading public are not lofty or ideal. They are either grim, fearful, incompetent, dark with ignorance, perfunctory, painful with guilt and intimidation, unsanitary and hurried, exploiting and perverse. Only a minor percentage of readers are gratified by their own endeavors in the sexual realm. It is miraculous that humanity has not become an endangered species.

There are more sexual behavior manuals in every library than diet, physical fitness, or home repair books. These guides are sold in the millions. Not because of their effectiveness-but because readers are in constant search of sexual fulfillment, and are incurable hopers.

Readers are not dirty-minded voyeurs who read with one hand and indulge in vicarious sleaze. Most readers read to escape-not to be reminded or accused of what they are escaping from. There is a difference between the erotic and pornographic. Eroticism creates a delight and appreciation for the sensations expressed in your body. Pornography urges you to lunge at the first public object available.

Some Guides for how Sexual Scenes Should Be Used in Novel writing.

(A) They should not startle or be outstanding from the texture of the novel. They should be integral to its content.

(B) For the purpose of humiliating characters (brutality, indifference, etc.).

(C) To have characters manipulate each other through sexual guile, prowess, deceit.

(D) To offer insights into character that cannot be provoked through another, less exciting or dramatic activity.

(E) To provide character-relationship intimacy not achieved before.

(F) To offer inner revelations proving to the characters themselves that they are happily or unhappily mated

(G) For the purposes of duty propagation. “Yes, darling, tonight we begin our family.”

(H) To reveal genuine love.

(I) To overcome the fear of each other.

Whatever type of sex scene is used, if it does not further the story or change relationships, don’t use it. The graphics of sex should be of a secondary interest. It is the emotional\mental reason for having sex that should be explored. After the first subdued or volcanic sexual encounter, allow other sex scenes to happen “off scene”, as references. When another sex scene is vital to the novel, depict it-but again-only because it changes the people and furthers the story.

© 2013 the estate of Leonard Bishop

(first published November 30, 1986 the Manhattan Mercury)

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Learning to Write Dialogue

Posted on April 29, 2013 by Multiple Viewpoints

by Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

One of the most important devices a writer uses is dialogue. Writing a novel without a plentiful amount of dialogue is like trying to create a gourmet omelet with yokeless eggs. To the reader, dialogue is just a flow of statement issuing from the characters. To the writer, dialogue contains many concealed functions which he must control and direct.

There are six basic functions for dialogue in fiction writing. (1) to inform.(2) to reveal attitudes.(3) to express responses.(4) to make inquiries.(5) to offer insight.(6) to change situations.

To inform: “I’m flying to Paris for some escargot – that’s snails.”

Attitudes: “Abe Lincoln was a repressive depressive, with bad teeth.”

Responses: “Don’t sniff at me. I just bathed and deodorized.”

Inquiry: “Is the governor really a child molester?”

Insight: “Charlie is rich, I agree. But he’s not intellectual.”

Changing situations: “You think I’m the killer, but I’m not. Start thinking about Gimpy. Remember Gimpy? Think on him.”

“Gimpy is dead. How can a dead man be a killer?”

“Who saw Gimpy die? Was Gimpy’s body ever found?”

“Hey, that’s right. Yeah. That changes things.”

If a writer is not gifted in creating dialogue that sounds authentic, keep it short. Brevity often covers up the writer’s deficiency. Do not keep the reader’s eye and ear on the dialogue for too long. Set yourself a rule: If the character speaks longer than four average sentences, he is delivering a speech. Have another character interrupt him with a question or contradict him, or add to his information. Break up this dialogue with an external description, or physical action.

Avoid the natural interjections of real speech.(Ahem, um, uh, but-but-but, etc). In the speech of fiction, they are cumbersome, annoying, and indicate either amateurism or negligence.

The sound and tone of dialogue (anger, resentment, command, plea, passion, etc.) is established by the descriptive prose that precedes it.

Example: He slammed his fist on the table, shouting, “Stop putting sugar in my coffee.” Or: She kicked off her shoes and giggled, “Prune juice gets me so sexy.” Or: Sunny’s lower lip quivered, “I didn’t stab the Canary, I swear.” Or: The preacher wept, “Sinners.”

The speaking of a character carries more conviction and immediacy than a description of what a character says. “I’m innocent!” Is stronger than “He declared that he was innocent.” Dialogue should be described only when the characters are revealing important information about themselves, or their circumstance. Described dialogue diminishes its value.

Example: Emma gripped the ships railing and said she would not move. Waves slammed against the hull, causing the yacht to buck. Jim stood beside her and said he would not leave her. He braced himself when he saw another wave coming towards them.

Described dialogue does not individualize or offer emphasis. It is not separated from the fixtures of the sea, the boat, the rail. What the characters are feeling and doing and saying and what is happening is blended. The description of dialogue is muted and always one second behind. Stated dialogue is instant, and visible.

Example: Jim stood beside Emma as she gripped the ship’s railing. “I’m standing here and I won’t move. Let the storm rage – let it!” Jim trembled. “All right, darling, I’ll stand here with you. We’ll drown together!” He braced himself when he saw another wave coming towards them.

Dialogue can be used for quick shifts from one character’s thoughts to what another character is thinking. The transition is not noticeable.

Example: Will knew his three aces would win the hand. Now Susie could see the orthodontist. He tossed in two blue chips. “I’ll raise it fifty.” Calvin shrugged. It wasn’t his money. He could always steal more. He pushed in two red chips. “I see the raise and up it a hundred.”

Dialogue can be used for preparing an action or an event that will happen later on: “I tell you that if we don’t get Jenny a new car, she will kill herself. She’s tried it four times before, you know.”

Dialogue can be used for returning characters into the past so the reader can know what happened before the novel began. (Background).

“Let me tell you what happened to me when I was 12 years old. You won’t believe it, but listen anyway.” (The writer describes the past).

There is seemingly idle use for dialogue. Lengthily described scenes can dull the reader’s vision. They become inclined to skim–thereby missing important details. To avoid this, the writer deliberately pulls the character’s voices from the scene, to make them speak. The dialogue breaks up the monotony of reading lengthy passages.

There are many more uses for dialogue than ever reach the reader’s ear.

© 2013 the estate of Leonard Bishop

(first published November 23, 1986 the Manhattan Mercury)

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Is Data Fact?

Posted on April 24, 2013 by Multiple Viewpoints

by Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

People ask writers, “Where’d you get all the information you use?” The obvious response is, “Research.” The question to ask the writer is: “What do you do with all the information you gain from research and never use?” Nothing! You just never use it. It begins as bright buds in your mind, and eventually withers to lay in your unconscious like weeds.

Of what value is knowing that bullfighting – corrida de toros-  originated as a religious ritual? It was a fertility rite conducted by the ancients who depended upon the animal for food. Does anyone care that Alexander Pushkin, “the Shakespeare of Russia,” had 1/8 African blood? Or that articulate parrots have been given minimum legal recognition in court testimonies? And that a cardinal once paid 100 crowns for a parrot because he could recite the apostles Creed?

A writer‘s memory retains the cast-offs of information and it layers his mind like soggy warts. I wrote a novel about a nun. Because it was about a Catholic, I had to research bingo games. They originated in the early 1500’s and are attributed to a nobleman, Benedetto Gentile,of Genoa. The word “bingo” was a slang term for Brandy.

I also found out that hogs were, in fact, useful to the old-time sailing ships. They were kept aboard as emergency compasses. If a vessel lost sight of land, a hog was dumped into the sea. Instinctively, the hog would lead them to land. Which led me to learning that it was Gen. Sheridan, who said, “If I owned Texas and hell, I would rent out Texas and live in hell.” Which led to learning that infants cough while still in their mother’s womb.

After writing three or four novels that demand research, you wish there were a mental Roto-Rooter to use on your mind. Whirr and grrr, and in a few moments you’re all cleaned out of nonsense you once believed was urgently significant. Like that the last words of George Wilhelm Hegel, the philosopher, were: “Only one man ever understood me. And he didn’t understand me.” Go any deeper than that and you’ll fall out of your head.

I know hundreds of conundrums. When at a dull party, I state a few, and people believe I am interesting. Example: “The reason why the lobster blushed red was because it saw the salad dressing.” Or “Something no one wishes to have, yet no one wants to lose, is a bald head.” And this: “A railway engine never sits down because it has a tender behind.” If my conundrums fizzle, I can always shift into palindromes- (a word or sentence that reads the same forward or backwards). Rather than the simplistic “Madam, I’m Adam”, I would cite “A man, a plan, a canal-Panama!” Or “Egad, a base tone denotes a bad age.” Then switch to some Latin: “Signa, te, signa: temere me tangis et angis.” (You touch and torment me in vain) Knowing that is as valuable as the hair left in your palm.

This information you collect and then work to forget, is often brought back by casual associations. You’re buying a pound of uncut salami and glance at the price. The numbers immediately remind you of Eratosthenes’ Sieve–a system of screening out the prime numbers from a sequence of whole numbers. Which brings to mind that triskaidekaphobia defines the fear of the number, 13. Keeping these facts is as valuable as saving discarded apple cores.

You can always tell a one or two-book writer by how he uses this informational gibberish to fuel his ego at a gathering.

A writer uses a conglomerate of research books. Some he owns, others he locates in the library or delete borrows from other writers. I have books on the origin of the meaning of fingernails, smoking pipes, curtains, weather vanes, tea leaf reading. The study of noses and ears for insight into character, the philosophy of hairstyles, and the place of breasts in history. I have books on the language and slang of foreign nations, the ancient practice of anesthesiology, and the hidden meaning of insect names. I am up to my omphalos (belly button) and steatopygous (fat rump) in books.

If I had the patience and staff that the writer, Irving Wallace, had I would bring all this wanton trivia together into another The People’s Almanac as he did. For right now I’ll settle for turning this data in a small column.

© 2013 the estate of Leonard Bishop

(first published April 20, 1986 the Manhattan Mercury)

For an enjoyable take on using research from one of Leonard’s former students, Donna Gillespie, see Research: A Burden or a Writer’s Best Friend

 

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Is data fact? 

          by Leonard Bishop

 

People ask writers, “Where’d you get all the information you use?” The obvious response is, “Research.” The question to ask the writer is: “What do you do with all the information you gain from research and never use?” Nothing! You just never use it. It begins as bright buds in your mind, and eventually withers to lay in your unconscious like weeds.

 

Of what value is knowing that bullfighting – corrida de toros-  originated as a religious ritual? It was a fertility rite conducted by the ancients who depended upon the animal for food. Does anyone care that Alexander Pushkin, “the Shakespeare of Russia,” had 1/8 African blood? Or that articulate parrots have been given minimum legal recognition in court testimonies? And that a cardinal once paid 100 crowns for a parrot because he could recite the apostles Creed?

 

A writer‘s memory retains the cast-offs of information and it layers his mind like soggy warts. I wrote a novel about a nun. Because it was about a Catholic, I had to research bingo games. They originated in the early 1500’s and are attributed to a nobleman, Benedetto Gentile,of Genoa. The word “bingo” was a slang term for Brandy.

 

I also found out that hogs were, in fact, useful to the old-time sailing ships. They were kept aboard as emergency compasses. If a vessel lost sight of land, a hog was dumped into the sea. Instinctively, the hog would lead them to land. Which led me to learning that it was Gen. Sheridan, who said, “If I owned Texas and hell, I would rent out Texas and live in hell.” Which led to learning that infants cough while still in their mother’s womb.

 

After writing three or four novels that demand research you wish there were a mental Roto-Rooter to use on your mind. Whirr and grrr, and in a few moments your all cleaned out of nonsense you once believed was urgently significant. Like that the last words of George Wilhelm Hegel, the philosopher, were: “Only one man ever understood me. And he didn’t understand me.” Go any deeper than that and you’ll fall out of your head.

 

I know hundreds of conundrums. When at a dull party, I state a few, and people believe I am interesting. Example: “The reason why the lobster blushed red was because it saw the salad dressing.” Or “Something no one wishes to have, yet no one wants to lose, is a bald head.” And this: “A railway engine never sits down because it has a tender behind.” If my conundrums fizzle, I can always shift into palindromes- (a word or sentence that reads the same forward or backwards). Rather than the simplistic “Madam, I’m Adam”, I would cite “A man, a plan, a canal-Panama!” Or “Egad, a base tone denotes a bad age.” Then switch to some Latin: “Signa, te, signa: temere me tangis et angis.” (You touch and torment me in vain) Knowing that is as valuable as the hair left in your calm.

 

This information you collect and then work to forget, is often brought back by casual associations. You’re buying a pound of uncut salami and glance at the price. The numbers immediately remind you of Eratosthenes’ Sieve–a system of screening out the prime numbers from a sequence of whole numbers. Which brings to mind that triskaidekaphobia defines the fear of the number, 13. Keeping these facts is as valuable as saving discarded apple cores.

 

You can always tell a one or two-book writer by how he uses this informational gibberish to fuel his ego at a gathering.

 

A writer uses a conglomerate of research books. Some he owns, others he locates in the library or delete borrows from other writers. I have books on the origin of the meaning of fingernails, smoking pipes, curtains, weathervanes, tea leaf reading. The study of noses and ears for insight into character, the philosophy of hairstyles, and the place of breasts in history. I have books on the language and slang of foreign nations, the ancient practice of anesthesiology, and the hidden meaning of insect names. I am up to my omphalos (belly button) and steatopygous (fat rump) in books.

 

If I had the patience and staff that the writer, Irving Wallace, had I would bring all this wanton trivia together into another The People’s Almanac as he did. For right now I’ll settle for turning this data in a small column.

 

copyright the estate of Leonard Bishop

(first published April 20, 1986 the Manhattan Mercury)

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Open Fast and Stay Critical

Posted on April 15, 2013 by Multiple Viewpoints

 by Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

If the writer doesn’t write for his own Time, she is not ahead of her time, she is way behind. In this era the opening of the novel is the most important chapter that is written. Characters should be placed in critical situations that conflict with their interests you or welfare. There is no time to dawdle with lengthy “preparations for situation” to eventually emerge. The novel must begin immediately.

If this novel was being written in the 1920s up to the 1950s. The writer would open with the character sitting inside a train window thinking about his predicament. His background would be explored. How he met his wife, the birth of their children, his ambitions, why he desires the sexy young woman, etc. After 10 pages he would leave the train and drive home, and continue thinking. The writer is preparing the reader for a big scene.

An opening of that type, today, would not get past the first reader of any publishing house. A literary agent’s assistant would reject it. The opening chapter should begin with an incident that places the character under unique pressure – – causing him to behave dramatically.

The purpose of the opening chapter is to compel the reader to want to read further. While today’s reader may not be more literate than those of former eras, they either read more than those of a former era, or have more to read. With the prolific duration of television and other portable home entertainments, the public has become exceptionally visual and impatient. They want what they want when they want it – right at the opening.

An attitude that is obsolete is: if I tell what my novel is all about, right away, I will eliminate my chances for creating suspense. You interest the reader by what you reveal, not by what you promise reveal. Suspense, in fiction, is not created by evasion or elaborate preparations for a dramatic event. Suspense is gained from content that urges the reader to want more of that content – and still more.

The opening chapter begins with an event that moves the character and plot-line in a noticeable direction. (Arthur preparing to leave his wife.) Then an incident occurs that suggests the idea of a secondary plot. (A phone call that troubles Arthur.) The chapter returns to the original direction and still another incident occurs that opens up another secondary plot line. (His wife gives him a letter.) Then the chapter ends.

The writer has opened with the tense situation. As that action continues, he has planted another plot-line that complicates the action and reveals more about the character. As the chapter continues, he further complicates the action with another plot-line, revealing still more about the character. So much is happening in the first chapter that the writer has given himself material for a second and third chapter.

In the contemporary novel, the character development is accomplished while the character is performing the action. The writer does not first “character develop” and then produce an action. Nor does the writer stop the action to “character develop” and then continue the action. Characterization and action happen simultaneously. The dramatic pressure imposed on the character reveals his depth by what he does and how he responds to the crisis of conflict.

If there are changes in the tradition of writing, or in the general rules–they are established by the Time in which writing is being created. Writers can be as creative and artistic as they choose, but they must also be realistic. A novel is written to be paid for, published, and read. But if you can not get the reader to finish the first chapter, they will not begin the second chapter.

© 2013 the estate of Leonard Bishop

(first published April 20, 1986 the Manhattan Mercury)

 

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They Are Leaping Toward A Dream

Posted on April 7, 2013 by Multiple Viewpoints

by Leonard Bishop, Author of Dare To Be A Great Writer

Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

As I drive to Manhattan to teach a writing class, I’m thinking about my students. They are beginning to see their own growth as writers. They are amazed. I want to tell them: “It was always there. Your efforts, your commitment, is forcing it out. There is more, yes, there is much more to emerge.”

They are stronger people than when I first met them. They have become outspoken, honest. They criticize each other’s writing and there is no anger, no hostility. They’ve dropped their shyness, their fear, and they are tougher. No longer hyper – sensitive to someone pointing out a defect in the writing. It is there. Like a thick wart on an eyelid. There is no way to deny the defect. They become more competent by eliminating these defects. In time, each one of them will publish.

Week after week I watch the splendid changes begin to issue over their surfaces. They are studious, they have moved out from the ordinary into the unique. They throb with feeling, they crackle with thought, they lean forward, absorbed in this time of creativity. They have privileged me with the greatest flattery an instructor can earn. I, personally, am not important to them. They have begun to pick on me – – how wonderful.

They joke about my clothes, these columns, my ignorance about Kansas, my inane humor. They feel no, awe or fascination about me. I’m just a professional writer with the skill for instruction. They’ve gotten past my gross personality and are learning how to use what I know for their own personal work.

They are men and women who deserve respect. They have a dream. It is individual, it is exceptional, it is a power in their hearts that can launch rockets into the cosmos. I know their sacrifices, I know their pain. But they have begun to learn the explosive insights of professional writing.

Every fear they overcome is a courage they inherit. Every day they ignore yesterday’s failure is another push into achievement. The joy of life happens when leaping toward the dream is more vital than laying in your depression. If we ever awaken without a dream ahead of us, we lived that day in idle sleep. Failure cannot ever happen to anyone who uses a long part of their life to succeed. “Success is simply a matter of luck. Ask any failure.” (Wilson)

©2013 the Estate of Leonard Bishop

(first published July 14, 1985 the Manhattan Mercury)

 

 

 

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Deadlines….

Posted on April 1, 2013 by Multiple Viewpoints

by Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

All unpublished writers, at some time, commit themselves to a foolish decision that ruins their publishing potential. They bring themselves to the threshold of “the deadline.” They decide, “I’ll give myself two years to write a novel. If I don’t complete it in that time, and have it published, I’ll quit writing.” The decision is impractical. The deadline is unreasonable. Such deadlines create unbearable pressure.

Being a writer is a wageless employment. His relationship with  “time productivity” is not the same as that of the and employed non-writer. While a writer may work the same amount of hours, he does not create a uniform product, with prescribed regularity. The writer rarely knows the amount or the quality of what he will create in a work day.

Nor are there any discernible signs that reveal when a writer should quit or continue.  One day he writes with a talent so lyrical and sweeping that it seems to pour from the end of a rainbow.  And the next day’s writing reads like it’s seeped from the inside of a yawn.  Some days he adores his work with such passion he creates an altar to its existence.  Other days his work leaves him with the taste of predigested spider webs. A writer lives on the see-saw of imponderables.

Nor can a writer rely upon the stability of publishers. Regardless of the quality of the writer’s novel, its publication depends upon current publishing trends. Well-written novels, completed at the wrong time, are unpublishable novels. The tastes and evaluations of publishers are as erratic as epileptic rats jiggling on hot griddle.

The “sex-romance” novel is in and the “super-spy” novel is out. Last year the “generational” novel did not sell as well as the “historical” or “panorama” novel. The first person novel has been over-published and the character novel is coming back. The introspective novel is obsolete. The big-city, corporate-intrigue novels are in demand. And what if you make your deadline and your novel is not of the fashionable ilk? Has it all come to an end for you? “Oh well, at least I tried.”

A deadline is a drastic imposition on your creative resources. It is a self-installed limitation. It does not allow for all the unpublishable writing that must be done before acquiring a personal structure of craft values. Prose experiments, character probes, runs of dialogue that will be condensed, speculative scenes, secondary conflicts within dominant conflicts, deliberate plot line diversions, etc. A deadline does not serve as a prod, but as a Nemesis.

There is an inherent discouragement existent in this self-imposed deadline. It is like assigning yourself to a diet to lose 50 pounds. With an accompanying resolve to maintain a slender figure all your life. Discouragement happens when you realize that for all your life you will deprive yourself of many loved foods.

You do not think of the diet as a “one-day-at-a-time” sacrifice of specific foods. You imagine your entire life without these foods. The realization drives you into eating those ruinous foods, now.

When the writer, like the dieter sees all at once, all that he will have to do and experience before meeting the deadline, it is a frightening expectation. He gives up–he just gives up.

The adage “Writers keep learning how to write,” is a lasting wisdom. The craft of writing is not complicated. It is only when the human complexity of the writer is coupled to the simplistic beauty of the craft that writing becomes difficult. Writing is a living experience, an evolving profession. When the growing writer makes demands on the static structures of the craft, he begins developing his content, his vision, his style.

This requires more time than the deadline allows.

A deadline is not lenient, or elastic. It does not provide time for a week-long cold, an abscessed tooth, or other physical disorders that require minor or major surgery. There are family obligations and distractions that must be considered.

A “make-it-or-quit” deadline can become a cruel stupidity. Your second novel may be the novel that startles society and brings you the wealth and fame you desire. But how can you write the second novel if you did not meet the deadline for your first novel? Establishing a deadline for the finishing of a novel is like putting a dried girdle on a constantly swelling elephant.

The clincher to all this comes with the fact that the writer is not experienced enough, in writing, to know how long his first novel will take. The only time a deadline serves as a prod, a necessary pressure, is when you are being paid to finish on time.

The hope to be a famous novelist is like a tiny voice buried in your core. You always want to be one, even if you do not work for its fulfillment. The belief that “I could’ve made it,” becomes an echo clattering about the caverns of your soul. Just before they lower you into the grave, you pop the coffin lid and shriek to the mourners, “If I hadn’t come up with that “make-it-or-quit” deadline I could’ve made it–real world blasting big!”

©2013 Estate of Leonard Bishop

(first published February 2, 1985 the Manhattan Mercury)

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Forming Characters

Posted on March 25, 2013 by Multiple Viewpoints

by Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

Fiction writers are alchemists. They draw together scraps of illusion and transform them into readable realities. Major characters must have size. Great ambitions, exaggerated passions, fascinating minds, superhuman capacities for love and hate, and monumental capabilities. If a major character is not heroic, why read about her? If villains are not superbly evil, they cannot experience excruciating defeats. If the villain is a push-over, then the hero is not exceptional. If the villain is merely a sly wimp, he is not a believable challenge for the hero.

Heroes and villains must have “size” and take great risks to achieve superlative goals. The separating factor is always revealed in the moral realm. They must be placed in at least four life-and-death situations, so their moral choices can be revealed. The hero always chooses the moral act proper for his Time. The morality of the villain proves to be episodic, concealing his inherent corruption.

The sooner the writer invents a circumstance that sets the hero and villain into a clash of purpose, the sooner the story becomes tense and exciting. It is through dramatic situations. peril, injury, violence, treachery, death, etc., that the stature of the characters grow. To create suspense and expectation in the plot, the villain should be winning the confrontations for about three quarters of the novel.

The villain should have more material resources, more contacts, an amoral ruthlessness and hatred. The hero is a veritable battering post which seems about to be irreparably shattered. The remaining quarter pivots the hero. Here she begins succeeding, to finally become victorious.

In the writing of fiction, there is a stark difference between heroism and being a hero–between villainy and being a villain.

Heroism can be a one-time action committed through impulse, panic, or in an contemplated decision. Being a hero is a sequence of conscious choices that increases a person into becoming extraordinary. Villainy can be a one-time act of destruction, committed through impulse, panic, or in human pressure. Being a villain is a sequence of destructive behaviors that are committed with conscious deliberation–usually for personal gain, revenge, or uncontrolled jealousy. In the writing of fiction, all heroes and villains should be complex people. If they are one-dimensional, they cannot bear up under intrigue or anticipated events. Their resources for remaining interesting become exhausted. If they are complex, they can always be dramatic and surprising.

©2013  the estate of Leonard Bishop

(first published February 9, 1985 the Manhattan Mercury)

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Step Right Up; Get Your Ticket!

Posted on March 18, 2013 by Multiple Viewpoints

  by Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

My career and life are ruined and I am in a desperate search–all because of the short story I could not write. The plot was too complicated, the characters were too complex, the meaning too deep for me to understand. It was titled Return to Yesterday.

In an obscure house in Brooklyn, there is a strange ticket agency. It accommodates people who want to return to yesterday. An undistinguished clerk appraises the case histories of the people who want to use his service. They sit in an unadorned office waiting to be summoned. If he believes their motives are justified, he issues the ticket

A  once world-famous actress, also known for her drinking and temper tantrums, has just destroyed her last opportunity to regain fame and stature. Yesterday, at the final rehearsal of the dramatic play guaranteed to be a smash hit, she had committed the cardinal theatrical sin. The producer, and also financial backer of the play, had been critical of her drunken condition. She became abusive, then libeled the producer’s parentage. He dismissed her from the cast–promising that she would never work again.

She wants to return to yesterday to change it. She vows to never drink again, never again lose her temper. She is given the ticket.

She is on stage for the second act. She begins flubbing her lines. The other players complained that her egocentric antics are hurting their performances. The director becomes demanding. She remains calm. During the last act she becomes desperate for drink, but controls herself. The producers standing in the wings, silently threatens her by embracing her ever-present understudy. She endures, she copes. The curtain descends and she is overjoyed. The future is assured.  She has shattered the power of her negative destiny.

As she walks to her dressing room, she trips over a bucket of water left by an elderly charwoman. The actor screams, goes berserk. She begins tearing the elderly woman’s clothes and beating her head. People rush to them, pulling them apart. The once-famous actress is carried away as a madwoman. She is replaced by her understudy.

Mr. Wilson, a stout, balding man enters the ticket dispenser’s office. Yesterday he was called into the high-rise offices of the bank where he is employed. The president states that through a secret audit of Mr. Wilson’s accounts, he has been discovered to be an embezzler. If he does not return the money, he will be prosecuted. Because the audit was secret, Mr. Wilson charges at the president and, just as he pushes him out the window, a secretary enters the office and screams,” You pushed him! Murderer!” Mr. Wilson runs to escape.

Mr. Wilson wants to return to yesterday so he can repay what he is embezzled and not be a killer hunted by the police. He is given the ticket.

Mr. Wilson is called into the president’s office and is told about the secret audit. He is accused of embezzlement.” You have brought disgrace to our noble institution. I despise the likes of you.” Mr. Wilson swears he will pay back the money. The president is still furious. He swings his arms to punch Mr. Wilson who ducks the blow. The president stumbles and falls to the window. As Mr. Wilson reaches to grab him from falling and save him, the secretary comes in and screams,” You pushed him! Murderer!” Mr. Wilson runs; still a criminal.

A 27-year-old man enters the ticket dispenser’s office. He is attractive, well-groomed, but seriously troubled. Yesterday he had married his childhood sweetheart. A young woman he deeply loves. She has always loved him. His only character failing is a lunatic jealousy. Last night after carrying her into the bedroom and readying themselves for love, she unfastened a slender gold chain from about her throat. He asked,” Where did you get it?” She smiled,” A wedding gift, from Steve, your best friend.” He accused her of betrayal , infidelity. She pleaded with him to believe her innocence. He damned her as a disgusting wanton.” I won’t touch your vile body and I’ll have our marriage annulled!” He rushes from the honeymoon suite.

He wants to return to the wedding night of yesterday; he wants another chance. The ticket dispenser gives him the ticket, and shrugs.

They are again in the hotel room, undressing. They are timid, but not ashamed. He sees her remove the gold chain. Tensely, he asks,” Where did you get it?” She smiles.” A wedding gift, from Steve, your best friend.” He begins shouting at her, slandering her as a vicious whore. She begs him to believe she is innocent, and loves him. She falls to her knees, moaning, ” I have always loved you.” He curses her and charges out. She crumbles to the floor sobbing.  Minutes passed.

Slowly, the door opens. The young man eases into the room and goes to her. He caresses her hair, embraces her, whispering,” I love you.” They kiss tenderly, adoringly. He laughs,” The only power in life that is stronger than destiny, is true love.”

And because I could not write this short story, I smashed the dishes. I heaved my typewriter through the window, I shrieked out names of the neighbors, I terrified my son Luke, I threatened my wife with mayhem if she mocked me–and I am now heartbroken with regret and in a desperate search of the man who issues  tickets to yesterday.

(first published Sunday, January 13, 1985 the Manhattan Mercury

© Leonard Bishop 1985

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Small Town Living Lacks Anonymity

Posted on March 12, 2013 by Multiple Viewpoints

by Leonard Bishop                    

Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

Everything has been written about before–but to the innocent( the ignorant, to0), the trite can be original. Living in a small town like  Herington  is causing me to worry about my family, and I’m beginning to doubt the integrity of my character. I’m becoming a hypocrite, a phony. Unless you commit yourself to living as a hermit or recluse, you cannot be alone.

I no longer miss the variety of entertainments of a Metropolis–the hotels, arcades, ethnic restaurants, libraries, or other environments where you can be guaranteed to find a crowd of people. What I miss about New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Los Angeles, is a facility for becoming so anonymous that to become noticed you have to shriek for attention. In Herington there is no place to hide. Wherever I am there is always someone there to recognize me and demand that I nod and recall their name. I cannot be myself: forgetful, preoccupied, involved in my unsocial occupation of writing. I cannot walk the streets waving my arms, and gesturing dramatically and talking aloud as I work out a scene in a novel. The people would believe I have gone lunatic. In San Francisco, lunatics are part of the landscape. If I were to behave naturally, my wife’s life would become intolerable. People would look at Celia and shake their heads with pity. Because she is loved by so many, some people would light candles for her. My daughter Kiersten would be shunned as though scales were falling from her eyes. My son Luke would be abandoned by his friends as their parents warned them about the transference of demented genes.

I always have a notebook and a ballpoint pen with me. It is a writer’s equipment. It is neither inconsiderate nor peculiar when I suddenly brake the car and stop in the Main Street to jot down an idea, a line of dialogue. Inspiration is fragile and fleeting. When Heringtoners see me driving they quickly changed to another street.

There are traditional small-town social prerequisites which I do not always understand or choose to obey.  I wake at about 6 AM. Whatever clothes my hands touch are the clothes I wear. If my shoes don’t match, if I haven’t noticed that an eyeglass lens is missing, or that I’m munching my toothbrush, I don’t panic. But I am fed up with having to stand before Celia to be inspected before I leave the house. I recall the second day I was in Herington and she warned me,” You will not buy your clothes at garage sales. You may be wearing my best friend’s husband’s underwear.”  How could they know that?

To avoid being judged as lewd and degenerate I have had to threaten my big-city friends to not write me dirty jokes on pornographic postcards. The postman always has that “Tsk-tsk-for-shame!” Look when I get my mail.

Whatever community entertainment is produced is done by amateurs and unforgivable sacrilege is committed if you even look like you think someone’s youngster has a voice like an asthmatic cat licking rusty nails. A professor at Kansas State( Joel Cleimanhaga)  advised me on how to handle someone who asks,”How do you like  my daughter’s performance?” My reply is either,” She did it again,” or to gush,” Incredible,” and drift away.

There is a social caste system to which I will never belong because there’s no category for me. The upper-echelon is comprised of doctors, dentists, and bankers. Next are self-made millionaires who hide their money. Then the high potentates of the Masonic Lodge and other odd fellow organizations, the people who own businesses, then the educators  with college degrees. My values and priorities have been tumbled and reversed. In San Francisco, doctors plead with you to socialize with them. Dentists are rarely invited to parties. Bankers are treated as though afflicted with an oozy disease. Masons, Lions, Shriners, Kiwanis, are beer-drinking loafing card players to be avoided.

Everyone requires a smile or you are deemed a snob or a closet child molester. Since all I can say is,” Nice day, huh?” And,” Might rain, heh?” people believe I’m a frustrated weatherman. If I happen to be deep in thought when someone greets me, and I’m not aware of them, all week long in the supermarkets I am treated like a leper. I have lost most of my identity because I am known as” Celia’s husband–Bud Welch’s son-in-law.” Everyone has a dossier of rumors on everyone else. Fifteen years ago, when the wind blew a mode of dust in Fred’s eye and the minister’s wife passed him, she assumed he winked at her and friend Fred is still known as an incurable sex maniac.

After one week of living in Herington I complain to Celia,” These people are impolite, and barbarians,” because they just call on you. There is no preparatory phone call to know if you’re busy. They just come by to visit. At least 10 women know that I have ugly legs and think I’m a nudist because  I open my door in my underwear.

This” don’t-make-waves” culture is destroying me. I get the feeling that though Celia loves me, she wants to keep me hidden. Only under torture will Kiersten admit that I’m her father. Even little Luke has asked me to walk half a block behind him on the way to school. Now I can understand why Martin Luther wrote: “Who knows if I break wind in Wittenberg they might smell it in Rome.”

(first published  Sunday, December 16, 1984 the Manhattan Mercury)

© 1984 Leonard Bishop

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“Writing” is a Partial Solution

Posted on March 4, 2013 by Multiple Viewpoints

by Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

Leonard Bishop

I’m going to view what I write now, through a long-standing memory. Some will be about myself, some about what I have learned.

Until I was 18 years old I was just a street punk who only thought about surviving and keeping out of jail. I had no noticeable ambitions, no splendid hope. From the ages of 20 to about 24, I trained and worked as a draftsman to avoid a stint in the Army. When the war was over I drifted about the country as an itinerant worker and hobo. But wherever I was–waiting in a police station, eating hero sandwiches on a construction site, drying my socks at a fire in a hobo jungle–one phrase that everyone used was,” Hey, if I could only write, hey, the stories I could tell.”

I have just learned that the Manhattan Mercury has a large circulation. There are, in fact, thousands of people who read the “arts and leisure” section. They actually care about photography, paintings, opera, the theater,  jazz, and many of the cultural programs put on by the University and private groups. This information both startled and encouraged me. It supports my belief that there are thousands of people who are interested in becoming writers. If I appear obsessed or even seemed fanatic about writing, I am justified. Whatever saved my life is a valid philosophy, a humane endeavor. Whatever saved my life deserves attention and serious interest. Because though I am not an unusual or exceptional man, there is one extraordinary connection I have with all people, one that unites me with everyone. Whatever resurrects my life, whatever makes me happy, whatever provides me with purpose, must do the same for many other people.

There I was, hiding while the cops chased around looking for the thief. Alone and afraid. There I was pounding nails, fixing pipes, shoveling garbage, scrounging for food and working as a dumb muscle under conditions that would humiliate a donkey. Angry and exiled from the “respectable” people. While in my guts, in my lacerated soul, I cried,” I am nobody, and it hurts. Someone please look at me, know my name.”

Though I am changed now, the world is the same. Only the costuming of the year, the terminology, the mechanics have changed–the people are the same. They hurt from anonymity, they are dying from lack of expression, they are hating because they feel exiled. And if they live as they are living now, they will be evaporated like a  mist and their potential contribution, great or minor, will vanish with them. Over the years more than 1000 people have attended my classes  in writing, and have been changed, have been increased. It was not my classes–not me–that caused the changes it was their involvement with becoming writers. They opened themselves to themselves, then to other people, then to the world. They did not all become writers, but all who wrote became happier and better people.

The fragile became strong, the timid turn bold, the unloving risked giving themselves to be loved were fulfilled, the rejected found a place, the humorless gained laughter–the self-presumed dumb and crass regained their inherent intelligence and sensitivity, the lonely were no longer alone, this self-abased discovered worth through their accomplishment. While” writing” is not the panacea to all dilemmas and misery, it is a partial solution. It is a beginning. And all anyone needs for reviving their depressed, inarticulate lives, is a beginning. Most people do not write because they believe they cannot write. And this belief is founded not on proof but on presumption.

Nine tenths of all grief, inner ugliness, guilt, shame, hatred, violence, bodily ailments and spiritual aridity, emerges from a person’s inability to find self-expression. (Cramps soon ulcerate and become cancerous). This knowledge has been around since the first language was conceived. From organized religion to E. S. T. to  theatrics: the reciting of some mumbo-jumbo mantras and psychoanalysis and square-dancing, all are founded on the bringing out of self-expression. All encounter and confrontation groups, counseling services, and the full array of mind-screw schools of therapy, are based on the expression of self. But writing is more than that. It is giving yourself to other people, and many times you can earn money.

It has been suggested to me that I deal with the craft, technique, and general aspects of writing. I have not consulted my editor, Margaret Allen, about this. For all I know, she may dump all I have just written and demand that I titillate, amuse, and occasionally write something serious. Yet, if I can get this passed her astute eye and far-reaching know-how, I will happily respond, once a month to anyone who writes to the Manhattan Mercury about some difficulty, problem, or concerned that is involved with the accomplishment of writing. If I do not have the answer then I will correspond with other professional writers who may–and then pass them on to you.

I am just touched, deep within me, with the knowledge that as I wandered about searching for my “talent” and career, there are thousands of others who are in the same search. I thank God that the dark was not so overwhelming that I could not see some light.

(first Published  Sunday, December 9, 1984 the Manhattan Mercury)

©Leonard Bishop, 1984

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