Picture credit: Bidgee.



I’m going to write this very carefully. Because it involves a real book, written by a real human being, with feelings, and I don’t want to cause that person any kind of embarrassment. I’m going to use the neutral but awkward pronoun “them” when referring to them, so that not even the gender of the writer will be apparent. You will not, I hope, be able to identify them by what I write.

A little while back, this person contacted me about a novel they’d e-published. It was a Christian novel (I won’t say what genre), and the author seemed to know their business, having been published in the non-fiction field. So I started the book with some hope.

Alas.

Although this person knows how to spell and cast a sentence, they don’t know the craft of fiction, which is a different thing from the craft of non-fiction. Their approach to the story was wrong. It was static. It lacked life and drama.

What this person doesn’t understand is that in fiction, you don’t just tell a story. You stage a story. You dramatize a story.

I’m going to show what this person did wrong, and then show how it could be done better. The first little narrative nugget below is not what that person wrote. The characters are different, the situation is different, the genre is different. Only the technique is (more or less) the same. Then I’ll fix it, to demonstrate how to make it work.

Bad version:

Mark and Sam rode the elevator to the second floor. As they rode, they discussed the problem of Johnny. Mark said that Johnny was expendable, plus he owed them a favor. He’d have to take the rap. It was part of the job. Sam, who kind of liked Johnny, reluctantly agreed.

When they exited the elevator and walked to the office, they found the door open. The door frame was splintered; someone had kicked it open. Inside, in the light of a lamp knocked to the floor, they found Johnny lying on his stomach, moaning. They helped him to sit up while Sam got him a glass of water.

“There were three of them,” said Johnny. “They broke the door down and came in and beat me up. They stole the Farnham file. Went straight to the file cabinet, jimmied it open with a crow bar, and pulled it out. I did my best. What’ll we do now? If the police see what’s in that file…”

“Doesn’t matter, said Mark.

“How come?”

“We talked it over. You’re taking the fall, Johnny. Probably three years, tops. We’ll take care of your family, and your job will be here when you get out.”

Better version:

When they came through the broken door, Mark and Sam found Johnny lying on his face, moaning in the light of the desk lamp, which had been knocked to the floor.

“Johnny—you okay?” Mark asked, shaking his shoulder.

Johnny groaned and sat up. “I guess so. I’m kind of dizzy—“

Sam went to the washroom and got Johnny a glass of water.

“What happened?” asked Mark.

“There were three of them. They kicked the door in and hit me before I could do anything. They knew just what they were looking for. Went straight to the file cabinet with a crow bar, and jimmied it open and took the Farnham file. There wasn’t anything I could do.”

“It’s okay, Johnny,” said Mark. “We’ll handle it.”

“But if that file gets to the cops—“

“That’s not a problem.”

Johnny took a nervous sip from his glass of water. “I don’t get it.”

“We talked it over on the way here,” said Mark. “You’re taking the fall, Johnny. Probably three years, tops. We’ll take care of your family, and your job will be here when you get out. You owe us a favor, Johnny. You know that.”

You see the difference? We start with action (or at least its aftermath), and then throw in the shocker as a surprise just when the reader thinks things are settling down. It’s more interesting that way. And we don’t have to ride the elevator with Mark and Sam. Riding elevators isn’t all that exciting.