From the Classroom: Oprah, High-Art, and Harry Potter

This month’s theme is Literary Suspense. So we got to wondering, “What, exactly, is considered ‘literature?’” The debate concerning the merits of literary works vs. those of genre/popular fiction is one as old as the chicken and its infamous egg. The folks in literature’s corner are often considered hifalutin—their work, inaccessible. Genre writers are often called formulaic, predictable. It can get almost as nasty as debates over fonts and the Oxford Comma (see Erik Deckers over in our “Marketing 101” column for more on that fight).

So who’s right, if anyone? What are the merits of both writing forms? Must popular fiction and “the literary” be considered mutually exclusive?

We reached out to Wayne Thomas—writer, editor, and creative writing teacher—to see if he could help us clear some of these questions up by sharing his thoughts on pedagogy and writing.

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Oprah, High-Art, and Harry Potter: Can Literary and Genre Fiction Be Reconciled?
By Wayne Thomas

Just before 9-11, Oprah Winfrey selected novelist Jonathan Franzen and his The Corrections for her book club. The club wasn’t then noted for what it’d become. Certainly, we understood it to be an immediate in for commercial success, but—despite Oprah’s National Book Awards recognition two years prior for contributions to reading and literature—doubts lingered for many. Many of us waited for the endeavor to inevitably get swallowed into a venture to market pulp, and many couldn’t put our heads around the notion that talking books had staying power on a daytime talk show, that the scheme would somehow inevitably find a way to embarrass us believers in the written word.

Then, Oprah hadn’t yet established herself as an absolute champion of literature with one impressive literary selection followed by thoughtful discussion after another, the sort of reputation 15 years and 70 titles earns a person. She rarely missed the mark, and, consequently, when she did, it hardly mattered. She had viewers totaling in the millions reading and talking about the likes of Song of Solomon, A Lesson Before Dying, The Poisonwood Bible, House of Sand and Fog, East of Eden, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, and Anna Karenina. She put the likes of Bret Lott, Pearl S. Buck, William Faulkner, Elie Wiesel, and Cormac McCarthy on bestseller lists. It’s time to admit, if we haven’t already, that Oprah’s more than a capable scholar. And we did eventually begin to notice and appreciate, as evidenced by a Time magazine write up in 2008. Indeed, it was a losing day for literature when her show ended May 25, 2011.

But just before 9-11, Oprah to Franzen wasn’t that. Franzen suggested an appearance on the talk show risked offending “the high-art literary tradition.” Though many purveyors of “high-art” rightfully went on to dismiss Franzen’s comments as ass-hattery, the debacle stirred conversations in the creative writing MFA program I’d just begun. So much brashness in an MFA program. Some of us didn’t mind agreeing with Franzen straight up, some wanted to disagree in ways that felt a whole lot like agreeing. A peer described a story I’d submitted to workshop as what might be considered on Oprah, and she didn’t intend for that to be construed as a compliment. My peer did counsel with a heavy, disappointed sigh that “a lot of people would probably read that stuff.” And there’s the rub: a constant assertion that being widely read means you sold out, that great art can really only exist for the select few. How dare Oprah try to prove otherwise?

I’ve long believed there are self-serving delusions involved in hiring “big name” writers to draw students to creative writing programs. Being able to intuit how to write well doesn’t mean you can teach how to write well, and I think most students, especially the graduate school candidates, make their decisions mostly based on who’s decided on them. On Writing, to my estimation, is the best craft book I’ve read. I suspect Stephen King would be a great teacher. It’d certainly be great to tell your friends how he showed up drunk and embarrassed you in workshop. But what if he has no time for your work because of his own. Believe me, friends, there are too many teachers like this. (Not Stephen King; On Writing is truly spectacular.)

In fact, the best creative writing programs are facilitated by teachers who realize the import of making pedagogical decisions. Instead of worrying about a “big name,” students would be better served to investigate the philosophy of the programs they’re considering. It starts with finding answers to two fundamental concerns. Will distinctions be made between literary and genre writing? And—especially if so—will students be allowed or required to produce genre/popular writing? It’s true that most quality programs say yes to the former and no to the latter. The reason should be obvious: writing the literary can only help write in genre should you’ve a hankering later in life, and the opposite isn’t necessarily true. One can see, then, how MFA programs lead so many in their early and mid-twenties—most who, according to all statistical data, will never write much after the institution has finished properly molding them—to poo poo all things not “high-art.”

I never really understood how you don’t distinguish between genre and literary. Penning a Jason Bourne flick requires different muscles than a Mario Puzo adaptation. Perhaps it’s the acknowledgement that’s disconcerting. I’ve colleagues who won’t let their students write in genre. Fair enough, I suppose, but some won’t even entertain the notion that anything genre can also be literary. Such always strikes me as a pretension to validates one’s own worth, and I always wonder what one sacrifices when one works so hard to validate one’s own worth. King will tell you he’s written more than his fair share of crap, but there are a number of King titles we’ll read in a hundred years, solitude or not. Shirley Jackson can write literary horror. Anne Rice can pen a sentence so well the sentence itself transcends genre. Can anyone really deny the brilliance of J. two R Tolkien? What fool will try? Sci-fi is full of masters: Octavia Butler, Angela Carter, and Arthur C. Clarke. Can anyone really question the brilliance of the two middle K’s, Philip Dick and Ursula Le Guin? I adore a Michael Chabon mystery. I adore a Larry McMurtry western. I adore Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss. Yes: children’s literature can be literary, too. 

But one more thing before moving on: Does the fantastic or magical immediately disqualify the literary? Are we mistaken, then, to hold in the highest regard the likes of Margaret Atwood and Gabriel García Márquez? Nonsense. And one more thing: Read Kate Bernheimer’s “Fairy Tale is Form, Form is Fairy Tale.”

I’ve noticed so many of the “high-art” teachers rarely address the literary. Seriously. Of all the conversations in creative writing programs about why one writes and one’s voice and what one has to say, there aren’t enough about what actually makes something literary. And, believe it or not, there isn’t a seminal definition of what makes something literary. Again, would-be students, learn the philosophy before saying “yes.” Otherwise, you risk being summarily dispatched because you got a goblin in your story. It shouldn’t be too much to ask your teachers what they demand of your writing. If it’s literary, know what that means—at least what they think it means.

What’s it, then? Best to begin with the more definable “genre” as one must understand it to understand the other. Genre, of course, identifies form: drama, fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. More importantly for these purposes, genre writing subscribes to the conventions of categorization (sci-fi, mystery, romance, western, and so forth). Genre, then, aims to unearth new ways to tell familiar stories that are inhabited by familiar characters. Successful genre writing gets us to anticipate another showdown at sunrise, to want redemption for the hardened P.I. whose goodness was broken by betrayal, to yearn for Fabio’s sweat-matted hair to fall like a canopy across our faces as we stare into his lion eyes.

Literary writing more often than not doesn’t subscribe to conventions because literary writing is, more often than not, about real people in real predicaments. It’s the difference between a movie and a film, if you will. In the movies, as in genre, people tend to be exceptional, affluent, and beautiful. In films, as in literature, they’re often pedestrian, poor, and ugly. For me—my own philosophy here—the literary must challenge the human condition. I used to say “must speak to the human condition” or “must be about the human condition,” but I no longer find those words satisfying or true. Genre writing can speak to the human condition, but genre doesn’t aim to challenge as much as confirm. Genre writers titillate before giving us what we want, and they accomplish this by knowing and forming what we expect. Literary writers tend to titillate by taking us to task for what we expect, and they accomplish this by rarely giving us what we want.

There’s one absolute marked difference between literary and genre writing. Literary writers must be overly concerned with craft, which isn’t a prerequisite for genre writers. Literary writers must wonder over the possibilities of language and structure. They must tend to the rhythms and sounds and music of sentences. They’ve to make magic of imagery and voice and persona. Even the minimalists. Even those who write books for children. The prose must be rich, the poetry must be evident. Our best literary writers understand this, even if they work in genre.

So you may want to ask, as my students constantly do, why I’m resistant to let young writers work in genre. I teach undergraduates. If I taught MFA-ers, I don’t think I’d mind at all. One can assume graduate students come to the table with some experience. But the temptation is too great for young writers to simply put a twist to what Stephenie Meyer and J. K. Rowling already wrote and call it a day. The aim is to push young writers to new comfort zones, to challenge their already perceived conceptions of what humanity is capable of and explore those developing conceptions through their work. The best way to really navigate the possibilities of craft is to request they write of what they didn’t realize they’re capable.

If you didn’t before, you might now see why writing the literary can only help write in genre. Still, no need for the pretense that only one holds value. In fact, is it even arguable that genre writing has impacted more people for a longer time and seems destined that it always will? If you’re in the market for a creative writing program, see what your would-be teachers have to say about it.

Just before 9-11, Jonathan Franzen was an ass-hat and everybody but me had started reading Harry Potter. It was something to behold. My boyhood was the sort in which I didn’t read in front of people for fear of being ridiculed. I joined a creative writing program thinking it’d be nice to meet folks who were openly readers, and now everyone in the world but me had started reading Harry Potter. Openly. And cautioning one another to be careful not to ruin any surprises. I’ve never been a fan of fantasy. My lot was with Nero Wolfe and Hercule Poirot. In graduate school, I didn’t have much time even for a detective yarn with all the literature being stuffed down my throat, but everyone else in the program seemed to have time to read Harry Potter. And they were having a ball.

And I thought: Well, this is pretty great, too.

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Wayne Thomas is currently working on a novel, Birth of the Okefenokees, for which he was awarded the Baltic Writing Residency. He co-edited Red Holler: Contemporary Appalachian Literature (Sarabande), which was awarded the Linda Bruckheimer Series in Literature. He is the former Managing Editor of Arts & Letters: Journal of Contemporary Culture and former Editor of The Tusculum Review. He teaches creative writing at Tusculum College, where he currently serves as the Dean of the School of Arts & Sciences.

Read more of Thomas’s thoughts on pedagogy in his interview with West Virginia University.

You can check out his micro fiction pieces “The Contract” and “The Black Bear” published at Spittoon.

*Killer Nashville is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program. If you purchase a book from the links on this page, Amazon will give Killer Nashville a small percentage of the total sale.

From the Classroom: Writing a Thrilling Short Story

In the past few decades, we’ve seen a surge in popularity of the short story format. This rising popularity can be attributed to many factors—our increasingly fast-paced lifestyles, the form’s place as a staple in college curricula, increased accessibility to short works by emerging/established authors through blogs, Amazon’s “Kindle Singles,” and a near-limitless amount of other online sources—but what are the advantages and challenges of the short story format? How can the traditional novelist try his/her hand at short story writing and find success?

In this installment of “From the Classroom,” author and teacher, Kimberly Dana, demystifies the short story so you, too, can learn to write a compelling short fiction piece.

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How to Write a Thrilling Short Story
By Kimberly Dana

The Benefits of Short Story Writing

Just about everyone I know wants to be a novelist. But let’s be honest. Writing a book is a long and tedious process that can take years to finish. To that end, almost every wannabe novelist I know never even comes close to finishing that elusive manuscript. Even writing that first chapter can be a daunting task!

But writing a short story is an attainable endeavor with many benefits to the aspiring writer. At 1,000 – 4,000 words, there is power in the short story. It’s lean and mean, and can be read in one sitting. The short story allows the writer the opportunity to explore the uncharted territory of a plot, character, and/or setting and make it pop. In addition, one can experiment with other genres, develop their style, and use their short story to expand their platform as a marketing tool.

But most importantly, crafting a short story teaches the writer a vital skill: word economy. To paraphrase my idol Stephen King, writing is “refined thinking.” Nothing could be truer than when writing a short story, where the prose must be clean, compact, and concise. If you are prone to a producing a bloated manuscript, trim the fat and turn it into a short story. It’s quicker to write and if you’re lucky, quicker to sell.

SWBS — Somebody Wanted But So…

Okay, so the benefits of writing a short story are clear, but the question still plagues most spinners of words: how do I write a compelling story in a condensed timeframe, i.e. one sitting? One word—conflict! Conflict creates the need for story in the first place. It is what adds tension and moves the story forward. Without conflict, there is no story!

You need proof? Think back in school when you first learned about story structure through Freytag’s Triangle. Do you recall what’s on top? Climax! It is the decision-making, sitting-on-the-edge-of-your-seat moment of the conflict-ridden protagonist that determines the story’s outcome.

When I teach my middle school students about conflict, we use the following SWBS Statement:

Somebody ___________________________ Wanted ___________________________ But_______________________ So __________________________________.

(It is the “but” that is the heart of the conflict in the story).

Let’s look at a few examples of conflict in three classic short stories: “The Necklace,” “The Monkey’s Paw,” and “The Lottery,” paying particular attention to the “but” element. Note: MAJOR SPOILER ALERTS!

“The Necklace” by Guy de Maupassant

SomebodyMadame Loiselwantedto appear rich at a partyBUTlost the fake necklace she borrowedsoshe spent years paying it off.

“The Monkey’s Paw” by W.W. Jacobs

SomebodyThe White familywantedto wish for money on a cursed monkey’s pawBUTtheir son Herbert got killedsothey unwisely wished him back to life.

“The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson

Somebody The Hutchinsonswantedto uphold the town’s traditionsBUTTessie won the lotterysoshe’s stoned to death.

The Thrilling Threesome

Okay, conflict rules. But how do I actually get started?

It’s literally as easy as 1-2-3. Think of a thrilling threesome story prompt consisting of 1) character, 2) setting, and 3) a compelling conflict.

Here are ten short story prompts just begging to be penned into a story:

Ten Thrilling Threesome Short Story Prompts

• A C.E.O. (character) gives a keynote address at a convention (setting) when overtaken by a panic attack (conflict).

• A passenger (character) discovers an unattended carryon (conflict) when flying over the ocean (setting).

• A book club hostess (character) receives a threatening anonymous note (conflict) at her own home (setting).

• A disgruntled claustrophobe (character) finds himself locked in an elevator (conflict) at work overnight (setting).

• A weary taxi driver (character) picks up a sinister stranger contemplating suicide (conflict) who wants to drive around town first (setting).

• A couple (character) celebrates their anniversary at a cozy restaurant (setting) when a mysterious bouquet of flowers is brought to the table (conflict).

• A daughter (character) cleans out her parents’ attic (setting) and discovers an urn of ashes (conflict).

• A valedictorian (character) gets arrested for shoplifting (conflict) right before graduation (setting).

• An unappreciated secretary (character) calls in sick and goes shopping (setting) where she runs into her boss’s wife with another man (conflict).

• A first-day-on-the-job nanny (character) takes the children to the park (setting) where she loses the master key only to have a burglar find it (conflict).

Need Suspense? Implement G.E.M.

Okay, now that you have a thrilling story starter, throw in a little suspense, which of course is the secret sauce to story telling. It’s easy with G.E.M.—an acronym I created to frontload my students when teaching the craft of suspense writing. G.E.M. stands for Gothicism, Expansion of Time, and Magic of Three.

GOTHICISM: All suspense stories can benefit from an element of the gothic genre, such as the supernatural; an eerie, mysterious setting; emotion over passion; or distinctive characters who are lonely, isolated, and/or oppressed. Throw in a tyrannical villain, a vendetta, or an illicit love affair - you've got Goth gold! Why Gothicism? It explores the tragic themes of life and the darker side of human nature. What’s more, readers are innately attracted to it. No one wants to read about someone’s perfectly wonderful life. It’s boring. Remember—conflict rules!

EXPANDING TIME: Next, I introduce the art of expanding time using foreshadowing, flashback, and implementing "well, um...maybe…let me see” dialogue." Expanding time allows the writer to twist, turn, and tangle up the plot. “Tease your audience,” I tell my students. “Pile on the problems and trap your protagonist with a ticking clock. Every second counts with suspense!” There is an old writing adage that says to write slow scenes fast and fast scenes slow. By delaying the big reveal, we build tension and punch up the plot, but with one caveat. Expanding time demands a fine-tuned craftiness when writing a short story because, of course, your time is limited. Remember, every word counts!

MAGIC OF THREE: Finally, the Magic of Three comes into play. The Magic of Three is a writer's trick where a series of three hints lead to a major discovery. During the first hint, the protagonist detects something is amiss. The second hint sparks a more intense reaction but nothing is discovered—not yet. And then—BANG!  The third hint leads to a discovery or revelation. During the big reveal, I teach my students to use and manipulate red flags and phrases, such as Suddenly, Without warning, In a blink of an eye, Instantly, A moment later, Like a shot, To my shock, and To my horror.

Adding suspense to your short story tantalizes your readers and breeds amazing results. It’s what makes a perfectly adequate story “un-put-downable.” So go ahead, and write a short story that explodes with tension! 1) Start with a thrilling threesome. 2) Punch up the plot with conflict. 3) And, sprinkle it with suspense. Not only will you hone your craft and have your readers begging for more, it could morph into something bigger—like that elusive novel that no longer seems so impossibly unattainable.

Write on!

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Kimberly Dana is a multi-award-winning young adult and children's author. She is the recipient of several writing honors from Writers Digest, Reader Views, the Pacific Northwest Writes Association, and various international book festivals.  Kimberly’s most recent book is her YA killer-thriller, Cheerage Fearage, an award-winning Writers Digest Young Adult novel, Readers Favorite Young Adult Bronze Winner, and Honorable Mention in the 2012 New York Festival of Books.  Kimberly invites readers to visit her at kimberlydana.com.

*Killer Nashville is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program. If you purchase a book from the links on this page, Amazon will give Killer Nashville a small percentage of the total sale.

From the Classroom: What I Learned About Writing From The Movies

There is a saying that there are many paths to God. When learning to write, it seems, it is a similar journey. For author and screenwriter, Steven Womack, becoming a better writer made sense when he discovered screenwriting. He learned to build a story much like building a house, beginning with laying the foundation. Womack shares his story and how he continues to learn…from watching movies.

What I Learned About Writing From The Movies
By Steven Womack

I was around 15, maybe 16, when I decided that I wanted to spend the rest of my life writing. I had always been a reader, a lover of story. Even as a child, I tried to make sense of my own life by reading about other lives, both real and imaginary. When an English teacher in boarding school assigned Robert Penn Warren’s All The Kings Men, I was toast. That was it for me. This was the book that made me a writer. For the rest of my life, I was going to try to do to other people what Red Warren had done to me.

Unfortunately, that school experience was in the 1960s and my college time was in the early to mid-1970s, a period now characterized as one of “anti-literature”. Academics and writers alike were experimenting with new kinds of stories, stories that were unstructured, all about voice and emotion, stories that defied logic and rebelled against tradition, against craft.

Stories that broke all the rules…

However, in the process of being taught how to break all the rules, I somehow never learned the rules themselves, which is pretty much the opposite of the way it should be done.

As a result, even though I was motivated and driven and wrote lots of pages, I was going nowhere. In fact, over the course of my early years as a writer I wrote at least five completed novels, with uncounted others dying on the vine.

It was incredibly frustrating. I collected rejection slips galore, many with some fairly complimentary responses to the writing itself, which had become increasingly flowery and literary. I even had one editor—and this is hard to believe—who told me my work was too “good”, too literary for her. Readers want action, she explained, not literary writing with a bunch of thought and reflection and philosophizing.

She was right, of course. My stuff had come out of college creative writing classes and my own heady reading. What I was failing at was connecting with readers and giving them the experience that readers want.

I worked in publishing at the time—it was the mid-1980s by now—and one day, I got laid off. I was downsized before downsizing was cool. At the time, I was single, no kids, no mortgage, no debt other than a little of the usual, and was in my early Thirties. This, it seemed, was a good time to take one last shot at full-time writing. So I took the leap.

One day, while taking a break from my daily page output, I saw a newspaper ad for a screenwriting course in the Continuing Education Department at Tennessee State University. It was taught by Rick Reichman, a local Nashvillian who had gone to University of Southern California.

“Screenwriting,” I said to myself. “Now there’s something I’ve never tried. I’ve watched a lot of movies. How tough can it be to write one?”

In retrospect, this was an astonishing level of arrogance. It’s roughly the equivalent of walking onto Southwest Airlines Flight 8653, sauntering up to the cockpit, and saying to the pilot: “You know, I’ve ridden on a lot of airplanes. Why don’t you let me fly this sucker?”

What I very quickly learned was that writing movies is a hell of a lot harder than I thought. For one thing, screenplays are very leanly written. In terms of word count, screenplays are more like long short stories or novellas—every word counts. There’s no room for sloppiness, distractions, sidebars or lack of focus. If writing a poem or a short story is a sprint and a novel is a marathon, then writing a screenplay is somewhere along the lines of an 800- or 1500-meter run, which as any runner will tell you, are the hardest races of all to run.

But there’s another consideration for a writer brought up in the counter-cultural, anti-literature, and non-traditional days of the 1960s and 1970s. Screenplays—movies—tell stories that are very, for lack of a better term, old fashioned. In fact, commercial Hollywood filmmaking is the last vestige of classical, three-act dramatic structure—the stuff of Greek drama, Shakespeare, and the classics.

The stuff Aristotle figured out about 2,400 years ago…

For the first time, I had a writing teacher who wasn’t concerned with sitting around in a circle on pillows reading our crap to each other and telling us how good it was, then opening a bottle of wine or lighting something up. Rick was all about craft and structure, as well as voice. “You start here, with an event, something actually happens that the audience can see… And it leads to something else, then another event, then another, and so on and so on, with increasing tension and rising stakes, until finally there’s some kind of climax and resolution.”

Stories, I learned for the first time, are about characters who want something, are willing to take action to get it, and encounter some kind of obstacle or conflict.

You build a story, I learned for the first time, the same way you build a house. First, you have to pick where you’re going to put the house; in other words, the setting. Then you have to have some kind of design you’re going to follow. Then you lay a foundation, frame up the skeleton. Then, layer by layer, you put in the systems, the electrical and plumbing, the walls, the ceiling. Then you dress it out, paint it, lay the carpet, do the trim work… Finally, you go through what contractors call the “punch list”, which is what writers call “rewriting and copyediting.”

I wrote a feature-length screenplay during Rick’s course, even though it was non-credit, continuing education and I didn’t have to. It was talky, overwritten, not very good… But it had something no other work of mine had ever had: an underlying structure.

I kept working and learning, even after Rick’s course was over. I took other courses (probably the most influential being Bob McKee’s weekend-long story structure boot camp for writers), and read stacks of books. I studied the Five Components of Narrative Structure that McKee talks about: The Inciting Incident, Progressive Complications, Crisis, Climax, and Resolution. Then I read Joseph Campbell’s Hero With A Thousand Faces and really got an education in mythic structure, of how myth crosses all racial, ethnic, and gender lines. I studied Campbell’s Twelve Steps of the Hero’s Journey, then read and reread Christopher Vogler’s excellent expansion on Campbell’s work, The Writer’s Journey: Mythic Structure For Writers.

Then I started teaching screenwriting, something I’ve now been doing for over twenty years. And as any teacher will tell you, if you really want to learn something, teach it.

The life principles embedded in story, I learned (and continue to learn), teach us how to live our own lives. This is why story, why novels and movies, are so important to us as human beings. It’s not just entertainment or distraction; it’s the very stuff we’re made of. It’s something deeply ingrained in our collective unconsciousness. It’s in the gene pool.

This was all a revelation to me. During this time, as an experiment I wrote a romance novel that actually got me my first literary agent. Unfortunately, the agent was getting nothing but turndowns on the book.

So out of desperation as much as anything else, I took a novel I’d written twelve years earlier—a manuscript that had been turned down twenty-two times—and rewrote it. Only this time, I actually imposed some craft concepts, an actual dramatic structure, over the book.

Six weeks later, my agent called me and the first words out of his mouth were: “Sit down.”

That book became my first published novel, Murphy’s Fault. The year it was published, it was the only first mystery on the New York Times Notable Book List.

Now this is not to say that if you read these books, memorize the Twelve Steps of the Hero’s Journey and fill in the blanks, you’ll have a story that works. There’s still a lot more to it. You’ve got to actually have at least a little talent as a writer, as well as a premise that works, characters that are appealing and compelling, and some kind of an ear for dialogue. This isn’t about formula; it’s about form, an underlying dramatic form to storytelling that has served us well throughout the human experience.

It’s a roadmap for the journey, but you’ve still got to be headed someplace interesting.

Thirty years after taking my first screenwriting course, I’m still on a lifelong journey of studying story and trying to understand it, master it, and produce it. I’ll never figure it all out, but as Faulkner said in his Paris Review interview, if he ever figured out how to write, there be no point in writing. He’d just break his pencil…

So study the movies. You can learn more than you think, even from a bad movie (want to see a truly, horribly bad movie that perfectly hits the Twelve Steps Of The Hero’s Journey? Watch “Con Air”).

And good luck on this treacherous, exciting, whirlwind of a journey…

Five Books On Screenwriting Every Writer Should Read

The best books on screenwriting aren’t just about writing for the movies. They’re about storytelling and how to make it all work. Every writer—no matter what medium or genre you work in—can learn from studying screenwriting and movies. With that in mind, here are five books* that I consider the essential:

The Writers Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers by Christopher Vogler

Story: Substance, Structure, Style and the Principles of Screenwriting, by Bob McKee

Save The Cat! The Last Book on Screenwriting You'll Ever Need, by Blake Snyder

The Screenwriter's Bible, by David Trottier

Art Of Dramatic Writing, by Lajos Egri

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Steven Womack is the Edgar and Shamus Award-winning author of By Blood Written and Dead Folk’s Blues, as well as about a dozen other books. His latest novel, Resurrection Bay, was co-written with Wayne McDaniel. Womack is also a screenwriter and has taught screenwriting at the Watkins Film School in Nashville, Tennessee, for the past twenty years. StevenWomack.com

*Killer Nashville is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program. If you purchase a book from the links on this page, Amazon will give Killer Nashville a small percentage of the total sale.

From the Classroom: I'm A Teacher

Writers owe a debt to teachers, particularly those who teach reading and writing. Their efforts mold the minds of readers and writers of tomorrow. With any luck, the students of today will be those who purchase or write books in the future. 

“From the Classroom” is a column written by real teachers, written for the rest of us.

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I’m A Teacher
By Tracy Spruce

Whenever I’m asked what I do for a living I always simply reply, “I’m a teacher.”

Historically, this has proven an insufficient answer because there’s always the follow-up, “Oh really? What do you teach?” Then, my inner smartass responds, because I know that the inquirer wants to know which subject, hence the “what.” My annoying habit is to say, “I teach 10th graders.”  Before the third question comes I always toss in, for the sake of my fellow human, “I teach reading and writing. I teach 10th graders more about reading and writing.”

I’ve been in public school classrooms for 18 years now. This school year is my first in a high school, having taught my first 17 in middle school, mostly 8th grade. And it has always been true for me that I must remember from day-to-day, school year to school year, that I teach young adult readers and writers first, and English second. And, everything we do in my classroom is done to help the student be a more powerful reader and writer. But let me tell you, it’s a can of beans, and the richest, most beautiful, real, gut-wrenching work I can do.

When I first started teaching in 1997, I was fueled with knowledge fresh from my Bachelor of Arts in English degree. I tried to teach Kate Chopin’s The Story of an Hour to 6th graders. I was hell-bent on marching them through literary movements and tried to show the connection between art, architecture, and literature by using photocopies of a Manet painting and a gothic chapel and for a “hands on” activity kids cut up the copies and created a new mosaic of an image. It was my attempt to teach some sort of lesson on deconstruction or postmodernism. The kids had fun with the scissors and glue, but jeez, what was I doing?

I’m a fortunate creature in that it didn’t take me long, the end of my first year in that middle school, to come to the realization that I really didn’t know what I was doing. And it was a student that showed me the way. I recommended a book to a student after talking with him a bit, Geraldo, an incredibly smart and thoughtful young man who was also in constant trouble (there was as stink bomb debacle and something about marijuana). He left with the book, Parrot in the Oven by Victor Martinez, stuck in his back pocket. The book was a newly published young adult novel about a young Latino man trying to make it in his neighborhood and make the right decisions for himself and his family. It seemed like a novel that Geraldo might connect with and find himself “into.”

Within the next days Geraldo was placed in in-school suspension, for some offense I can’t remember, but I do recall sending an assignment for him while he was on lockdown to write about the book in some way. Who knows what I assigned to him really, but what I got back floored me. He didn’t write about the book. He wrote about himself. He wrote a micro-memoir about getting caught for petty crimes in his neighborhood and at school, and how he wanted to turn his life around.

As I read Geraldo’s notebook entry I noticed something about his writing. He used this beautiful repetition and ended the piece with this fairly long, stringy, and lovely sentence. I grabbed my copy of Parrot in the Oven and realized that what Geraldo was doing was using Parrot in the Oven as his mentor. He wasn’t copying or plagiarizing, he was inspired and learning craft moves from a text he was engaged in reading. He was learning to write about his own life by reading the work of a writer whom he loved. His sentences mimicked the flow and intensity of Victor Martinez’s writing.  And he was given the time and the space to do it at school, albeit in a less than ideal situation.

It was around this same time that my teacher friend and mentor, Kenan Rote, recommended that I read Randy Bomer’s Time for Meaning, a professional text about the teaching of literacy in the secondary classroom. This experience with Geraldo, my inability to stop reading, highlighting, underlining, and scrawling, “Yes!” in the margin of Randy’s book, and countless conversations with smart, inquisitive, teachers cemented what has become my non-negotiable, or standard, as a reading and writing teacher: choice. Students must have choice in their literacy lives and education and a good teacher doesn’t bring the content of the curriculum, the students do.

Over the last 18 years in the classroom, from 6th grader Geraldo to my current 10th graders, I realize that my bottom-lines have never changed. In fact, I’ve become fiercely protective of them as I’ve navigated curriculum changes from the state, hung out in debates over national standards and the common core, and survived initiative after initiative and program after program as tides change and big business education moves in and out of a school. I’ve taught in 5 schools in two districts: the largest district in the state of Texas and one of the smaller ones. I’ve participated in countless hours of professional development and I still stand firm and strong on these few principles:

1. Students need and deserve choice in their reading and writing education;

2. I can’t teach young people anything about reading and writing if they’re not engaged in the act and practice of reading and writing; and

3. Writers become better writers by studying and reading the works of those that inspire them. 

I am spinning wheels made of worksheets that crumple and go nowhere if I forget these ideals.

And I have found that these basic principles will swallow up any new-fangled hot trend, or recently purchased program in education. My students and I can navigate our way through whatever is considered the new “best practice” if we keep practicing at our best. I’ve worked with some of the most gifted, fierce, intelligent, dedicated, and yes, tired and frustrated teachers and mentors over the years who have helped me forge my beliefs. And the students. I’ve learned more from them than any course, book, professional training, or workshop. I’ve worked alongside young people who have the most privileged lives, two professional parents at home encouraging them and providing them with the best of life, and ones who are facing the most dire and tragic of situations including gang violence, incarceration of a parent (or themselves), death of a sibling, teen pregnancy and any other myriad of social issues. Every one of these young adults brings their life with them into the classroom and I feel like the best part of my work is teaching them to use it when they stand at a bookshelf searching for the their next, just-right book. Or when they open their notebook and start an entry, “I’ve been thinking a lot lately about…”

Am I teaching my state’s curriculum? What are my students’ test scores going to be like in this high-stakes testing culture if they aren’t being marched through a prescribed curriculum? Is my class “rigorous” enough if young adults are getting to make decisions about what they read instead of everyone being forced to read the same text, in the same way, at the same pace, and glean the same ideas from it? If we’re all writing, say poetry, or speeches perhaps, is it possible for us to study one or two common texts together for a short time to ask ourselves, “What are the qualities and features of this genre and how do writers craft it in powerful ways?” and then send young writers off in search of texts in the genre that they can relate to and think to themselves, “I want to write like that!”

My litmus test for anything we do in the classroom is the idea that we do the work of real readers and real writers. In fact, we read a class agreement every day at the beginning of class – an agreement that I co-authored with a group of students at Jane Long Middle School in Houston.

The agreement remains an ideal and “pie in the sky” document for my students and me and has for almost a decade now. It begins, “We have a balance of freedom and responsibility, independence and community, choice and challenge. We are up to big work and we are proud,” and ends with the statement, “We imagine what is possible for ourselves and our community and we act in order to live into those possibilities. We think big and we live big.” The crux of the agreement is that we do the work of real readers and real writers. And so any strategy I teach, any activity we do, any project or type of writing we craft has to pass that test.

• Is it something I would do as a reader or writer?

• Is it something readers and writers in the community and world actually do? If not, it probably doesn’t belong in the classroom. And if it is, I should teach it explicitly and teach it well.

So I ask myself about my own literacy life and I study others’. I don’t think I’ve ever finished a novel, one that charged my heart with words and fire, one that wrecked my soul and thinking, one that left me sick to my stomach with loss and grief and then thought to myself, “Hey, I really feel like writing a summary of this book to prove to everyone that I read it.” Or, “I really need a shoebox so that I can now create a diorama of a scene from this book.” What are the authentic acts that a reader performs after reading a book that’s impacted them? The acts are as varied as the books on a shelf or the readers in a bookstore:

• Readers are dying to talk about the book they just finished with someone else who has read it.

• Readers set up little scenes before, during, and after reading—with their book, their beverage of choice, or set the book on their legs and take pictures and post them on Instagram or Facebook, and start a thread of conversation inviting others into their reading lives or to recommend the book to their fellow readers.

• They log onto Goodreads or Amazon and rate the book with stars and write a review.

• They write about it in a reading journal – exploring all of their feelings and thoughts about it, not really worried about whether what they’re writing is “right” or following the format of a 5-paragraph essay or “book report.”

• They immediately go out in search of other books by the author or maybe even get a little stalker-like and start a surveillance of the author’s website, social media page, look for pictures of them, friend them on Facebook or write to them about how the book changed their life.

• They collect their favorite quotes from the book and try writing sentences like the writer – imitating the style and diction. Or they make memes of the quotes and post them to their Tumblr or Pinterest pages.

• And sometimes, they sit with a finished book in their heart and head for days or weeks even, unable to start the next book because they’re not ready to leave behind the characters and scenes quite yet.

And what about writing? What do real writers do in their lives that makes them powerful, effective masters of craft? How do poets, novelists, journalists, speechwriters, memoirists, essayists work? Do they keep a writer’s notebook and if so what kinds of entries do they collect in order to eventually turn their thinking into a piece of published writing? How do these writers know how to write in a particular genre?

I think, just like my student Geraldo, it starts with a genuine desire to study the thing, whatever the thing is and adding the thought, “I want to write like that.” Then using the text as a mentor to ask more questions, like, “Hey writer, how did you do that?” And not being able to have the writer answer back, studying the text for it’s organization, it’s beauty or pain, it’s sentence structure and diction, and continuing to ask questions like, “I wonder why the writer decided to make it like that?” Maybe a teacher could come up with a similar list for the work of real writers:

• Writers make time for their writing. They sit every day with pen and paper or open their laptop and they just write and think and observe and wonder.

• Writers use their lives, their anger and upset, their joy and ecstasy, memories and current situations as the fuel for their words.

• Many writers keep notebooks and they collect artifacts and “stuff” from their lives, clippings and snippets, photos and drawings.

• Writers make lists, they rant and rave, they collect favorite quotes and words, they write messy, they make plans and outlines, they rewrite and revise.

• And sometimes, writers sit and stare and think and don’t get a word on the page because they are lost in thought or stuck or exhausted.

I have learned that I can absolutely allow all of these acts into the classroom and even explicitly teach these practices as lessons in a unit of study. I can filter state mandated curriculum through a lens of authenticity and choice and keep engagement high. And I can celebrate the moments in my classroom that might otherwise seem like failures or challenges, such as the two young ladies who almost came to blows over a book because one walked into the classroom and announced the ending to the book that the other was reading.

I can respond to the young man who tells me early in the school year, “I hate reading and I’m not gonna do it,” by apologizing for the fact that books and reading have let him down and asking him to try and remember that last book that wasn’t like that for him. I like the times when I’m worried about a student over the weekend because on Friday she told me she has a crush on one of the male characters in her book and I know that he’s going to die before the end of the story. I like when kids are mad when I don’t have the next book in the series they’re reading. Or when, like the other day, one of my sophomores was working on his speech persuading black men that have good jobs to give back to their community by mentoring young boys, he throws down his pen and says, “Why am I doing this it’s not going to make a difference!” And listening as another student talks to him about how it’s important that he write it and that he’s going to get to send his speech to people who might really listen to his ideas. And, my pregnant student who writes me a letter letting me know that she still hasn’t told her grandfather, that she misses her mother, and signs it “#I’mallalone.”

My students’ stories and their lives as readers and writers matter. Their struggles and celebrations are significant, and the making for great literature. This school year has been one of the toughest for me. Mostly because I’ve moved to a high school and two of the classes I’m teaching are filled with students who have experienced reading and writing as doors slammed in their faces. They equate reading and writing with standardized tests that they’ve historically struggled with and failed. And, they are two years older than most of the students I’ve worked with in the past, and they are developmentally angry with me just because I’m a teacher.

 It’s taken a lot longer to gain trust this year. It’s February, and I’m still having conversations where I’m saying, “Yes, you should write about that! Your position about half school day/half work day for students who have jobs would make a great topic for a speech,” and having them look at me with squinted eyes and pursed lips, finally sighing and saying, “Whatever.” 

But last week Erick and Alejandro did draft a speech together, using Henry Rollin’s “Letter to a Young American” as their mentor text, and using persuasive techniques to help craft an argument to the school district that once students reach the working age of 16 they should be allowed to opt-out of electives in order to work and help provide for their families. They’ve sold me! But now they have to revise their draft, polish it up and get it ready to be performed. All of which is covered in the State of Texas Essential Knowledge and Skills – but Alejandro and Erick don’t care about that. 

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Tracy Spruce is an 18-year veteran English teacher, wife, and mother of three living in Austin. She was a middle school teacher and staff developer for the Houston Independent School District for 13 years and is currently teaching 10th grade at Del Valle High School in the Del Valle Independent School District, in Austin, Texas. She is a poet and expert thrifter, constantly searching for discarded treasures. Photos and her poetry can be found on Instagram at tracytrix_atx.