Steering the Craft, Chapter 9 Exercises
Today, I am on Ch. 9—Indirect Narration.
Part One: A & B The goal of this exercise is to tell a story and present two characters through dialogue alone.
Write a page or two...of pure dialogue.
Write it like a play, with A and B as the characters’ names. No stage directions. No description of the characters. Nothing but what A says and what B says.
Shepherd: This is the last of the rations, then. Eat up.
Poole: At least we’re surrounded by water, eh?
Shepherd: Sure, surrounded by water you wouldn’t want to drink. And we won’t last long without more food.
Poole: We could be surrounded by food, too.
Shepherd: Don’t be an ass, Poole.
Poole: Don’t call me an ass! I’m only saying—
Shepherd: I know what you’re saying, but it’s a stupid—
Poole: You might not think it’s so stupid in a week when we’re starving.
Shepherd: We’ll be rescued by then. That’s the end of it. All of these flowers could be poisonous. I don’t like the look of them, unnatural size and all. And I don’t like the feel of this place. The grass is too…silky.
Poole: I think it’s nice here. Like a mini paradise. We’d be dead if you hadn’t spotted the island.
Shepherd: If this were paradise, would Matthews have gone missing? Something happened to him. Best to be on our toes until we figure out what.
Poole: He probably went for a swim. Predators in the water. Man wasn’t thinking.
Shepherd: He didn’t strike me as that kind of fool.
Poole: Well, you never know, do you?
Part Two: Write a narrative of 200–600 words, a scene involving at least two people and some kind of action or event.
Use a single viewpoint character, in either first person or limited third person, who is involved in the event.
The viewpoint character (real or invented) is to be somebody you dislike, or disapprove of, or hate, or feel to be extremely different from yourself.
Sharon was enjoying her picturesque drive home from the office when she spotted a neighborhood abomination. She slammed on the brakes—stared—pursed her lips. This would not do.
Throwing her Honda CR-V into reverse, Sharon backed into the driveway of 321 Harvest Lane. She parked next to a Prius. Typical environmentalist-types. No concern for property values. If you weren’t careful, those environmentalists would have ugly solar panels on the roof and windmills in the backyard, making the neighborhood look like hippie trash. Sharon wouldn’t stand for it. She marched to 321’s front door and rapped smartly. She waited ten seconds, then knocked again. Someone was definitely home, and Sharon refused to be ignored.
After she knocked the second time, Sharon heard the pounding of footsteps as someone stomped toward her. The front door was thrown open, and Sharon stood face-to-face with a bearded man with salt-and-pepper hair.
“I’m not interested,” the man said, then started to close the door.
“Excuse me,” Sharon said. She endeavored to sound polite. “I’m Sharon Clark, head of the neighborhood HOA.” The man stopped closing the door and peered at her. “Are you the homeowner?” she pressed.
“Yes,” he answered. “David Haim. Nice to meet you. Is there a problem?”
“I’m afraid so.” Sharon kept a smile on her face to soften the blow. “It’s your front yard.”
“My front yard? What’s wrong with it?” Despite Sharon’s attempt at politeness, David sounded exasperated. Sharon tensed. As the messenger of neighborhood rules, she often felt a target on her back.
“It’s all dug up.”
“I’m putting in a vegetable garden.”
She had been afraid of that. “One of our policies is that we don’t allow vegetable gardens in the front yard. You’re perfectly welcome to grow anything you’d like in the backyard—anything legal, that is—but the front yard must appear nicely maintained.” Sharon had said all this before, to various neighbors. Some people argued. Some feigned ignorance. Some shrugged. But they all caved.
“Absolutely not,” said David. “I’ve already checked out the backyard, and the front’s terrain is much better suited for gardening.”
Sharon dropped the smile and her polite tone. “It’s neighborhood policy,” she said flatly.
“It’s a bad policy. A stupid policy. Yards are made for growing things.”
“I’d be happy to provide you with a list of plants we allow in the front yard.”
“Real things, not pretty little flowers all in a line. Yards should be messy. And overgrown. And full of life. This whole neighborhood is so sanitized, it’s more like a Twilight Zone episode than a living, breathing neighborhood.”
“That is totally uncalled for,” said Sharon. She couldn’t believe this guy’s rudeness! After all she did to make the neighborhood a welcoming, beautiful place for everyone to enjoy. Why’d he move here, anyway, if he felt that way? She continued, “But that’s beside the point. I’ll send you an official letter about the garden tomorrow. I expect this to be remedied soon.”
“You can expect a lawsuit.”
Sharon snorted. “A lawsuit, Mr. Haim? Really? You’re welcome to it.”
Part Three: Part Three of Exercise 9 is just like Part One, except it’s the opposite. In “A & B” you had nothing but voices to work with, no scenery at all. In this one you have nothing to work with but the scenery. Nobody’s there, and nothing—apparently—is happening.
Each part of this should involve 200–600 words of descriptive prose. In both, the voice is either involved author or detached author. No viewpoint character.
Character by indirection: Describe a character by describing any place inhabited or frequented by that character—a room, house, garden, office, studio, bed, whatever. (The character isn’t present at the time.)
Sunlight streamed into the room through its singular window. Students’ voices drifted in from outside as they called to each other. The dorm’s twin-sized bed was unmade, sheets twisted and smelling lightly of sweat and musk. Unframed posters of Che Guevara and popular rock bands were pinned to the walls. To the side of the bed, on the nightstand, was a pile of novels, all with bookmarks sticking out of the pages. The Catcher in the Rye, its spine creased, sat on top of the pile. No clothes in the laundry basket, nor in the open closet. A stack of small and medium boxes sat in the corner, taped up and labeled in permanent marker: Books, Textbooks, Figurines, Clothes, Misc. No dust had settled on the boxes yet. An empty box sits beside the bed, half-filled with more books.
A stack of envelopes sat atop the desk, in front of the laptop. The top envelope was simply addressed, “Mom,” in shaky handwriting. Underneath the desk, partially obscured from view, was a crumpled, empty box of caffeine pills.
Another set of really useful exercises; I actually took the second exercise—writing from the viewpoint of a character you dislike—and wrote a complete short story from Sharon’s POV.
If you complete the exercises, I encourage you to post and share your responses.
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