Parts And Processes Of A Good Story

Getting, getting…got! (You will understand that in a moment).

Algis Budrys is a genius. He is also an author, an editor, a publisher and an outstanding teacher; it is the genius part that I wish to discuss right now, however. In his amazingly valuable, though diminutive book, Writing to The Point—A Complete Guide to Selling Fiction, he lays out some of the most sensible guidelines for writing that I have ever heard. These are things that consciously escape the average person and all but the better writers, but Budrys manages to make them seem so simple and obvious that one is left in either stunned reverence for his insight or is nodding one’s head in respectful agreement, thinking these to be the most wonderful of examples of common sense. I find myself doing both. And that is after finding that I have already been following those principles either instinctively or as a result of some osmotic training gained as a youthful reader.

Budrys, in a mere 63 pages, distills the essence of good fiction writing and places it evenly and sequentially upon the pages for the receptive student to absorb with wonder and awe.

As a writer, I have often found words to be a barrier, rather than a tool. They are at times clunky and painful, lending barely a hint of the meanings that I would wish to convey to others. At times like these, I want nothing more than to be able to ‘plug into’ those I am attempting to communicate with and relay my thoughts and feelings in their purity, untainted by the less than adequate tool we call speech.

At other times, words come with such ease and so fluently that I am in awe of the process and I wonder that such things could be emanating from me! I am thankful to be the channel through which they come, nonetheless.

Algis Budrys lays out two tremendous lessons that even the advanced writer may benefit from. Such an author may not be truly aware of the process that takes place as they hone and perfect that sculpture-on-paper which they call their story and it helps to have this pointed out to him at least once. It is like a revelation that comes to him, showing that all this time he has been less than aware of the sea of air that surrounds him, allowing his very breath and life. All the while, eyes and mouth agape, he is astounded that he has never noticed this body of substance that he depends upon so fully; not until it is distinctly pointed out to him. Now, fully aware of it for the first time, there is a depth of enjoyment and a fullness that was not a part of his former experience. This is what Budrys has done for me. He has pointed out that in which I was immersed, although I was unaware of my state and condition. He has made the invisible become visible to me. I am grateful for that knowledge. It answers for me the question, “But why does it work that way?”

First, he has laid out the needful parts of a successful and properly written story. These parts are: The beginning, the middle and the end. This sounds so basic at this point—and it is. But then this master teacher goes on to subdivide these portions.

The beginning is divided further into three parts: A character, placed in a context and having a small problem. Again, this seems to be common sense. We all know that there is nothing so uncommon as common sense, however.

This brings us to the middle portion, which is comprised of: 1) an attempt to solve the problem, but meeting with unexpected failure; 2) another attempt, escalating the degree of danger and 3), only on the third attempt, now a life-threatening situation, meeting with success.

The final stage, the end, has only one element--the validation. As Budrys puts it, someone has to say, “He’s dead, Jim.” The reader may already suspect this. It might even be obvious to him, but there is necessary closure in the actual saying of it. This makes for a more satisfying read.

So, there you have the structure of a great story—the beginning in its three parts, the middle with its three and the end with its validation. That is the ‘algebraic formula,’ if you will, that Budrys uses to explain and to write by. The brilliance is in seeing it in the first place. I have no doubt that it is true. One intuitively knows it to be so—once it is pointed out. But there is still a sense of wonder that someone was observant enough to see and describe these principles, obvious though they should have been all this time.

This brings me to the second major lesson he points out. He mentions that the manuscript is not the story. It is simply a vehicle to convey the story. Neither are good grammar nor punctuation the story, but merely the tools of the secretary that transcribes the story. Budrys points out that the real magic is in the ideation, as he calls it (with some repugnance for the word, which he dubs horrid). The thought processes themselves are what make or break the story, I take him to mean. He points out that we are bombarded daily with input that we must filter, process, then file away for future consideration or wholly reject. Most of it is deemed to be mundane and is rejected as such. Some are filed for later use and still fewer are found worthy of being called ‘interesting.’ The latter class is filtered even further, cut and spliced and ultimately these, too, are either filed or rejected. We are, Budrys says, what we were. Everything that we are exposed to—our experience—is what we are, what we write, think and judge all of life against.

So,...ideas--where do they come from? Who knows, really? They may seem to come full-blown and out of nowhere, taking us by surprise. This we call inspiration. Budrys maintains that even these thoughts are first filtered through our experience, processed in accordance with what we know and then filed for our consideration. I am not certain that I agree with this, being that it would seem a subtle attempt to take God out of the equation at times, but the question of what ideas are and where they come from is fascinating, nonetheless. They are certainly more than just electrical firings and chemical conversions, Pavlovian responses to external stimuli, whether consciously noticed or not. If experience has taught me anything, it is that—if you will pardon the pun.

Budrys divides this ideation-to-story process into three parts also. Getting the idea, getting the words and getting the right words. If you have ever written and edited, you already know this to be so. Again, the brilliance is in pointing it out so lucidly. What should be obvious is not always so. Often the writing experience is a left brain/right brain experience. The creative muse takes off and leads the writer into far off lands of wonder that ends up on the paper (or PC) and then the editor takes over and cuts and polishes the rough diamond we call the first draft. It may take repeated polishings. In fact, it probably should, if it is to reach its true potential.

Budrys also offers that writer’s block is nothing more than a failure to process incoming data or the failure to draw from the “file cabinet” of experience that which we wish to record eloquently onto paper. There are many causes of this, he postulates. Though he does not mention fatigue or malnutrition, he does go into the subject of the recreational use of various drugs, traditionally used by creative minds to ‘enhance’ the process. He also throws such proclaimed ‘attributes’ into the trash bin and labels them as the rubbish they deserve to be. Budrys recognizes that such substances may seem to jog the thought processes for a time, before finally becoming a greater hindrance and stumbling block to the author who only wished in the first place to remove a much smaller version of the same.

What is the answer? Sometimes just rest and diversion. Our minds process a lot more than we give credit for. And this is done at the subliminal level most of the time. I found this to be true in the instance of my vignette The Guitar, included elsewhere in this blog. It came at about midnight when I was worn out and wanted only to go to bed. Inspiration had other ideas, however. I had been listening to the music of Jesse Cooke and talking to my son about the concert he had just attended with his wife. When the story hit, it was powerful and nearly full-blown in structure. I knew instinctively that if I let it wait until the morning, it would be all but gone. It was not the kind that y7ou make a brief note and intend to develop it later. This one was a gift from somewhere else and I needed to open it right away or lose it. Half an hour later, I had a cut and nearly polished diamond that would wait until morning for a final polishing. And I assure you, I slept much better that night, knowing I had not squandered the gift when it was given. The sacrifice of 30 minutes of sleep was gratifying in the short term and rewarding for the long term.

New diversions, new environments and different sources of stimulation may be all that we need to change our ‘input’ and as a result, the filtering and processing of what goes into the ‘files’ of our brains. ‘As a man thinketh, so is he,’ says the old adage. Now you know why. And now that you know what the essential parts and points of a great story are, do you think you can write one?