Adventures in Storytelling 4

Entry 4, Carpe editorem, occide…continued.   

In my last entry I outlined four points that needed addressing in P1. I left off in the middle of my second round of editing and highlighted that I use my own tools to help identify my strengths and weaknesses. I made a list and focused on the nuts and bolts, things like -ly words and passive voice.

I want highlight one of the other two issues identified: lore/worldbuilding mistakes and inconsistencies; and, there are some things I simply don’t like.

I’m going to start with the first—lore/worldbuilding—because it’s easier to answer.

There is no end to the discourse regarding “worldbuilding.” There are endless books and articles on the topic, various charts and step-by-step guides on how to “build unique and imaginative places.” And that’s great, sometimes people need a guide.

Once you’ve come to understand the need for worldbuilding and mastered the concepts, your next step is to debate endlessly about when and where to use it, what qualifies as worldbuilding, and when its really just an infodump?

I’m not going to bore you with a lengthy discourse. I believe thoroughly that if you are writing, you are worldbuilding. Every sentence is an opportunity to build and deepen the unique flavor and culture of a world. It should be done in every kind of story, regardless if the setting is New York City or some far-flung elfland.

The danger with worldbuilding lies in the fact that sometimes it is an infodump.

In P1, I found that I didn’t really have a problem with infodumping. I killed that problem in one of my first drafts, working and reworking paragraphs and conversations to move information in a smoother way. I classified lore and worldbuilding information into two categories: absolutely necessary, and trivia.

Lore that is absolutely necessary is lore that is needed in order for the plot and the character’s actions to make sense. It is necessary to suspend a reader’s belief. For example, P1’s co-protagonist, R, has a background before meeting protagonist E. R’s background includes connections to an organization with an extensive history. That history must be told for R’s actions to make sense. Without that lore, R’s movements and thoughts become schizophrenic—unmoored from the reality of the story.

Lore classified as trivia is the nice little accoutrements that make a story unique, pretty, realistic. It’s the way someone styles hair or takes their tea. It’s how the road shunts to the left or how the flowers were blooming late in the mild spring. Fine details, those little things whose inclusion adds color but absence results in no serious loss to the central action of the story.

The issue was just how much lore I had.

If you recall from Adventures in Storytelling 1, I started P1 because a sense of overwhelming vastness that plagued my first abortive attempts at putting Project Paisley on paper. I knew I had something; I just wasn’t sure where to go with it. P1 was started to help me congeal—so to speak—my world.

In that, I would say I was successful. I believe the world I’ve created is colorful and realistic. Is it perfect? Of course not! But I think I have a world that is interesting and engaging. It’s made up of several counties, each with their own unique cultures.

That said, I didn’t start out that way. While writing, I spent a lot of time thinking about P1’s setting.

The main setting of P1 is an island-bound city, at the risk of oversharing, when thinking about this city I had two real cities in mind—London and Paris. I wanted to capture the things I liked about both cities. I thought deeply about how the ocean effects a city, it’s culture, government, etc. What considerations does an island-bound nation have to make regarding security? How does the sea change their food culture? What kind of jobs would their poor city-folk work? What of the prosperous?

In the end, I found myself asking, what would Paris be like if was actually on the coast of Normandy? What about London without the Thames?

My first draft was missing many of the key elements that I feel make this setting (as it’s written now) interesting. While I muddled through various technical problems, I found myself filling in the blank corners. Ordinary English idioms were rewritten to better relay the culture of a seafaring people, food became fish heavy, the peasantry became laborers and fishermen. I began to add these little details.

And that was just a single city. The religion of this world was terribly atrophied. I used a placeholder name for the main deity until a better name struck me in the middle of a slow work day. That bit of inspiration was just pure luck, the rest I had to force myself to sit down and think about.

When I began writing P1, I already had a small booklet that I jotted ideas in. It was in no way comprehensive, but it was helpful and allowed me to keep track of my thoughts.  

I’d written several notes about the religion of a particular civilization that acts as the “national antagonist” if that makes sense. This nation is in a strained relationship with the other nations. They’re less an actual threat and more a looming, invisible darkness that hangs over the characters like a Sword of Damocles.

With them, I had to ask myself, how weird am I willing to be? How strange and foreign do I go? I wanted to create a religion that would repulse all modern sensibilities. Something in the way of a mystery cult with elements of ancient fertility cults. I confided in some friends and the answer I got back is the same advice I would give to any writer. Be weird. Write what you want. Weird is where the fun is.

There is only one way to solve lore and worldbuilding inconsistencies. If its trivial, you can drop it. If it’s necessary, you alter it. Its perfectly possible for you to like the mistake more than the original idea. I’ve changed things to better match up with the mistake I made.

But, the more you have, the higher the chance for error. As I read through my second or third draft, I realized that my timeline was, well, fucked. I couldn’t keep my pacing tight. Things were moving either too quickly to be believable, or too slowly. Fixing this is easier said than done. I haven’t completely fixed it.

Before my most recent draft I sat down and did two things.

First, I worked out a primitive timeline. I went event by event and found that a perceptive reader would quickly take note of the awkwardness of the pacing. Conflict was happening so frequently that despite my clear delineation of day and night, it didn’t feel like there was enough time between problem and resolution.

Now, of course, piling catastrophe on catastrophe is part of being a writer. The action happens in between conflict and resolution. Because my story has a high element of political chaos, it was necessary for the conflicts to coalesce, or the solution to become a problem later in the plot. But I couldn’t make the pacing feel natural. I had to sit down and write it out, event by event, piece by piece, until I understood exactly what I was looking at.

I remain uncomfortable with my current timeline; I am working on fixing the pacing.

The second thing I did was go through each chapter and take out everything I could find that was lore related. I placed it all in a master document. This list has become an augmentation to my original booklet. I refer to it as needed. Now, anything inconsistent or repeated is glaringly obvious. By listing each piece of lore/worldbuilding with the chapter it was found in, I am now able to refer and correct.

You’ll note that these aren’t really solutions. They’re more like guides. The tasks I’ve made for myself are monumental and they cannot be solved in a few short sessions. As I write this entry, I’m actively in the middle of these corrections. I’m not foolish enough to think that I can work a perfect draft. Eventually, I will have to give in and let the story escape.

It’s hard to pinpoint a lesson when you’re actively attempting to fix something. The only thing I could offer my past self is this:

Writing is work, but a good story deserves your attention. Even if you can only work small pieces at a time, keep chipping away. Every correction, every setback, every mistake makes you a better writer.

Above: a view from the Paris Catacombs. Consecrated in 1786, the Catacombs are the final resting place of countless Parisian dead. May the souls of the faithfully departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.