David Kennedy McCulloch's
(not very) scruffy, rude, bad-tempered author blog
Analyze Your Favorite Stories
When I started writing I had no formal training. I just knew that I wanted to write. I had no aspirations that I could write the next Great American (or Scottish) Novel. But I did want to write entertaining stories with unexpected twists and surprises that would delight a reader and make them want to keep turning the page at the end of a chapter to see what was going to happen next. I wanted to write stories that were at least as good as some of my own favorite books that I had read. I enjoyed murder-mystery-detective stories during long flights back and forth across the USA on business trips. So I got a few of my favorites out, by authors like PD James or Ian Rankin or William McIlvanney and did my own amateur version of analyzing or “dissecting” them. I just went through chapter by chapter and wrote down which characters were introduced, and which plot elements happened. How did the chapter end? Was there dialog? If so, between how many different people? Was there a surprising twist or two in the story? How surprising was the climax? Why was it surprising? Was there a chapter or two after the dramatic climax where other details were explained?
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After doing this for two or three different stories by different authors I realized that although there were no official “rules” about writing a murder mystery story (at least none that anyone had told me) there were, indeed, some common themes. A few years later when I had my own wonderful literary agent and editor, she explained that there actually ARE some unwritten rules for this kind of story. She said that you don’t need to follow them but if you don’t follow them, you ought to have a good reason because people who read those kinds of stories appreciate some of the familiar elements of a story. I also remember hearing an interview with PD James, a marvelous and accomplished British writer. She said that she found that the “rules” for writing a murder-mystery were actually quite “freeing” for her. Working within a comfortable framework allowed her to focus on details of the characters and the scenes in greater detail. My editor said that for many murder-mystery stories some of the unspoken rules are these:
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By the time you have read 50 pages you should have already met the murderer although you don’t know it yet.
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Many murder-mysteries are written in the first person (in other words the reader goes through the entire story in the mind of the main protagonist [often the detective] and sees and hears everything that she or he sees and hears). Why? Because the main audience for murder mystery stories are people who like to read at the end of a busy day and may fall asleep in their chair, or in bed, or on the long plane flight as they are reading. A story written in the first person is much easier to pick back up and not lose where you are in the story.
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Many murder mysteries have short chapters that end with a surprise. This is for the same reason. Readers don’t like to feel like it is a chore to get to the end of a really long complicated chapter last thing at night when they are tired!
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You need to provide enough clues along the way that a smart reader should be able to figure out whom he or she thinks did the murder.
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You should not throw in plot details that are false clues that lead your reader astray and have nothing to do with the murder. The classic example that is often used is that if your protagonist walks into a room and describes an exotic hunting rifle above the mantelpiece in great detail this had better have something relevant to do with the story and not be an irrelevant “red herring.”
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It is okay (in fact advisable) to surprise even your smartest readers with an unexpected twist at the end so that the actual murderer is not the person they thought of but was someone else. But you should never throw in a ridiculous explanation at the climax of the story (like revealing in the last chapter that the murderer was actually the evil twin of a main character but there was no way to know that during the tale) unless you want your reader to throw your book against a wall and never read another story of yours.
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There are many more “rules” like that, but you get the idea. The point I want to make is that you should not be intimidated about writing. Analyzing your favorite story into its main elements will give you ideas about the kind of shape and style of story that you like. Do you like stories with a lot of dialog or a lot of action or a balance of both? Do you like stories that jump right into the middle with you or stories that have long descriptive build ups?
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And although I have mentioned some of the “rules” or “conventions” that you should follow… you are totally welcome to try ignoring or defying all of those rules for your own story. Some humorous satires on the murder-mystery genre purposely break all the rules to see if that will amuse their readers!
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When I started writing fantasy fiction stories, I analyzed some of my favorite fantasy adventures in the same way as I did with murder-mystery stories. I didn’t want to copy them or steal their ideas, but it is interesting to figure out how they are laying out the story and decide if the style is one that you like. How many characters were introduced in each chapter? Were they writing in the first person or the third person? How much time did they spend describing the scenes? Did they dive right into the middle of the story so that the reader had to figure things out as it went along? I quickly developed my own style and “voice,” and had the confidence to trust that others would enjoy that too.
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So I strongly encourage any of you who have a story inside of you to just let it spill out onto the page and see where it leads you!
My Early Writing Efforts
I went to high school in the Scottish seaside town of Ayr. In the five years I spent at Ayr Academy from 1966-1970 I got mostly traditional classes of English, Mathematics, French, History, Geography, Physics Chemistry and Biology along with music, art, physical education and even some basic ballroom dancing. At the end of every summer term we either performed a Shakespeare play or a Gilbert and Sullivan opera (on alternative years). We also produced a yearbook containing photographs and achievements but also some poems, articles, cartoons, and short stories written by students. Here are the covers for the Ayr Academy yearbooks for 1967-1970:
The subjects that I stuck to were mostly mathematics and science since I hoped to go to university to study medicine, but I did take some creative writing classes after school when I was about 14.
We were encouraged to create poetry using our imagination and to let go of the traditional concepts of cadence and rhyming. In fact poets like ee cummings were all the rage back then so that you didn’t even need to use upper case letters or any punctuation of grammar! It was very freeing! However, I was fond of the rhythm and cadence of song lyrics and had an interest in the glamor of the USA so I wrote my poem using a cadence that (to me, at least) sounded like the confident loping stride of a fox as it ambled towards the hen house to steal its dinner. I even tried to use American slang. I also seemed to have an adolescent fascination with death. Apparently it was considered good enough to include on the 1969 yearbook.​
I was more interested in writing prose so I attempted a short story that year, too. I lived in a quiet, suburban “conservative” neighborhood and felt a bit suffocated by my community. I was being forced into a very traditional future and part of me wanted to rebel against it. This sad little story reflects my continued fascination with death! As I look back fifty years on I cringe at the clumsy mistakes I made with words and grammar but this, too, made the cut for the 1969 yearbook. One of my friends drew the artwork that accompanied it.
Here is the text written out to make it a bit easier to read:
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A BIT OF A CLICHÉ
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The front door clicked softly shut. Rather like a rifle being cocked, he mused. As he walked down the path, under the arch, and out onto the wet pavement, he could still hear her voice, whining our all manner of orders and complaints. It wouldn’t matter now…….
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He paused at the top of the hill. Looking back at ‘suburbia’ gave him no feeling of nostalgia. The twinkling lights, of all shades of orange and green. The red ‘Coke’ sign flashed monotonously on and off. Occasionally he would see the upstairs window of a house light momentarily and then flick out. Yet he felt no regret – no fits of remorse. The whole scene to him was an absolute cliché. ‘The darkness excused the lewd night-life of a typical dormitory town.’ His gaze shifted slowly across the scene, his bulging eyes resting on his own, small, typical house. He forced back the tears. What had he done for himself? Forty five, and he was so typical; he ought to have had a stamp on his forehead:- FAIRLY SUCCESSFUL BUSINESS MAN, MARRIED. NO FAMILY. ONE CAR:- He tossed his head cynically, turned, and moved off…….
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“Oh dear! I wonder why Albert was so sullen tonight. He isn’t usually. Not on a Thursday – that’s his ‘fish’ – night. He always likes his little bit of haddock on a Thursday – good for his duodenum, I think…. But I do wish he wouldn’t shout, so. Off he goes, out the door, at that time of night. It’s gone half eleven – way past his bed-time. I suppose it’d be silly to ‘phone the police – and then him turn up as they arrived. Oh I don’t know…..”
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The sea looked quiet, tonight. Unruffled by life. One or two sleepy seagulls broke the monotony of the scene. The rain was getting heavier. Better put up an umbrella. As he did so, he suddenly halted. It hit him right in the middle of his typical red, shiny, middle-aged, beery, nose! What was he doing? He was putting up a typically black umbrella – to protect his typical bowler hat, covering his typically bald (‘just receding dear’) head. A great lump welled up in his throat, and he began to shiver with cold and anger. He hurled the umbrella over the edge, turned, and stumped off into the blackness of the night.
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“This rain’s getting awful. I can hardly see. Better put the wipers on… I do hope he won’t be angry with me when he gets home. Perhaps it is stupid getting worried about him like this… but he does have that Nuffield thing, with the board, tomorrow. He needs his sleep, you know. Oh I wish he’d let me know what was worrying him…”
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He was walking, and walking, and walking. It didn’t matter where, or for how long. He just walked and thought. What an insipid, insignificant little man he seemed, in his own eyes. He had plucked up courage all day, in his little office… he had planned what little there was to plan… no need for a will – nothing to leave – no-one to leave the nothing to! No! It had all seemed simple enough. He would go out for his usual walk, at the usual time, go up to the cliff and then just!…. Yes! That had been the flaw. He didn’t have any guts. The very faults which had driven him to so much despair, were now stopping him from ending it all. Ironically, useless…..
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He stopped for a moment, to look at himself. Utterly drenched to the skin. He has lost his hat somewhere back along his train of thoughts. A freshly starched shirt tail, bumfled out from below his silk waistcoat, revealing four or five lewd square inches of fat, on that hairy, beery (‘nicely plump dear’) paunch. One of his laces was undone, and he had mud splattered half way up his leg. His mouth tasted salty!… he was blubbering like a child! Anger and self pity choked in his fat throat.
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Turning once more to escape from himself, he began to run, shutting his eyes like clams – petrified of himself – turning a blind eye to his faults? Panting and heaving, tripping and falling he ran, goaded on by the spitting lashing rain, on and on and…..
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“… why doesn’t he tell me things… why can’t he let me share in his problems. I do my little best!.. what more does he expect? Well, I’m not going on! I’ll turn at this next bend and go home. He can just get wet for once! Can’t expect me to go out in this fog. I can hardly see a thing. You’d almost think that was someone on the… Oh my God! No!”
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A blaring noise in his left ear brought him back to reality. Two blazing angry eyes – squeals and screetches… of laughter? Uplifted by his own emotions – dashed to destruction by his refusal to see – crumpled and broken beneath the weight of unseen hope… the red blood of time oozed over his eyes and congealed…..
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I am sharing this, (typos, bad grammar and punctuation and all) not because I think it is particularly good, but to encourage anyone reading this to consider writing their own stories. It just takes the confidence to start writing down the ideas in your head and to trust that it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks about it if it gives you pleasure and joy to create something new for yourself.
Seattle—Nothing Stays the Same
One problem with writing about things in the real world is that nothing stays the same. People, places, and circumstances all change. But it is also fun to write about specific places and events that some readers can recognize or relate to. When I started writing the Blackhope Scar story in 2006 Seattle was a very different place than it is today (2020 as I write this). And so some of the references and landmarks that I included in that story seem dated, now, and others are simply no longer true. In 2006 there still was a Seattle Center Pavilion with a pay phone inside. Finn uses this to call Marie-Claire Blancmange in Chapter XIII, How To Annoy A French Snob. The Seattle Supersonics basketball team still played there (they moved to Oklahoma City in 2008). In the next two chapters I describe Finn, Hadley and Wullie going on the Monorail to the north end of Downtown Seattle, and having adventures in the Westin Hotel. At that time (and still true in 2020) those Seattle landmarks are still pretty much the same as they were then.
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In Chapters XIV and XV our adventurers hide in a smelly alley in Downtown, walk down to the Pike Place Market and then go under the Alaskan Way Viaduct to get to the Seattle waterfront. The Alaskan Way Viaduct was demolished in 2018-2019, although the Pike Place Market looks much the same today as I describe in Chapter XIV.
The waterfront itself is constantly changing. When I wrote the story in 2006-2007 the piers stopped at Pier 70 and so I invented an extra pier farther north called Pier 71. At that time there was no Pier 71. There were scruffy piers with barnacles clinging to posts. There were rusting barges moored offshore and marinas where fancy boats were moored. So even if it all looks a bit different nowadays I hope that it will still feel similar to the way I describe it during the climax to Part One of Blackhope Scar.
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