Toing and Froing Again, Part 3

This is the final post in this Toing and Froing arc. The genesis of this arc came from my fouling up The Alibi chapter 3 (my current work in progress.

Toing and Froing occurs when the writer/author has their characters move around or do things for no real story purpose; there’s no character development, no character revelation, the atmosphere doesn’t change, no plot elements are furthered or revealed, the movement is irrelevant to any established or impending plot points, the movement is unnecessary to the dialogue, et cetera.

I ended Toing and Froing Again, Part 2 talking about writing and reading rhythms (and I’ll return to those at some point). This post talks about recognizing the problem and coming up with a solution.

The Problem and a Solution
Here’s what I wrote:

The Boston Incident Center’s operations operator routed the call to every city service in a twenty block radius of AirCon’s building. Every mobile in the station went off simultaneously.
Marete came out of his office. “Who’s in the field?”
Senior Ops put a feed on the office’s main. “Looks like some kid’s streaming from his drone.”
Cranston plopped into his seat. “Yeah, I guess this is me.”
Marete pointed to the door. “Take Rhinehold with you.”
Rhinehold, seated next to Cranston’s desk to finish setting up the atricial, spun his chair to face Marete. “What did I do?”
Cranston gathered his notebook and pen. “You wanted fun. You got fun.”
Rhinehold frowned “You don’t use a tablet?”
Cranston paid no attention.
Rhinehold lifted his backpack over his shoulder. “No worries. I have mine.”

What follows would be my comments if the above material came to me in a critique group:

  • The Boston Incident Center’s operations operator routed the call to every city service in a twenty block radius of AirCon’s building. – acceptable but wordy. “operations operator” doesn’t need to be in that sentence. Unless there’s a need for this character to appear in the story again, it doesn’t even count as stage direction and you can get rid of it.
  • Every mobile in the station went off simultaneously. – again acceptable and weak. The chapter opening deals with a police station’s response to a bomb blast. You want the reader caught in the action and moving forward. The characters are pumping adrenaline so the reader should be, too. This sentence has no real action hence no forward momentum as written.
  • Marete came out of his office. – obvious Toing and Froing and necessary as it tells the reader who’s doing what, as in attribution via action. And yet with all that going for it, it’s static. It doesn’t move the reader forward.
  • “Who’s in the field?” – Nice, short dialogue and fitting with the action of the scene, and ditto.
  • Senior Ops put a feed on the office’s main. – Way over the top Toing and Froing. What’s the purpose of this sentence? What does it provide the reader? All it does it take the reader off the main and primary characters by introducing an irrelevant stage direction character. Get rid of it.
  • “Looks like some kid’s streaming from his drone.” – Expected and doesn’t move the reader forward.
  • Cranston plopped into his seat. – You can almost feel the oars moving in their locks as the boat to’s and fro’s, can’t you?
  • “Yeah, I guess this is me.” – ditto.
  • Marete pointed to the door. – ditto and, at this point, who friggen cares?
  • “Take Rhinehold with you.” – static and di-di-di-ditto.
  • Rhinehold, seated next to Cranston’s desk to finish setting up the atricial, spun his chair to face Marete. – does nothing except (literally) place him in the scene.
  • “What did I do?” – I think I was so bored writing at this point I attempted humor.
    I failed.
    PS) Another personal clue to me I’m Toing and Froing is when I attempt to put humor into an otherwise humorless scene or have it come out of the mouths of previously humorless characters.
  • Cranston gathered his notebook and pen. – Pure toing and froing because he gathers them. So what?
  • “You wanted fun. You got fun.” – more botched humor.
  • Rhinehold frowned. – Exactly what I talked about in the Attribution via Action post.
  • “You don’t use a tablet?” – Basically okay as exposition and character development via dialogue, and there’s no real need to bash the reader over the head with it.
  • Cranston paid no attention. – the reader’s not paying attention, why should Cranston?
  • Rhinehold lifted his backpack over his shoulder. – As with Cranston gathering his notebook and pen, so what?
  • “No worries. I have mine.” – Wasted unless it points to something coming later in the story (as in foreshadowing).

At this point remember that criticism without solution is worthless. Anybody can spot problems, not everybody can come up with workable solutions.

Here’s what I came up with as an alternative followed by the reasons this rewrite removes Toing and Froing, strengthens the story, and keeps the reader moving forward (and note, I offer this is better, not brilliant):

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Final thoughts
This kind of critique is what a good critique group will give you. If your critique group isn’t constantly working to improve your writing, find another. Does it need to be this thorough?

I’ll say yes, it does, and also appreciate not a lot of critique groups will go to this level. I also appreciate not everyone wants this level of analysis, and recognize this level of analysis can be devastating if not offered well. I wouldn’t offer this to a newbie unless it’s obvious they can separate themselves from their work and recognize I’m commenting on their work, not them (watch my interview for more on this).

Should you need it or want it, I do offer this level of critique and also writer/author mentoring.

Toing and Froing Again, Part 2

This is the second post regarding teaching myself to recognize Toing and Froing when I commit it (a most heinous act done by inept writers on hopeless prose, poetry (it’d be tough but I’m sure it can be done), scriptwriting, playwriting, (possibly) non-fiction, creative non-fiction, …).

And remember, folks, I’m including myself in the above. I’m writing this Toing and Froing arc to teach myself better writing techniques because I Toed and Froed like a marathon runner who’d lost their bearings while writing The Alibi chapter 3 (of my current work in progress which I’ll start posting in August 2022).

Toing and Froing occurs when the writer/author has their characters move around or do things for no real story purpose; there’s no character development, no character revelation, the atmosphere doesn’t change, no plot elements are furthered or revealed, the movement is irrelevant to any established or impending plot points, the movement is unnecessary to the dialogue, et cetera.

Toing and Froing Again, Part 1 ended with “My writing speed slows down,” meaning I’ve lost my rhythm, and I pick up from there…
Continue reading “Toing and Froing Again, Part 2”

The Book of The Wounded Healers
(a study in perception)

Chapter 8 – That Which Makes Us Happy, That Which Makes Us Sad

You can read the backstory on The Book of the Wounded Healers in The Book of The Wounded Healers/(a study in perception)/Frame and Chapter 1 – The First Communication, and it may help understanding the story’s universe a bit.

Read previous chapters:

Let me know what you think.


The Book of The Wounded Healers
(a study in perception)
Chapter 8 – That Which Makes Us Happy, That Which Makes Us Sad

1-800-MD-TUSCH

Jenreel points at the sign as we enter the #9 train at South Ferry. Cetaf and Beriah are at street level. They are fascinated by the stories of Ellis and Liberty Islands.

I feel the train lurch and worry that Cetaf and Beriah might be left behind.

The doors pulse shut and I’m reminded of a sphincter constricting.

“The sign is for a doctor, a type of healer, who specializes in problems of the rectum and anus.”

“Isn’t that how you people relieve yourselves of waste?”

I nod.

“You people have trouble relieving yourselves of waste?”

A bag lady bumps into me and knocks me back. Her hand clutches the pole in front of me and she stands between Jenreel and me. “Children don’t. Kiddies go whenever and wherever they need. That’s why they’s always smiling.”

She smiles wide and proud and releases her bowels. The smell is obvious, although she is so wrapped in rags nothing escapes.

A buzzer sounds and the doors clamp again but open quickly, stopped from sealing by some of Notre Dame du Bags’ baggage. She waddles out and Cetaf and Beriah come in. People make room for Cetaf as he squeezes through the door.

“She has no problems of the rectum and anus,” Jenreel observes.

“I think that’s why she’s so happy.”

***

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The Book of The Wounded Healers
(a study in perception)

Chapter 7 – Locals Versus Tourists

You can read the backstory on The Book of the Wounded Healers in The Book of The Wounded Healers/(a study in perception)/Frame and Chapter 1 – The First Communication, and it may help understanding the story’s universe a bit.

Read previous chapters:

Let me know what you think.


The Book of The Wounded Healers
(a study in perception)
Chapter 7 – Locals Versus Tourists

A year before I dated her, I literally picked Robin Cashen up in a curl. I wasn’t particularly strong. She was particularly tiny.

I told the girl I was dating that I’d be dating Robin in less than a year’s time. Sarah, the girl I was dating, and I weren’t having problems. I just knew I’d date Robin in a year’s time.

Robin was tiny with a moon-pie face and a nice but slightly stocky body, long blond hair and a burden of great confusion which I didn’t understand at first.

After a dinner with her parents, I understood. Her father was a strong man who had no confidence in anything but his hands. As a result, during the day he worked at a job he hated and at night he drank and flexed Budweiser-enhanced muscles. Her mother, a sweet lady who looked like Robin with a mustache, did much the same.

Funny how we could find each other, huh?

Late one Christmas Eve, dressed in a choir robe because I was singing at the eight o’clock and again at the midnight service, I came by Robin’s house to wish her family Merry Christmas.

It had been a long day and I was tired. Too tired to remember all the lessons I’d learned in my own family’s house. We all sat in the living room, Mr. and Mrs. Cashen on a couch by the wall, me in a recliner fully reclined and with my shoes off, and Robin on the floor by my side. Mr. Cashen looked at the too expensive gifts he placed under the too-expensive tree, emptied his bottle then got another, emptied his bottle then got another. When he sat, a declawed Siamese cat kept loosing a battle with his hand. Mrs. Cashen sipped a wine which she bought by the drum for $1.99, giggled and leaned over towards me, her bathrobe slightly ajar.

Robin got nervous and I was too tired to understand why. “I think you should go, Ben, don’t you? Isn’t it time to get back to church?” She practically shouted the word “church” at her mother although she was talking to me.

“Yeah, I suppose. Everybody’s tired here and I probably should go.”

Mr. Cashen handed me a beer. “No, don’t go, Ben. Party’s starting.”

I laughed. “Come on. Mrs. Cashen’s drunk and you’re on your way. I’m too tired and can’t even find my shoes. No thanks. I’ve got to take off.”

I felt more than saw Robin tense and felt more than saw Mrs. Cashen suddenly sober as wine-induced color quickly left her face.

I put on my shoes and my jacket over my robe. Mr. Cashen put on his jacket, laughed, opened the door, and followed me outside.

Like a fool, I held the door for him so he could follow me outside.

He grabbed my arm and spun me around. His eyes couldn’t even focus on me when he spoke but his grip made me wince. “Listen, Ben, I like you a lot, but don’t ever say those things about me and my family again. Do you hear me, Ben? Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”

Yes, I heard. But I didn’t understand. I hadn’t meant to insult. In my exhaustion, in the late late night of that long ago Christmas Eve, I had committed the Spirit Blaspheming sin of speaking the truth. Pure truth, without morality or ethical content.

And Robin’s father threatened to beat me up because I spoke the truth, once, in her house.

When we take away all that is not, all we are left with is what that is.

***

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The Book of The Wounded Healers
(a study in perception)

Chapter 6 – Places You’ve Never Been

You can read the backstory on The Book of the Wounded Healers in The Book of The Wounded Healers/(a study in perception)/Frame and Chapter 1 – The First Communication, and it may help understanding the story’s universe a bit.

Read previous chapters:

Let me know what you think.


The Book of The Wounded Healers
(a study in perception)
Chapter 6 – Places You’ve Never Been

During my time in the hospital, I met a man who had never been to The ‘Nam but whose life had been so traumatic that the only way he could rationalize his experiences was to believe he had been there. He manifested all the patterns of acute Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; persistent re-experiencing of the trauma, persistent avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma or numbing of general responsiveness, increased arousal.

This wasn’t surprising. Talking with him, I came to realize that emotionally and spiritually he had more in common with Vets – loss, pain, remorse, fear, psychological failure – than any others group he could associate with. After a few days, when he knew more about me, I, too, became his enemy. My knowledge and experiences were a threat to those he fabricated and eventually he had to leave. I don’t remember his name but I’ll call him Jack. Whenever Jack walked under a doorjamb he would kick the top of the jamb to show everyone how high he could kick.

There was another man, Bill I think his name was, who was of the right age to have been to Woodstock but had no memories of the best known feature of it – “Hey, man! They shut down the highway!”

Bill was average height and build, with the coloring and coarseness of someone whose life involved little intelligence and lots of labor. His voice bore the mark of thirty years of chain smoking although he hadn’t developed a hack, something I attributed to his several years on the sea. Balding and cropping what little hair he had, Bill always smiled a terse little smile and watched everyone around him to see if they were watching him.

Bill was the kind of guy who would talk to himself if no one was there. He would announce his entry into a room and his exit. He would announce the onslaught of his bodily functions and describe the strains, groans, farts, and moans associated with them. Instead of simply getting a cup of coffee he would engage himself in monologue, “I guess I’ll just get a cup of coffee here. Now where’s the cups. No, don’t tell me, I know. Yep, here they are. A little cream? No, today I think I’ll have milk. Sugar. Now where’s the sugar,” and on it would go through the cup of coffee and onto the next. If everyone in the ward were watching retro TV mysteries and Columbo was about to nudge the felon into submission or Jessica was ready to reveal the culprit, Bill would enter, his voice the same volume as the TV, and begin his monologue of which chair? which lamp? was there a paper to read? what’s on? and who did it? “Oh yeah? I don’t know. I think it’s somebody else. Maybe that guy there,” and he would point at the announcer on the commercial for underwear.

It had to be planned. Either planned or practiced for so many years it passed into habit.

Bill, by the way, wasn’t one of the orderlies. That was the other guy, Jack. Bill was one of the counselors. That was how he introduced himself to me.

I found out later he was a habitual patient.

***

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