Advice

Divorce Your Words; Save Your Story

KWhipkey 4 Comments

Revision. For many writers, I may as well have said Root Canal. They dread it like they do a jury duty summons. They know it’s necessary but hate every second of it.

I’m not one of those writers. Revision is actually my favorite part. There’s something so satisfying in tearing apart a story to reassemble it in a better version, polishing and cutting and rearranging it like pieces in a puzzle until everything finally clicks. I don’t fear the delete button, I wield it proudly. That 6 page scene I slaved over for three weeks still isn’t working? Buh-bye! Two-thirds of my story is riddled with plot-holes, superficial characters and overall stinkage? Adiós! The word count is too high for the magazine I want to submit to? No problem, let me grab my scalpel.

How am I able to freely chop my manuscripts into little mutilated bits? I don’t marry my words. Maybe that’s a perk of writing like a film director. I don’t see words on a page, I see the scenes themselves. The words are just a way for me to communicate those scenes to my audience. They’re my camera. So when what I’m trying to convey gets lost in translation, I have no problem chucking them and trying again.

I know, I’m extreme. Cutting an entire section is most writer’s worst nightmare. But sometimes, that’s exactly what needs to happen in order to save your story. Sometimes, you have to strip it down to it’s bare bones before you can build it back up. Sometimes, you have to hit delete.

Similar to “kill your darlings,” which tells us our favorite phrases are also the cancer of our manuscript and should be instantly removed, you have to divorce your words before you can successfully revise. Easier said than done, right? I know how hard it is for some of you to disconnect from those precious patterns of words and beautiful phrases, to see past the letters to the plot itself. Which is why I decided to write this post. I’m going to teach you my method of revision in the hopes that it helps some of you become less afraid of the process. :)

Step 1: Remove the Rose-Colored Glasses of Creation

Let’s face it, when we’re wrapped up in a love affair with our muse, we think everything we write is brilliant. There are days when we know it isn’t, because we’re having a lover’s spat with the fickle biatch, but deep down, we still think our manuscript can do no wrong. Everything is tinged with the rosy glow of creation.

You’ve heard of the runner’s high, yes? The rush of endorphins that provides runners with a euphoric moment in paradise? Well, I believe creative people feel a similar burst of euphoric pride, a creator’s high if you will, that prevents us from seeing our work the way the rest of the world will. So the first step in my revision process is to disconnect from the piece. Set whatever you’re working on aside and wait for the creator’s high to wear off. This can take anywhere from a day, to a couple weeks. But once you’re no longer creatively invested in the piece, you’ll be able to see it through the harsh lens of reality and objectively assess it.

Step 2: Strip to the Bare-Bones

Once our judgement is no longer clouded, we can easily spot flaws, the scenes that just aren’t quite right, the wonky phrasing, the plot holes. Don’t get discouraged though, that’s exactly what we want. Because now you’re in editing mode. One of an editor’s jobs is to see past the words to the skeleton beneath. So that’s exactly what step 2 is about.

Read your manuscript again, ignoring the small things, the weird word choices, the rocky sentences, the missing punctuation, and focus on the scenes themselves, the flow of the story. (Click here if you need an explanation on what I consider “flow.”) Channel your inner film director and watch your story unfold in your mind. Kind of like one of those computer generated posters that contained a 3-D image if you crossed your eyes and stared long enough, (Yep, fads from the ’90′s for the win!), the words should fall away and you should be left with just the visuals they contained.

Those visuals are what I consider the skeleton of a piece, the bare bones. Once you have stripped away all the clothing, fat and useless fluff that masks the underlying architecture, you can analyze that skeleton, looking for cracks and weaknesses and in some extreme places, breaks. Much like a doctor examines x-rays, devising a strategy to repair the damage, an editor uses the bare bones of a story to identify and repair problems with the overall flow and structure. Which brings us to step 3.

Step 3: Divorce Your Words

This is where a lot of you are likely to rebel, because it’s where you’ll move from simply identifying the issues to becoming the surgeon that fixes them. And that’s a transition a lot of you might not like. (Warning, it involves heavy use of the delete button.)

Keeping the visuals from step 2 in mind, read your manuscript again. This time, compare what you’re reading to what’s in your head. Do they match? Do the words accurately convey the emotional content, the action, the details of the scene? If not, can it be fixed with a few minor tweaks or smoothing? (Not all editing has to be dramatic, after all.) Sometimes it just takes a minute shift of a single word or phrase to make everything perfect. But if the gap between the scene as you imagine it and what’s on the page is as large as the grand canyon, then you’ll have to do something more drastic– rewrite.

This is what it means to divorce your words. Highlight the trouble passage and say, “sayonara!” No alimony, no visitation, just rip it off like a band-aid and hit delete. (If that terrifies you, you can cheat slightly and copy/paste the original passage into a different file. That way you still have it if you don’t like the new version. But trust me, you’ll never need that safety net.)

Now that you have a blank slate, picture the scene as clearly as you can and try to recapture it. You’ll be surprised how often the second, (or third, or fourty-fifth), attempt is dramatically improved over the original. My theory is that the original acts as a dry-run. In film, they’d call it blocking in the scene. It’s essentially a rough draft placeholder meant to provide guidance for the real thing in terms of lighting, mood, choreography, etc. It helps the director organize their thoughts so that when the time comes to film it for real, it’s smooth sailing. Plus it’s cheaper to work out the kinks without the actual actors.

A similar thing happens when you rewrite. Rather than try and force the original to behave, you are free to start over. But because you’ve already practiced, it’s easier to write this time, and the result is a closer translation of the scene in your head.

That’s really all there is to it. Three simple steps that can take you from laboriously beating a broken carcass of letters into a semblance of what you hoped for to a liberating experience that gets you closer to your original goal. This method might not be for everyone, and that’s quite OK. But if you find yourself dreading the revision process like you would going to the dentist for that root canal, give it a try. Kick your words to the curb and you might just save your sanity as well as your story.

Believability; It’s Not an Option

KWhipkey Leave a comment

This week I started work on the Revision Project, as I’m dubbing it. For those of you just joining us, the Revision Project refers to the massive overhaul I’m giving my previously published short stories before re-releasing them. I won’t go into the details of why I’m doing this again, so if you’re curious, check out the post where I explain my reasoning at length.

Anyway, reading these manuscript dinosaurs in preparation to give them their much needed facelifts, I’ve realized just how much I’ve learned about myself as a writer and about storytelling in general over the past year. Largely thanks to this blog. Nothing makes you understand a process faster than having to break it down and explain it to someone else. I learned that during my martial arts training, but apparently it’s equally true for writing. Which is why seeing those old works through the filter of fresh perspective brought to light a common theme that plagues them– a distinct lack of authenticity.

This is particularly true for The Bardach, which was my earliest endeavor and admittedly the weakest of the three. But there are moments in all of them that feel superficial to me now. Like we’re just grazing the surface, floating over the action like we’re peering down at it through a snow-globe. And it got me thinking. Why is that? When I wrote them, I didn’t feel this lack of investment, even after the rose-colored glasses of creation had worn off and the overly critical ones of the editor returned. So what’s changed?

I said in my article about storytelling for demo teams that story is about conveying an emotional message. That’s a dramatic difference from the way I used to view it. I used to focus primarily on plot. The characters were in an integral part, of course, but the narrative focused more around the action than anything else. I wrote like a film director rather than an author, worrying about how to convey the cinematic dance of camera angles instead of creating fully realized, three-dimensional characters. That’s not to say that I wasn’t able to weave a story that had impact. I think Confessions managed that. But emotional depth wasn’t necessarily my strong suit. Then along came Unmoving, a story so completely focused on the inner turmoil of the lead character that it forced me out of my comfort zone. It made me grow as a writer. It made me redefine my idea of storytelling.

I feel this is a common journey for newer writers, and especially younger writers. When we first start out, we try so hard to mimic the examples of storytelling we’ve been exposed to– film, TV, video games, books– that we end up missing the point. We manage to learn the basics of narrative– how to craft an action-packed plot, write witty/natural-sounding dialogue, paint settings with just the right amount of detail– but we never learn the one thing that really resonates with readers. Believability.

There are two types of believability in storytelling. The first, making sure all the details and logistics of your story make sense, is a pet peeve of mine and has already been ranted about in a previous post. So we’ll jump right to the second type– emotional believability. This is what takes a good story to a great one. Take a moment and think about all the books that have ever moved you. Now think about why. I’m probably not far off in guessing that the answer had to do with feeling invested in the characters, in their struggles, their emotions? That’s what I mean by emotional believability. It’s an authenticity that speaks to the core of human nature, to themes that transcend genres and are universally understood. It’s the ability to translate personal experience onto the page, and it only seems to come with maturity.

There’s a reason they always say “write what you know.” Personally, I never subscribed to that. I’m a fantasy writer, so how am I supposed to write what I know when what I know is too dull and ordinary for the worlds I like to hang out in? It’s not like I can go to the zoo and observe the behavioral patterns of a unicorn, now can I? So I always threw that phrase out like wasted salt. Until now. Now I get it. It’s not about writing what you know in the literal sense, (although it can be, depending on what you’re writing), it’s about using your experiences to infuse believability into your story, to fully immerse your readers into that character’s existence, to move them.

Now, I’m not saying that younger writers can’t craft a great story. I’ve read well-done work written by all ages. What I’m saying is that there is a definite difference between the way someone writes when they’re new to writing, or life, or both and the way they write after they’ve been around the block a few times. But rather than argue theory, or semantics, or what-have-you, how about I just give you an example from my own writing. Examples always trump convoluted discussions in my opinion.

As some of you may know, I’ve had the privilege of being stalked by a panic disorder for most of my life, but it wasn’t until about two years ago that I actually suffered what can be officially declared a “panic attack.” As in a complete freak-out, hyper-ventilating fear-fest of doom. (I know, I make it sound so dramatic, huh? 😉 ) But panic attacks have appeared in my writing far longer, making them the perfect candidate to help illustrate my point.

Here is an example from The Bardach: (Note, this was written before I had suffered one myself.)

Amyli shook her head to try and clear it from the fog that suffocated her thoughts and followed her study partner down secret corridors she had never known existed within the Temple’s simple construction. Even encased in the thick stone of the walls, she could hear the screams of the dying. And suddenly the walls themselves seemed to be closing in, the air thick and stifling. She stumbled and clutched at Calinfar’s hand.

“Wait, I can’t!” she gasped, trying to breathe, one hand against her chest. Calinfar stopped immediately.

“What’s wrong? Amyli?” He grabbed her shoulders once more, releasing the injured one quickly when she winced. Welling tears glistened in her vision as she gazed into his concerned face and suddenly everything that was happening washed over her with the force of a burst dam.

Aside from the various other quality issues in that excerpt, did you notice how superficial it was? You get the idea that she’s having a panic attack through my attempt to describe it with overly-used, clichéd phrasing and imagery. But you don’t feel it, do you? It’s over too fast to really elicit more than a shoulder-shrugging “meh” from the reader. You’re not invested in Amyli’s emotional state, even if you had read the context leading up to it. You could take it or leave it at this point. Nothing about that moment will stay with you past the 10 seconds it took you to read it.

Now, here’s an example from Unmoving: (Yes, that’s right, a rare tidbit from my work-in-progress.)

The resounding clap as the wood violently met its frame shuddered through me, and I knew what was about to happen. In an effort to avoid the oncoming storm of remembrance, I stared at the flurry of peeling white paint her exit had sent drifting to the floor. But that only made it worse.

Instantly, the images I had tried so hard to forget crushed me like an avalanche. I saw snow swirling in the darkness, heard the squeal of tires trying to find traction, the snap and whipping sound of the seat-belt, smelled the sickening mix of burning rubber and dirty slush. Her screams pierced the memory like a relentless soundtrack, echoes of terror I could never outrun.

I braced myself and waited for it to pass, for the tightness in my chest to diminish and the invisible stranglehold on my throat to ease. Every time I felt the wave of adrenaline crash over me, I wondered if this is what it felt like to drown.

See the difference? That was written after I had experienced the horror of a panic attack for myself. You can feel it now, can’t you? (I hope so anyway.) The words have a sense of urgency, the descriptions are more realistic, the emotions believable. Even without the context prior to this, you can sympathize with him. That’s the difference a little life experience can make.

So the point of this long-winded ramble-thon is this: believability isn’t an option. If you want to write something that resonates with readers, you have to learn how to create that deeper level of immersion. How you go about learning that depends on you. You can wait for life experience to cast the slant of a more mature perspective on things. You can mooch off other people’s life experience, using research and interviews to beef up your knowledge of things you aren’t familiar with. Or you can fake it ’til you make it, as they say, and just keep writing, letting practice hone your ability for you. However you go about it though, strive for authenticity. You’ll know when you find it, and your readers will love you for it. Guaranteed.

How to Work With a Freelance Editor

KWhipkey Leave a comment

The writer/editor relationship is an interesting one, built on trust, open communication, honesty…things which, let’s face it, most of us suck at. So it’s not surprising that for a lot of writers, it can be one of the more intimidating steps on the road to publication. It’s scary to send your manuscript, your baby, off to an agent or editor– otherwise known as Total Stranger Whose Sole Purpose is to Rip it to Shreds. But editors are not the enemy. In fact, they’re your best ally. And, as someone who toes the line between writer and editor, I can tell you that the process is just as nerve-wracking from the editor’s side of the fence.

Yes, our job is primarily to pass judgement on something you’ve slaved over for years. But it’s also our job to polish, refine, and help you present your work to the real jury– the readers– in the best form possible. Like jewelers honing an uncut diamond into the sparkly perfection adorning someone’s engagement ring, we hack and chop and tweak your manuscript until it shines like the brilliant gem you knew it was. We invest in your work, not nearly to the level that you did, of course, but enough that we care about it’s success. We want to see it make the bestseller’s list almost as badly as you do. Because the reality is, it’s success reflects on us as well. Which is why it can be just as scary for us to take on a client as it is for the client to hire us.

What if they don’t like our work? How will they react to all the changes that need to be done? What if the book flops because of me? These are just a few of the anxiety-producing thoughts that can run through an editor’s head. Not so different from the nail-biting that ensues while you wait for our verdict, is it? But this relationship doesn’t have to be a stress-producing, hair-graying, fear-fest. It all depends on the approach. This is the part you will be hard pressed to find information about. There are plenty of other posts that explain how an editor works, what the average rate is, how horrifying a process it is for the writer, etc. But very few will tell you the best practices for actually working with a freelance editor. Until now.

Things That Make a Writer/Editor Relationship Work Smoothly:

  • Open Communication. Yep, there’s that phrase again. But this is the heart of working with an editor. Be clear in what you expect from us. Do you just need a proofreader? Tell us that. Do you want a full, comprehensive, brutal strip-down type of edit? Tell us. If you have specific areas of concern in your work, yep, you guessed it, tell us. We’re not psychics, so don’t be afraid to provide directions. It helps ensure that we meet your expectations for the level of editing you wanted.
  • Ability to Accept Critique. So often, writers hire an editor thinking there’s nothing wrong with their manuscript beyond maybe a few typos, and that they’ll get to bask in the editor’s glowing review of their brilliance. And then they find out they’re wrong. They take the criticism of their work personally, bristling on the defensive and completely discounting the editor’s opinions. But no manuscript is ever perfect. That’s why you hire a second, or third, pair of eyes to look it over. So expect feedback. Harsh feedback. I’m sure you’ve heard that you need a thick skin as a writer, and this is why. Try to remember that as much as it stings to be told that your favorite scene really should be cut, that it’s not an attack on you personally or your ability to write. It’s a suggestion that will strengthen your story the way liposuction strengthens self-esteem.
  • Payment. This probably seems like something that shouldn’t have to be said. But sadly, it does. Editors don’t work for free. If you want that kind of superficial feedback, then what you really want are Beta Readers– people that will read your manuscript and offer the bare minimum of feedback in exchange for a free copy of something unreleased. Don’t get me wrong, Beta Readers provide an invaluable service too, and I firmly believe that any work should be read by as many willing eyes as possible before it faces the gauntlet of publishing. But they’re not editors. An editor will spend hours of detailed work, reading and re-reading passages, reorganizing and honing the text on a word-by-word basis, working with you on trouble areas and answering questions. Depending on the length of the manuscript, this can take a significant chunk of time. Time they couldn’t devote to other means of bill paying. Would you expect a lawyer to work for free? A contractor? An accountant? No? Then why would you expect an editor to work for free? Suffice to say that if you plan on hiring an editor, expect to pay a decent wage for that person’s work. Or expect it to very quickly become a point of contention that can ruin an otherwise working relationship.
  • Provide a Reference. Think of this like a review. You know how important those are to the success of your book, right? Well references are equally as important to an editor’s continued success. If you were happy with the result of your time with the editor, let them use you and your work as a reference. It actually benefits you both. It will boost the editor’s portfolio, allowing them to attract new clients, but it also acts as free advertisement for your book. Win-win, no?

Those are the basics. A lot of them are really just common sense, or should be. The writer/editor relationship is just that, a relationship. It involves two human beings, and is subject to all the follies that implies. Realize that, and you should be able to conduct yourself in a manner which generates professionalism, mutual respect and even friendship.

But there’s one thing I haven’t covered, and I would be remiss if I didn’t– how you go about finding that perfect editorial partner. Since you aren’t working with a traditional publishing house, it’s your job to vet their qualifications. And as Dr. Gregory House used to say on Fox’s House, “Everybody lies.” Especially in job interviews. So here are a few things you can look at beyond the obvious resume and references.

Things to Look for When Hiring a Freelance Editor:

  • Samples. I mean samples of their own writing. A lot of freelance editors are also authors in their own right. So see if you can find a sample of their work. It will give you a more solid feel for their understanding of the craft, as well as a sense of their particular style and voice. The second can be a good indicator on whether or not you will work well together. If someone’s writing is too dissimilar from your own, you might end up with a clash of vision. But if they are similar to you, then chances are good they’ll be able to see your work the way you do. Plus, you don’t want to hire someone whose own work is riddled with typos and errors, do you?
  • Willingness to Listen. Just like you should have an open mind when it comes to receiving criticism, your editor should be open to listening to your concerns, opinions and ideas. So pay attention to the way they correspond with you initially. Are they respectful? Do they seem open to what you have to say? Or do they seem pompous and full of themselves, coming off like you should be honored they’d be willing to work with you? There is a fine line between arrogance and confidence. You want someone that seems sure of their abilities, but not someone that seems like they know everything about everything. A good editor will take your directions into account and add them to a list of things they already look for.
  • Contract. Always work under a contract. Always. This is a no-brainer for serious freelance editors, so if the candidate you’re considering doesn’t seem interested in talking shop over the details of a contract, you’d be wise to save your money. Contracts are the easiest way to keep everyone on the same page. They should detail not only what the editor will provide, but how much they are charging, the payment terms, the deadline (if there is one), and a clause protecting the author’s rights to the work. Any editor worth their salt will negotiate the terms of the contract well before any money changes hands or any work is started.
  • Gut Instinct. First impressions are often correct, so listen to your gut instinct when considering candidates. Oftentimes, something intangible will warn you away from someone who won’t be a good fit. The same goes for finding that perfect editorial soulmate. If you find yourself being drawn to one person over the others, go with it. There’s probably a reason and you might even end up with that coveted writer/editor relationship every author dreams of. And if not, hey, that’s why there’s a termination clause in that contract you signed. 😉

I hope I’ve helped demystify the process of working with an editor at least a little bit. It really isn’t that hard. All you have to do is remember that the editor isn’t out to get you; isn’t hell-bent on destroying your work and watching it burn in a massive bonfire while they laugh at your misery. Quite the opposite. Your editor believes in you, in your work. They wouldn’t have taken you on as a client if they didn’t. So trust that they’ll make your work the best it can be. When everyone behaves with respect and professionalism, the end result could easily be the bestseller both parties hope for.

A Writer’s Resolutions

KWhipkey 2 Comments

It’s that time of year again. The well-meaning crowd into gyms, flocking like vultures on a carcass for a few weeks, until the lure of their previous lives becomes too strong, rendering those automatic, monthly gym membership debits an obsolete waste of money. Loose change and random dollars find themselves stuffed into jars like nuts stashed by a squirrel, where they’ll remain unspent until about March. The Goodwill sees a sudden influx of clothing, electronics and random crap as Purge-fever strikes across the land. Yep, it’s resolution time.

But “resolution” doesn’t have to be a word that elicits a groan of agonized dread, or instantly calls up geeky visions of pixels on a screen. Believe it or not, resolutions can actually be your friend. They don’t have to be some grand creature of good intention. In fact, they shouldn’t be if you want any hope of actually keeping them. After all, they’re really just goals disguised in a longer, more pretentious-sounding word for intimidation factor. Goals aren’t scary, are they?

Personally, I find them highly motivating. When I meet them, that is. They give me a clear-cut mission, something to work towards, a path through the aimless. The trick is making them specific. And New Year’s Resolutions are no different. Everyone has the standard “lose weight/get in shape,” “get out of debt,” “fall in love,” “spend time with family,” resolutions. But those are also the ones we never keep. Why? Because they’re a vague description of some ideal we’d maybe kind of like to get to. They don’t give us any direction. No instructions. No plan. Of course we can’t keep them!

We’ll try valiantly for a few months, until we decide that we just don’t like sweating as much as we like donuts; that the mountain of debt isn’t going anywhere until we win the lottery; that love is a fickle bastard who likes to play practical jokes; and that there was a reason we didn’t hang out with the relatives.

Instead of focusing on unattainable, murky-type goals, narrow the playing field to one specific region– say, writing. Think about what you’d like to achieve over the next year. And don’t just throw out things like, “I want to write more,” “I want to get published,” “I want to stalk Stephenie Meyer.” (Ok, maybe not the last one, but you get the idea.) These are no different than the goals I listed before. Instead, break those vague resolutions down to their individualized steps. Like a to-do list on steroids.

You want to write more? Great. How much? Define it by word count, pages or chapters, but define it. You want to be published? Awesome! What do you need to do to get there? Write a query letter? A synopsis? Both? Figure out the small steps that will ultimately lead you to your goal and make each one its own resolution. You want to stalk Stephenie Meyer? I’d suggest investing in some psychiatric help instead. But that’s cool. I’m pretty sure you can still read this from the computer lab in jail. 😉

The point of a New Year’s Resolution isn’t to put so much pressure on yourself that you fail the second you write it down. It’s more about defining the larger tasks you want to accomplish within a year’s worth of time, rather than on a day to day basis. So don’t make them so specific that you’ve gone through the whole list within 5 minutes on Jan 1st. But don’t let them be so broad that you’re left without a sense of direction either. That perfect balance in between is the key to a successful resolution.

Let’s give it a try, shall we? Below are my personal writing resolutions for 2013. Notice how each goal is specific enough to give me a plan of action, but not so specific that I can accomplish it quickly. Chances are, I won’t meet most of them, (because let’s face it, I’m better at planning and organization than I am at follow-through), but at least I defined them into plausible chunks I could attain if I applied myself. And that’s the first step.

Writing Resolutions 2013

  • Finish the rough draft of Unmoving
  • Upload Chapters of Unmoving every two weeks to Wattpad & Authonomy
  • Revise and Re-publish The Bardach, Spinning & Confessions via Createspace/Amazon KDP
  • Compile brief synopses of all plot bunnies
  • Write, Edit & Publish one new short story

Now it’s your turn. What are your writing resolutions for 2013? Share them in the comments below! 🙂

(P.S. A big Thank You to everyone who entered the Holiday Giveaway. The winners have been chosen and notifications will be going out via email. Congratulations to those who won; keep your eyes on your inbox to find out if it was you. 😉 )

Choreographing Realistic Fight Scenes

KWhipkey 9 Comments

Recently, I was asked how to choreograph realistic fight scenes for demo teams. While I usually don’t get this technical on a specific type of choreography, preferring to focus on the concepts of story instead, I can’t deny that fight scenes are a staple of the genre. It is Martial Arts, after all. I don’t believe that they are required for every demo, (in fact, it’s a lot more challenging to create one without them), but they are a large part of most. So I’m going to answer that reader request and break down my five key ingredients for a successful fight scene.

Before we get down to the nitty-gritty, I’d like to note that I will not be discussing which individual techniques to use. Fight scenes are organic, or at least, they should feel that way. So the choreography will vary depending on your particular demo. If I gave you a blow-by-blow transcript, then I’d be stripping all the creativity out of it, and what’s the fun in that? Instead, we’re going to look at the principles that take a fight scene from cheesy, B-rated Martial Arts film to something gripping that has a shred of believability.

You might be surprised to learn that creating that effect has very little to do with you, the choreographer. A fight scene is only one part choreography, and two parts the people performing it. So let’s get to it.

Trust

If I had to boil it down to one element, it’d be this. Trust is the thing that will most often make or break a fight scene. I’m not referring to the trust you put in your team to bring your vision to life. No, I’m talking about the trust between the partners in the fight. Unfortunately, that kind of trust pretty much relies solely on chemistry.

We’ve all heard dating sites talk about chemistry, that magical connection between two people that makes them move and breathe in sync. Well, it exists even outside the romantic realm. And you’ll have to learn how to watch for it. You will probably have to try a few combinations of partners before you see it spark, so don’t be afraid to shuffle your team around like cards in a deck.

A lot of choreographers try to partner people based on size, automatically shoving people of similar heights or builds together. But those kinds of partnerships rarely contain the chemistry required to really pull off a fight scene. Instead, you want to look for the following when you partner people:

  • Comfortability: What do the new partners do when you announce they’ve been paired? Do they bounce up to each other laughing and smiling, or do they stand stiffly side by side without looking at each other? Does one person look scared while the other looks irritated? These are instant indicators of how comfortable they are with each other. The more comfortable people are, the more easily they’ll naturally trust each other. So avoid any combinations where you know personalities will clash, or where there is an emotional distance between them.
  • Similar Styles: Even within an overall style of martial arts, there are differences between the way people do things. Pay attention to that and try to pair people who move similarly. They’ll have the same rhythm and flow to their techniques. They’ll think similarly. Just like you don’t put oil and water together and expect them to mix seamlessly, you can’t put different stylistic approaches together and expect a smooth outcome without a ton of work.
  • Technical Ability: Obviously, you don’t want a fight scene that’s extremely unfair, so generally avoid pairing an advanced student with a white belt. Ideally, you want people that can perform to the same caliber technique-wise. Not only will they be more comfortable working with someone on the same level, it’ll also allow you to maximize the choreography’s awesomeness.
  • Strength: Yes, I do mean brute muscle. The best fight scenes contain an acrobatic element, so this is an important thing to assess. Not everyone is strong enough to lift another, and on the flip side, not everyone is comfortable being lifted. A lack of confidence in this area can shatter the trust in a partnership quicker than dropping glass on cement. So if you’re planning on throwing in some crazy moves, make sure you have partners that can handle it physically and are emotionally ready.

All of those things can help you figure out which teammates are likely to have the most natural, built-in trust. But we don’t live in a perfect world, and there are situations where you won’t be able to rely on that natural chemistry to build trust in a partnership. To some extent, you can get around that simply through practice. Over time, teammates will become more comfortable with one another, will learn the way the other moves and thinks and will learn to trust. But it takes time. Lots of time. So if you have to bow to story constraints or other requirements that prevent you from partnering those with natural trust together, be prepared to invest a lot into practice.

Distance

This is probably the scariest ingredient for the people performing, and is heavily reliant on the trust we just worked so hard to establish in the previous section.

Which do you think is better for a demo, a fight scene where all the techniques end miles away from their intended target, so the “victim’s” reactions look ridiculous, or one where the techniques end mere centimeters from their partner’s body? (Hint: Option 2 is the correct answer. 😉 ) You chose Option 2, right? Good! You’re absolutely correct. That’s what distance does; it takes an otherwise cheeseball fight and gives it a realistic edge.

Anyone who has been in a fight scene knows how hard it is to get to that level, to stop your techniques just short of clocking your partner in the head. So again, trust is absolutely crucial. As is practice. Lots of practice. Until your team gets the feel for the choreography, let them work up to the realism, shrinking the distance as the comfort level grows. Otherwise, I suggest having a lot of gauze and ice handy. You’re about to have a lot of black eyes and bloody noses.

Reactions

Similar to distance, reactions will enhance that essence of realism. But unlike distance, it doesn’t require so much faith in your partner as it does the ability to act.

Let’s face it, most martial artists will never win an Oscar. But that doesn’t mean we have to play into the stereotype with overly dramatic, delayed reactions that happen well after the attacking technique ended. A good reaction is simple, logical. All you have to do is portray what would have happened if you’d actually been hit. If you get hit from the front, you’re not going to fall forward, are you? But you see that a lot.

Understanding the logistics of the fight is critical to creating the appropriate reactions. The worst combination in a fight scene is to have a bad actor and poor distance. Unless you’re intentionally trying to look idiotic, don’t do it. Put the effort in to get it right. Please.

Timing/Duration

Everything in a fight revolves around timing, especially reactions and distance. You want everything to flow as naturally as it would if the fight were real. So if the timing is even a little off… hello injury central, or bad martial arts film. This one is pretty easy, since there’s really only one way to ensure the timing is right– practice. Are you noticing a theme yet? 😉

The second half of this section is duration. By this, I mean how long the fight actually lasts. We’re not video game characters with a billion power-ups and infinite health. We’re people. And people are, admittedly, rather weak in the stamina department. Most real fights are short bursts of rage that quickly end with someone in a bloody mess. Choreographed fights should reflect that. Keep it short, as in, within the normal range of human possibilities, and vary the heat of the battle accordingly. People get tired. Let that show. People get desperate when they start to lose. Let that show too. Adding these real life aspects will help beef up your fight scene and move it a little closer toward realistic.

Musicality

Everyone who’s been following me already knows how important I view music when it comes to demos. And fight scenes are no exception. They are, however, a slightly different creature than other forms of choreography. Unlike the main part of the demo, you won’t choreograph every technique to the music. Instead, you’ll look for musical elements that you can use to highlight certain moments in your fight. For example, the most spectacular move is on the largest beat, the moment where the main character starts to lose matches the desperation in the music, or the final blow happens on the last musical crescendo. I spoke about this before in Musicality, under Musical Emphasis. Same idea.

And that’s all there is to it. Ok, maybe not all. You do still need inspired choreography and the people to pull it off. But these are the principles I’ve found most helpful in creating believable and entertaining fight scenes. Give them a try and see if they’re as successful for you as they’ve been for me. Like most things in demo team, it’s the stuff behind the scenes that really makes the difference between an average demo and a spectacular declaration of professionalism. You only get what you give, as they say.