Boy on Ferris wheel

(This is not an opening; this is a parenthesis.

You may skip it, if you wish – you may metaphorically flip the page – you may prefer your cup of cocoa and your comfortable slippers – but,

You skippers, flippers and people in slippers,

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1. take out the membership,
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3. Relish in how the membership is worth your investment.

And with that goodly message resounding in your head –

I now declare this parenthesis over.)

Good.

The idea for this email was sparked by the opening to a YA novel that was on Townhouse this last week.

The central image was kind of amazing.

An end of season fairground. A cold day, heading into sunset. A Ferris wheel not turning because of a broken gondola.

And – a boy sent up to climb the wheel, to fix the broken gondola strut.

And – that boy, walking in cheap trainers on the loft of that wheel, for a moment silhouetted against that sunsetting London sky.

Good, huh? I mean, that image is so striking, you could remember it for a long time. It would be hard to put that book down in a bookstore. It’s hard not to think of the boy, on that wheel, with his mallet for thumping gondola struts.

But (to my mind and other people may differ), that scene wasn’t quite flowing right. Now, to be fair, that’s pretty standard and is to be expected. The whole point of Townhouse is to present work that isn’t ready in order to get it ready.

And two points struck me in particular. The first is that we, as writers, have very long to do lists, especially when we’re less experienced, and especially when we’re opening a novel.

So, just from the top of my head, we have to:

• Establish location
• Establish character
• Get some kind of story questions moving
• Including (probably) a little bit of razzle-dazzle to convince the prospective reader that they have to stick around.
• Write decently
• Paint quick descriptions of any other characters who are kicking around. (The scene in question had two.)
• Deliver atmosphere
• Avoid sloppy language
• Delete redundant language
• Offer some kind of thematic resonance
• And so on.

That’s a lot. And I think that, often and not just with opening pages, writers are so busy trying to deliver This, That and the Other, that they lose sight of the little bit of magic that brought them to this scene in the first place.

And – we have a boy walking the arch of a Ferris wheel against a crimson London sky.

And – that boy is feeling the air move and considering the slipperiness of the wet metal beneath his trainers as he walks that curve.

That’s the magic. Everything else has to bend to that.

So, for example, we do need to know about the colour of the skyline, because that’s part of the drama. We don’t need to know where the fairground will fold itself away for winter.

We do need to know about the fair-owner yelling up at the kid, because he’s clearly part of the scene, but he should be pushed away and (for now) be made secondary. And so on.

Find the magic and prioritise it.

Not just with openings, but everywhere. What’s the magic? Is it central to the scene? If not, make it central.

And on this particular occasion, there was a further difficulty. We have two images and they’re both amazing:

• A boy on a Ferris wheel, silhouetted against a crimson London sky
• That boy feeling what it’s like to be forty feet off the ground and with the evening air moving around him.

But the first of those images is a distance shot. We’re a long way from the boy’s inner thoughts. The second of those images is the exact opposite: it’s all about the boy’s inner thoughts. The two camera angles are basically incompatible, and we want them both.

The solution here is about starting distance and moving steadily in. From silhouette view, to some closer-range view. (e.g.: “The boy had a rucksack of tools, on his shoulder, but he wore it lightly, as though unconcerned.”) Here, we start to move from general silhouette, to closer-up detail, but still nothing about the boy’s inner world. Then you’d shift to something closer still. (“He wore cheap trainers, one dirty white lace was already starting to come undone.”) Then you can reveal something of his inner world, and then, if you want, the boy can actually take over the narrative himself. (“It was high, and it was dangerous, but it was beautiful and it was lovely.” – that’s now the boy thinking, not the narrator speaking.)

So that’s basically the secret. Move from out to in, but do it gradually, so the shock doesn’t seem abrupt.

If you want one other tip, then give proper time and space to your touch of magic. You don’t need to rush away. Your reader won’t want you to.

FEEDBACK FRIDAY / Scene

This week, I want a scene where you have a lovely image or moment that you want to make central and memorable.

What I want is:

• Title, genre, a line or two of context.
• The magic: a line or two explaining where you think the magic lies in this scene
• The scene itself: our usual 250 or so words.

You get extra points if the little bit of magic coheres nicely with your themes and elevator pitch. When you’re ready, log in to Townhouse and share your work in this forum.

Got that? You got it, I know you do.

Til soon.

Harry