The Passover Question.Brace yourselves. I’ve been inspired to write a scrap about writing again. It’s been a minute, so I’ll preface this with my usual disclaimer:
I’m a rotgut writer whose professional success thus far is the rough equivalent of a file clerk who thinks she can make partner one day. I curse, I opine, extrapolate, and ramble, so take my advice with a shot of whiskey if you take it at all.What makes this night different from any other night?The Passover Question is a famous critiquing question in dramatic literature. If you’ve ever been brow beaten into some sort of creative writing class, suffered through a short fiction workshop, or otherwise submitted yourself to being pulverized and arguably improved within the confines of structured writerly type writing groups, you have heard this question before. You’ve probably been asked it yourself, or perhaps you’ve even been the questioner. It takes a multitude of forms.
- But why did your protagonist make that choice?
- Okay, but what changed?
- How are we supposed to understand what’s different if you haven’t established the status quo?
- No, seriously. WHAT HAPPENED?
- Your inciting incident doesn’t tell us enough about itself. What’s its origin? And when are we going to find out? How are you going to show it? What changed? What?
- Why, why, why, why?
When asked these questions, I used to reply with an unfocused ramble that failed to actually answer what was being asked of me. It’s a bad habit of writers. Ask us a pointed question about our work, we try to clumsily summarize ninety-thousand words of navel-gazing fiction into a couple of unedited sentences in an often desperate attempt to convey every nuance of impact and meaning that exists in our art.
That’s not going to get anyone anywhere.
When Harper Lee was asked what changed, she probably said somebody decided to give a shit. Ie, Atticus Finch stood up. Pat Rothfuss would remark that Kvothe heard a story to remind him that not only was he a person, but who that person was and what he wanted. In Martin’s SoIaF, Robert and Ned shattered the unconquerable illusion surrounding the iron throne years before the present day story begins.
The inciting incident is not what changed. The answer to
what changed is whatever caused the inciting incident to occur in the first place. It is not just why did it happen, why then, why there, why in that way? The reader doesn’t need to know all of this right away, but the writer certainly does. Otherwise every potentially masterful step through your plot is going to ring hollow, is going to be replete with empty actions that have no resonance. You can make your characters do whatever you want, and you should; but you absolutely have to figure out why.
What is their motivation? This is not unlike character workshopping in reverse. A lot of writers will shop their main dudes, hammer out their traits, clearly define their goals; but I don’t think I’ve ever met a writer who does in advance for every single last character in their work. It’s too daunting and characters have a habit of introducing themselves mid piece, etc.
Therefore, when you’ve brought in a character who needs to take a specific action to move things from x plot point to z, find out why they’re doing it. Ask them their goal. Discover if it changed and that is, therefore,
what makes this night different or if it has ever been their goal and what changed is their arrival on scene in their quest to obtain it.
Things are easier for me when I distill my answers down. What is your book about? Revenge. Why does the protag care? She’s a self-righteous sonuvabitch. What makes this night different from any other? Tonight she uncovers the secret to bringing about the downfall of her enemy. Why? Because Jack Doe wants revenge of his own and tells her the secret. How? Inciting incident!
And on and on and on…
That’s seriously enough for now.
-k.
p.s. Goal + Conflict = Plot