One of the greatest strengths of my upcoming duology, EYES OF AWAKENING, is the action. People across the board, from beta readers to professional critics, have praised the action in my books, with one critic calling the action sequences of my first book “visceral” and another critic calling the second book’s action “impeccable.” If we assume that these critics (and my ego) are both correct, I must have a few tips and tricks on how to write good action sequences that seemingly transport my reader into the action itself. (By the way, the first book, EYE IN THE BLUE BOX, will be available for purchase starting AUGUST 30! We’re so close to drop date now!)
To clarify, by “action” or “action sequences,” I don’t simply mean something that is happening. I mean that something which is characterized by physically-manifested movements is occurring, and these movements are often accompanied by a fast pace, violence, and/or high stakes. Weapons are usually involved too, from guns to fists to knives, as is blood. There’s usually a clear, visible enemy, and the enemy can be human, non-human, or abstract. For example, a ravenous animal can be chasing a man, sinking ground can be chasing a speeding car, or a woman’s hallucination can be chasing her.
I think quieter parts of a sequence that build up and/or end the noisier, motion-packed parts can often be considered as part of an action sequence too despite being quieter. For example, one can argue that a scene in which a woman freezes up with dread as she realizes the hungry monster is right behind her is critical to giving importance to the following scene in which all the action of fighting off the monster occurs. Therefore, such a scene is part of the action sequence as a whole despite showing nothing except a woman standing still and slowly turning around.
There’s a lot more to the definition of “action” than that, as I’m sure at least one irate English or Film major will remind me, but let’s try to keep it simple for the sake of getting to the good part of this post, which is: how do you write good action?
First, I think it’s incredibly important to remind yourself of what medium you’re working with. There are a ton - and I really mean a ton - of books out there that have some level of action in them. But unfortunately, there aren’t many that deliver a visceral and memorable experience. It’s strange because the sequences in such books usually do contain at least one great concept or interesting idea. But like a bland taste, the sequences fail to leave something to savor and enjoy.
An action sequence’s potential is most often killed when a writer confuses the medium of writing with the medium of film. This isn’t to say that I look down on writers who do this. Who can blame them when these two mediums so often collide and intermix? There are movies based on books, books based on movies, and any author worth her salt will also study films to gain inspiration and learn storytelling techniques. But still, it’s important to remember that different mediums mean different strengths, different weaknesses, and therefore, different rules, different limitations, different possibilities, and most importantly, different tools that yield different results.
At this point, I’m sure a few of you are thinking, “Okay, Ann. Enough with the fancy talk. What does all that mumbo jumbo really mean?” Well, basically, as a writer, you’re not going to be able to pull off a lot things that film does, but that’s okay because the written word contains plenty of magical properties that film does not.
Maybe it’s because good action abounds in movies that authors often write action sequences as if they were simply describing a movie that they watched. Of course, there is a purely visual aspect to writing action. Authors have to visualize what’s happening first, after all, then use their words to carry the image they see with their mind’s eye into the reader’s mind. But leaning purely on visuals for action (or any kind of writing, for that matter) is a huge mistake. Film is a visual medium, so, naturally, it needs to stand upon visuals as its foundation to give the audience a satisfying experience. Authors, though, do not possess the same visual tools that filmmakers have and need. We have no projections of light, no actors or settings caught on camera, no CGI. It is a mistake to think we can simply show or tell our readers what to see and then consider that to be enough.
Instead, we must rely on our medium. We must rely on the written word.
The written word, as plain as it may seem, naturally possesses the ability to transport the reader’s mind into not only what is occurring in a story but also the mind of the character experiencing that story. In this way, authors have a great advantage over filmmakers because, at the end of the day, film only depends on visual stimulation because it is trying to elicit a certain internal response from the audience that will in turn create a memorable experience. Writers, in contrast, can use words to cut to the chase and directly transport the readers’ minds into whatever situation and state of mind that we create without the need of interesting visuals (or any other kind of special, external stimuli, for that matter). We writers, through simple black and white print, have direct access to the internal whereas filmmakers must go the more roundabout way by using the external to stimulate the internal.
When writing action, we must not ask ourselves, “What can I show my readers?” After all, since when did authors really “show” anything to anyone? That’s film’s job. Instead, we must first ask ourselves, “What do I want my readers to experience?” We should not simply write out what we see in our heads, for that is only a small part of the process. We must identify what our character, and therefore, our reader would experience, mind, body, and soul, when placed within the action sequence we are visualizing and then choose our words wisely so as to recreate that entire experience, internal and external.
Obviously, imagination and empathy are the main conduits by which you’ll find the right words to transport your reader into an action sequence. How would you feel if a monster were about to eat you alive, or if you were driving a speeding car trying to outrace a falling bridge, or if you were hiding from a group of assassins in the dead of night? One can only imagine, and imagine you must. And again, you must not imagine by simply picturing what’s happening. You must teleport yourself directly into that situation then describe all the details. The way your hands were shaking as the monster leaned in closer and sniffed your bloodied face, even though you knew you needed to stay motionless to save your life, even though you wanted to stay perfectly still with all your heart and soul. The way you were gripping the steering wheel because you could feel the car drifting as you swerved off the last remnants of the bridge, and the way you breathed in dust as you continued to hyperventilate, even after spinning to a stop. The way you focused on the candlelight on the floor to disassociate from the moment so that you could stay silent as the assassins skimmed past your door like a razor on skin.
Writing is a means of placing yourself and so, your reader into another’s shoes. You must never allow yourself to be a passive watcher who is physically divorced from what is occurring like a watcher at a movie theater. You must transport your mind and soul into an acting body. Only then can you recreate that experience in all its action-packed, thrilling glory for your reader.
You must also use research when imagination and empathy simply aren’t enough to refine the nitty-gritty details that you’d experience in a given situation. And you must remember that the point of the research isn’t simply to know what something looks like or how it functions but to understand as much as possible what the situation would actually feel like.
We research the length and make of a flail that a medieval knight wielded not to create a long, boring summary that could be copy-pasted into a Wikipedia page regarding medieval weaponry. (A long litany of factual details all too often ruins an otherwise fine idea for an action sequence.) Instead, we are trying to understand how such a weapon would feel within our grasp, the smell of the metal. How would an amateur handle such a weapon versus a professional, and how would that amateur feel holding such a powerful weapon. How, exactly, would the experience of lifting and swinging such a weapon be different if the said amateur were a thin teenager who was bullied his whole life and can’t even lift a quill without grunting, versus a cocky, teen prince who’s tall for his age and already has the build of a twenty-five-year-old? You won’t know until you do your research and find out what, exactly, that flail is made of, how much it weighs, how it is handled, and what goes into mastering it. After all, there are small and strange details that can be found only in experience. So, to create an experience that is convincing enough to feel real to your reader, an author must go hunting for all the possible facts that can be found in a real experience.
For action, in particular, there’s often no other way than to use good research and combine it with imagination and empathy to create a convincing experience. After all, there’s no way for us to go back in time and experience what, exactly, it felt like to be a knight in training. We can’t go buy a Ferrari and crash it in the name of writing a good car chase scene, or ride dragons, or journey to every possible faraway land, or duel real wizards. But who cares about all that when we have the tools of our trade and the magic of the written word?
Who cares that you’ve never mastered a good grip on a katana or that you’ve never killed anyone with a sword? You can use your words to make the reader glimpse the flash of metal reflected on the wall and detest the sweat that threatens to loosen his grip on the hilt before he parries a blow then slashes with a shout. The head of his opponent, at long last, thuds onto the floor. He watches, breathing hard through his nose, as the head rolls across the tatami mats. He stares at the exposed vertebrae as blood pumps out of his enemy’s raw neck. Nausea churns within his stomach and smothers his vengeful satisfaction as the tatami mats grow soggy.
He’s ashamed when his arms start to tremble. He tries to walk but stumbles and drops onto his knees. He throws his katana away from himself, grips his hair, then stares at a small, gilded incense burner standing on the floor beside him. It’s one of the many treasures scattered throughout this lazy, good-for-nothing merchant’s home. The delicate burner is decorated with images of flowers and foliage meant to represent the four seasons. But none of its beauty reaches him. All he can do is wonder how he managed to avoid knocking the burner over.
He catches a whiff of sandalwood. It’s a refined scent, elegant, but cloying somehow, and suddenly, he can’t tell if it’s the smell of blood or incense that he’s breathing in. He grips his hair tighter. It can’t be incense that he’s smelling. The burner is empty. It’s probably never even been used before. But he can smell it. He can smell it.
He looks up at the ceiling, struggles, then drags in a long gulp of air like a man who, at last, has managed to break through the surface of a stormy sea. He forces himself to stare at the head on the floor. Blood continues pooling on the tatami mats. He doesn’t allow himself to look away until his arms stop shaking.
He crawls across the floor toward his fallen sword. He glimpses his enemy’s eyes. They’re glazed and still bulging. He stops, almost laughing as he thinks of a blind toad.
Several more moments pass before he picks up his sword again. He knows, somehow, that from now on, the smell of sandalwood will always ignite a sense of satisfaction. He knows, too, that no matter how strong his satisfaction may be, it will never be able to wash away the drop of disgust that poisons it all.
And if you do your job as a writer, so will your reader.
