Writing Fight Scenes: my philosophy
Nov. 16th, 2010 11:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swan_towerNOTE: You can now buy the revised and expanded version of this blog series as an ebook, in both epub and mobi formats.
[This is a post in my series on how to write fight scenes. Other installments may be found under the tag.]
So you're working on a story, and there comes a point where it really ought to have a fight scene. But you're sitting there thinking, "I'm not a martial artist! I'm not an SCA member! I have no idea how to fight!" Or maybe you're thinking, "Fight scenes are so boring. I'd rather just skip over this and get back to the actual story." Or something else that makes you dread writing that scene, rather than looking forward to it with anticipation.
Don't worry, dear reader. I'm from the Internet, and I'm here to help. <g>
To the first group, I say: the details of how to fight are possibly the least important component of a fight scene. The important components are the same ones you're already grappling with in the rest of your writing, namely, description, pacing, characterization, and all that good stuff.
To the second group, I say: it's only boring if the author does it wrong.
You see, my Gospel of Combat is that a fight is part of the story. Just like any other scene. It isn't -- or shouldn't be -- pure spectacle. Movies can get away with leaning on spectacle, because they have lots of techniques they can use to make the stuff exciting: wire-fu, changing camera angles, a thrilling soundtrack, and so on. On the page, it's harder, because words don't work very well for describing movement. If you want to be precise, you slow the pace down far beyond the speed of what you're describing. If you want to maintain the pace, you lose precision. And if you want to be precise and efficient, you have to resort to jargon. "Glissade, pas de bourrée, jeté, assemblé" quite accurately describes a sequence of ballet steps, in about the time it takes to perform them -- but unless you know what those terms mean, it's completely useless to you as a reader.
So in prose, a good fight scene is not one that leaves you with a complete mental image of every attack and block. It's one that conveys story. And, just like a conversation or an investigation or a sex scene (the latter of which shares many technical challenges with combat), it should ideally be doing more than one thing at once.
Fights are often there for plot reasons: kill the bad guy. Get past the guards. Etc. That's fine, but not enough. Personally, I love fight scenes because they can do so much on a character level. This is violence; it's one of the most fundamental things hard-wired into our brains, alongside food and sex. What a character is and is not willing to do, when it comes down to fists or swords or guns, can reveal or change or confirm some fairly profound things about her personality. It can even play into or against the themes of a story, especially when you think about the way societies around the world have built philosophical frameworks around the control and deployment of violence. And, of course, there's the artistic side; fight scenes can be just as much about good writing -- description and so on -- as anything else in the story.
If the scene isn't doing anything terribly important on any of those fronts, then it doesn't deserve much attention on the page. Drop in a sentence or two to say it happened, and get on with the actual story. Or figure out why this fight matters, and make it earn its place in the story.
In the SF Novelists post I used to launch this series, I talked about working on a production of Troilus and Cressida, staging a fight between the hero and his enemy Diomedes. That fight revealed ugly things about both of the participants: Diomedes was the kind of untrustworthy bastard who would cheat (pull a knife) the moment he started losing, and Troilus was the kind of violent bastard who would enjoy beating a man to death. This didn't mean as much in Diomedes' case; he's Troilus' enemy, therefore the villain, therefore expected to act in an underhanded manner. But Troilus? He was supposed to be the hero. Except this is Troilus and Cressida, the play without a moral center, in which everybody is some flavor of bastard. Sending him dark-side fed into the overall message of the play. Had Troilus come close to the edge, but then decided not to kill Diomedes, it would have been a different kind of pivotal moment: one in which he chose to reject the self-serving amorality of those around him, and hold himself to a better standard. And that's different yet from the Doctor (of Doctor Who) forgoing the chance to kill someone; in the Doctor's case, it's a confirmation of what we already know about him as a person. But all three of those are dramatic moments, because they force the character to a crisis point, one with non-trivial stakes riding on its outcome.
Even when the matter isn't life-or-death, violent actions can be very telling. Holly McClane decking the reporter at the end of Die Hard is part and parcel of that entire story: her part, her husband's, the reporter's, and everything that's gone on in that (very violent) movie. Alanna (of Tamora Pierce's novels) sparring against her old friends after they know she's a woman highlights all the weird tensions that surround her position as a lady knight. The few seconds Sam and Dean Winchester spend fighting each other in the pilot episode of Supernatural tell us that these guys know what they're doing, know each other's moves very well, and have a bit of sibling rivalry going on. You could try to convey all that with dialogue, but the fight's more efficient.
So. If your scene is important enough to merit actual time in the novel (or on the screen or whatever), then there's something important going on in it, that has less to do with strikes and blocks, and more to do with the progress of the story. You can get surprisingly far by focusing on the latter, instead of the former, though we'll talk in due course about how to do both.
In the meanwhile, stay tuned for the next post, in which I will discuss the most important question to answer for any fight scene. Until then . . . .
[This is a post in my series on how to write fight scenes. Other installments may be found under the tag.]
So you're working on a story, and there comes a point where it really ought to have a fight scene. But you're sitting there thinking, "I'm not a martial artist! I'm not an SCA member! I have no idea how to fight!" Or maybe you're thinking, "Fight scenes are so boring. I'd rather just skip over this and get back to the actual story." Or something else that makes you dread writing that scene, rather than looking forward to it with anticipation.
Don't worry, dear reader. I'm from the Internet, and I'm here to help. <g>
To the first group, I say: the details of how to fight are possibly the least important component of a fight scene. The important components are the same ones you're already grappling with in the rest of your writing, namely, description, pacing, characterization, and all that good stuff.
To the second group, I say: it's only boring if the author does it wrong.
You see, my Gospel of Combat is that a fight is part of the story. Just like any other scene. It isn't -- or shouldn't be -- pure spectacle. Movies can get away with leaning on spectacle, because they have lots of techniques they can use to make the stuff exciting: wire-fu, changing camera angles, a thrilling soundtrack, and so on. On the page, it's harder, because words don't work very well for describing movement. If you want to be precise, you slow the pace down far beyond the speed of what you're describing. If you want to maintain the pace, you lose precision. And if you want to be precise and efficient, you have to resort to jargon. "Glissade, pas de bourrée, jeté, assemblé" quite accurately describes a sequence of ballet steps, in about the time it takes to perform them -- but unless you know what those terms mean, it's completely useless to you as a reader.
So in prose, a good fight scene is not one that leaves you with a complete mental image of every attack and block. It's one that conveys story. And, just like a conversation or an investigation or a sex scene (the latter of which shares many technical challenges with combat), it should ideally be doing more than one thing at once.
Fights are often there for plot reasons: kill the bad guy. Get past the guards. Etc. That's fine, but not enough. Personally, I love fight scenes because they can do so much on a character level. This is violence; it's one of the most fundamental things hard-wired into our brains, alongside food and sex. What a character is and is not willing to do, when it comes down to fists or swords or guns, can reveal or change or confirm some fairly profound things about her personality. It can even play into or against the themes of a story, especially when you think about the way societies around the world have built philosophical frameworks around the control and deployment of violence. And, of course, there's the artistic side; fight scenes can be just as much about good writing -- description and so on -- as anything else in the story.
If the scene isn't doing anything terribly important on any of those fronts, then it doesn't deserve much attention on the page. Drop in a sentence or two to say it happened, and get on with the actual story. Or figure out why this fight matters, and make it earn its place in the story.
In the SF Novelists post I used to launch this series, I talked about working on a production of Troilus and Cressida, staging a fight between the hero and his enemy Diomedes. That fight revealed ugly things about both of the participants: Diomedes was the kind of untrustworthy bastard who would cheat (pull a knife) the moment he started losing, and Troilus was the kind of violent bastard who would enjoy beating a man to death. This didn't mean as much in Diomedes' case; he's Troilus' enemy, therefore the villain, therefore expected to act in an underhanded manner. But Troilus? He was supposed to be the hero. Except this is Troilus and Cressida, the play without a moral center, in which everybody is some flavor of bastard. Sending him dark-side fed into the overall message of the play. Had Troilus come close to the edge, but then decided not to kill Diomedes, it would have been a different kind of pivotal moment: one in which he chose to reject the self-serving amorality of those around him, and hold himself to a better standard. And that's different yet from the Doctor (of Doctor Who) forgoing the chance to kill someone; in the Doctor's case, it's a confirmation of what we already know about him as a person. But all three of those are dramatic moments, because they force the character to a crisis point, one with non-trivial stakes riding on its outcome.
Even when the matter isn't life-or-death, violent actions can be very telling. Holly McClane decking the reporter at the end of Die Hard is part and parcel of that entire story: her part, her husband's, the reporter's, and everything that's gone on in that (very violent) movie. Alanna (of Tamora Pierce's novels) sparring against her old friends after they know she's a woman highlights all the weird tensions that surround her position as a lady knight. The few seconds Sam and Dean Winchester spend fighting each other in the pilot episode of Supernatural tell us that these guys know what they're doing, know each other's moves very well, and have a bit of sibling rivalry going on. You could try to convey all that with dialogue, but the fight's more efficient.
So. If your scene is important enough to merit actual time in the novel (or on the screen or whatever), then there's something important going on in it, that has less to do with strikes and blocks, and more to do with the progress of the story. You can get surprisingly far by focusing on the latter, instead of the former, though we'll talk in due course about how to do both.
In the meanwhile, stay tuned for the next post, in which I will discuss the most important question to answer for any fight scene. Until then . . . .
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 08:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 08:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 02:17 pm (UTC)It's weird, because a couple of months ago I came to the exact same conclusions when faced with a story that demanded two flight scenes -- I realized I couldn't describe more than the general flow of the fight, but that I could describe things like how the characters felt and how their reactions played into the fight. It was such a relief to realize, hey, I don't need to worry about specific parries and thrusts as long as I write 'this is how it's going, this is where the characters are, this is what they are thinking', because I could do that.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 06:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 07:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 05:40 pm (UTC)When trying to explain, I tend to devolve into waving my hands incoherently and saying "But -- it's characterization! How they move! You can write around the punches!" Yes, some authors can manage the play-by-play technique well -- I'm thinking of R.A. Salvatore, for one, whom I loved as a teenager and who despite some other flaws manages to keep a whole lot of sword-vs-monster/sword/battleaxe fights dynamic and distinct -- but there are plenty who can't, and who still manage compelling scenes of violence.
I'm also thinking of an audiovisual example: the tv show The Sarah Connor Chronicles. I remember watching the first couple of episodes with a friend, and boring her terribly (poor thing) with how excited I was by the fight scenes. Because they fit; every character acted as they should have, moved as they should have, punched or shot or ran in ways that perfectly matched that character's capabilities and priorities and emotions, and it was such a glory to me after too many shows in which wirework and flashy jump-kicks and witty quips took the place of the physical storytelling.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 06:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 11:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-18 01:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-18 05:53 pm (UTC)I have stuff to say about this post, but it might take a while to get onto the page, alas.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-18 08:33 pm (UTC)Take your time on commenting; I never object to replies showing up on old posts, so long as they aren't disguised links trying to sell me pharmaceuticals. <g>
no subject
Date: 2010-11-19 01:25 am (UTC)(I may be getting the adjectives wrong, but Gygax stole a ton of things from Vance, and not very subtly either.)
no subject
Date: 2010-11-19 06:43 am (UTC)The funny thing is, I could totally see that concept working in a less narratively-clunky fashion if it were treated differently. If a wizard's mind can contain X amount of ready spell knowledge, and going up in level means raising the value of X, and higher-level spells eat a larger portion of that value, then wizards could choose between memorizing three kickass ninth-level spells and memorizing nine less powerful third-level spells. It would actually make the question of what spells to prep far more interesting, I think.
And yes, Gygax was shameless in his stealing.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 05:58 pm (UTC)Oh, I also just friended you, I saw this post on someone else's friends list and realized that you also wrote those great Wheel of Time posts.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 06:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 06:55 pm (UTC)As you say, fight scenes, like any other scene, need to accomplish something. Sometimes, that's as simple and straight forward as physical conflict resolution, but even then, you should be learning something about the characters and world and so on. Too many people get hung up on the details of the physical exchange and forget everything else that is going on.
On the other end, though, there is also the risk that, even if you do manage to convey all the other variables well, poor or inaccurate (or stock) physical details/sensations can end up making the fight come off as stilted or sanitized. This is the problem I have with a couple of the writers some folks like to hold up as good describers of combat. Yeah, the moves are there, but we've seen them all before; the action feels like its been gone over with an alcohol swab prior to hitting the page. I'm not saying it has to be blood and guts (I actually don't like a lot of gore on the page), but it shouldn't be simple clashing blades and standard close shaves, either. Combat is one of the most visceral things your characters can do: there should be a visceral nature or sense to the details as well.
All in all, it's a very delicate balance to strike. I look forward to seeing how you tackle the subject here in the coming weeks.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 09:21 pm (UTC)My feeling is that if you don't know enough to get past the poor, inaccurate, or stock details, then you're better off focusing on some other aspect of the scene anyway. Don't tell me their blades clashed; tell me the expressions on their faces as they fought. That kind of thing. It can be emotionally visceral, to cover up the lack of physical viscera. <g>
no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 09:20 pm (UTC)Sparring can be very sexy to watch (beautiful bodies in motion) or to do (close contact of your hot sweaty body with the hot sweaty body of a person whom you have a crush on, is attractive in general, or with whom you spar so well together that you feel as if you're reading each other's minds.)
no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 09:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 09:24 pm (UTC)The depiction of a fight must be consistent with the interests of the characters engaged in the fight, and secondarily with the POV if the POV is not a participant.
Example: If Inigo really is fighting Count Rugen because he wants his father back, Inigo's actions need to be consistent with a driven, obsessive motivation that is not directly in the room between Inigo and Rugen. It should not be an elegant duel with sparse applause from simpering courtiers. It should not involve closed helms and brute-force bashing. It should not turn on a deus ex machina, or a slip, or a broken weapon. Neither participant should be looking to escape or to get past this adversary to the next fight/plot token. And, given that Inigo is a man of honor, on a quest of honor, he wouldn't "cheat" (fight dirty) to win; Rugen, however, would cheat for the fun of it, and definitely to win.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 09:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-18 12:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-18 01:26 am (UTC)