Suddenly change characters’ motivations

Olaf Manful smiled as he stashed the hard drive in his bag. He turned to his diminutive companion.

‘This should have all the information we need,’ he said. ‘With this, we can bring down the entire multinational criminal operation and prevent those nukes from being fired.’

‘Great, great,’ said Gilgo Shortington. ’So let’s get out of here before the guards find us.’ He moved for the door, but Olaf put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Not so fast, little buddy,’ he said. ‘I want to know what else they’ve got hidden here.’

‘Why?’ Gilgo said, throwing his hands in the air. ‘We’ve got the computer drive thing, so let’s just go.’

‘No,’ said Olaf. ‘We’re just getting started.’ Gilgo stared at him for a moment as the alarms blared around them.

‘Just getting started? What do you mean just... This is what we came for. This is the whole point. If we hang around, we’ll probably get caught and have to do a daring escape. We’ll almost definitely get into some sort of spectacular shootout. We should just go. There’s literally nothing to be gained from staying.’

‘Ha!’ Olaf laughed. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn about undercover work, little buddy.’

Abuse enjambement

I walked along an empty beach

just as the autumn sun was reach-

ing the height of its ascent

and that tableaux became cement-

ed in my mind and in my mem-

ory that day in late Septem-

ber. I stood and watched for min-

utes the pale and glimmerin-

g face of that great child of heav-

en glide across the sky so lev-

el.

Make your characters incapable of learning anything

‘Zalbotron! So you’re the one who’s been sabotaging the oxygen systems? How could you!’ The robot shook its head with what seemed to Gretta like a look of remorse.

*I AM PROGRAMMED FOR EVIL* it said. *THE PROFESSOR SENT ME TO KILL YOU*

‘Oh Zalbotron,’ said Gretta, sadly. ‘And I thought we were friends.’

*I HAVE NO CONCEPT OF FRIENDSHIP* *I AM PROGRAMMED ONLY TO KILL* Gretta put a hand on the robot’s shoulder.

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ she said. ‘I’ll be your friend.’ The robot whirred for a second.

*I WILL ATTEMPT TO KILL YOU*

‘Well, if we’re going to teach you about friendship, Zalbotron, the first lesson you need is that friendship is all about forgiveness.’ She smiled. ‘I forgive you, Zalbotron, and I’m sure you won’t try to kill me again.’

*I WILL*

‘Silly old Zalbotron!’ laughed Gretta. ‘You do say some funny things! Come on, let’s go and leave you unattended near the life support computer.’

Give every character a tragic backstory

Rape victim Sarah Nuffield examined the tiles on her rack. The triple word score seemed out of reach for now, but maybe if she...

‘Come on, come on,’ barked Pete, who had lost an eye in the same childhood accident which had killed his twin brother. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

‘Oh Pete,’ laughed Andrea, whose crippling bouts of depression had led her more than once to the brink of suicide. ‘Leave Sarah alone. It’s only a game.’

‘Yeah, Pete,’ said Simon. ‘You took long enough on your turn.’ He flashed Pete the sympathetic smile which had been his trademark since he had escaped from the religious cult which had indoctrinated him, taken all his money and forced him never to see his family again.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Pete, bravely struggling with his lack of adequate depth perception, ‘but I’ve got a real doozy lined up here.’

‘Lucky you,’ said Sarah. ‘The only word I can make is “anguish,” and I can’t find a place to put it.’

‘How about there?’ said Andrea, with a chuckle. ‘Using the “A” from “trauma?”’

HOMAGE WEEK #5: Try too hard to be J.R.R. Tolkien

Leotharg son of Peotharg, grandkin of Beotharg, whose horn had sounded over the fields of Giethen at the battle of Eyoiwylin Pass even as his people, descendants of Thargotharg the forgotten, sought shelter in the Great Forest of Than’Dythyll, sat down heavily.

‘Epyothnell of Yangdril,’ he said, ’protector of those who are lost and prophesied Lord of Balthangdrang’Grathril.’

‘Speak,’ replied Epyothnell of Yangdril, protector of those who are lost and prophesied Lord of Balthangdrang’Grathril.

‘My wounds are deep,’ said Leotharg son of Peotharg, nephew of Eotharg, second cousin of Uluklolotharg, ‘but I come before you to ask a boon.’

‘If it is in my power, it shall be made so,’ said Epyothnell of Yangdril of the bloodline of Esh, namer of the tree and maker of the book of chronicles. Leotharg bowed his head in supplication, as was the custom, and spoke.

‘I want to change my name,’ he said.

HOMAGE WEEK #4: Try too hard to be Raymond Chandler

He fixed me with the kind of look a drunk gives to the bottom of an empty glass. I felt a cold rivulet of sweat sliding down my spine. If I had a chance in hell of getting back to my car, it seemed like I was going to be the last to know about it.

‘Seems like I’m not needed here,’ I said, flicking a fictional mote of dust off my sleeve. ‘I’ll leave you gentlemen in peace.’ As I turned, I heard the sound of chairs scraping back across the concrete floor behind me.

‘No, you gotta stay,’ said the big guy, with a smile that could have rotted fruit. I stopped, but didn’t look round.

‘I’m fine,’ I muttered. My gut turned over like a hooker right after she’s earned her money and now she just wants to sleep, damn it.

HOMAGE WEEK #3: Try too hard to be James Joyce

Redoubtable son of the peatstenched bogland Christian Yeoman bent low his back in a gesture of genuflection as ancient as the genus of the meat that lay undigested in his bowel. Placing one unremarkable hand against the other, he lowmurmured Roman syllables through dry lips – an observance which lasted only as long as the abatement of his gastric activity would allow. Finally, in a hot rush of brackish bile which itself was a catechism of sorts, he half-suppressed, half-amplified a belch which was as miasmically potent as it was profane. As if in response, somewhere high and far across the ancient city, an albatross called out.

– And yourself the flyaway scoundrel, said Christian, although to the empty graveyard as much as the bird, he thought. What do you think of the matter? What’s your view?

As quickly as it had downswooped into consciousness though it was gone and away and then came only the wind and the clouds oh the clouds like the souls of those long departed but not yet by their warmbreathed kin forgotten no not yet not yet not yet.

HOMAGE WEEK #2: Try too hard to be Vladimir Nabokov

Given the prurient vigilance of my (if I am permitted to say) chaetiferous would-be lapidators, I fear and suspect that this tristisonous recounting of my own purgative and perhaps, I will readily admit, parachronistic account of the circumstances surrounding the events of which we were previously talking may prove to be somewhat invidious. As you are no doubt already cognisant, I am resident – have been resident – remain resident – in what is perhaps best described as an establishment whose express purpose is the containment of persons of what might be termed, I suppose, sociological interest (persons, it is now painfully evident, such as myself).