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Input Surge: Enduring the Midpoint
Here in the Midwest, we’re in midwinter—the time of endurance. We’ve made it through December’s solstice handoff, from the darkest day to the promise of light. And from my vantage point—a desk full of student story drafts—I’m struck by the similarities between a story’s midpoint, and this classic seasonal turning point towards the light.
In plot structure and the season’s solstice, there’s a clear midpoint demarcation. But we know, here in midwinter Wisconsin, bad weather doesn’t show signs of stopping. It’s going to get worse before it gets better. Do the same thing when you plot.
At the midpoint, mark a change in direction, and make things worse for your main characters. Plow your characters in, but make sure their snowblower is kaput, the Advil’s out of reach, and someone needs to get to the hospital. That last bit is key: force them not only to suffer, but be proactive about their problems. They need to have a reason to shovel out of what’s burying them under, and may need to get creative, even if it means asking for help from a shady neighbor as more snow falls.
What’s next in a plot’s middle? Midwinter keeps guiding us: Look no further than the sobering solemnity of Martin Luther King Junior Day. Even our mid-January social media feeds remind us we face not just difficulties pressing in from outside us, but darkness from within, “Every man must decide whether he will walk in the light of creative altruism or in the darkness of destructive selfishness.”
So during this midpoint counterpoint, you’re doing two things simultaneously in your plot: piling on external trouble and using it to force your protagonist to start soul searching. (The heavier soul-searching comes towards the end.)
The next calendar cue? The grace period of Valentine’s Day. Though our commercial culture inundates with an overkill of pink and red holiday paraphernalia, underlying the glitzy holiday is the heart’s real muscle–love, and its flex of goodness and kindness.
So as your characters shovel out of trouble, lighten the load with some angelic virtue, doubling down on heartening growth within. Despite the difficulties, light is returning—and readers should feel it, too, even if the sun is hard to see for the clouds.
But don’t let up on the tension quite yet. Good plot arcs feature an inner tug of war throughout, but especially during the midpoint. Counter those angelic voices with inner demons yet to be reckoned with.
The slog from here on out will rely on more signposts before the protagonist’s lesser or better angles win out at the end, but when the winter’s ice breaks and that glorious climactic turning point arrives, it will be all the better because of the enduring wisdom of midwinter.
Input Surge: Politics and Orwellian Language
It seems the phrase “glued to the news” is barely a metaphor these days. Once upon a time, good old newsprint literally transferred onto the skin. The tighter you held the page, or the longer you leaned in, the more words from the news fused onto your body. Now many of us read an infinite scroll of news unspooling before our eyes digitally, but the language we take in sticks all the same.
And that means we’re even more likely to be influenced by what George Orwell called slovenly language. Yes, that George Orwell. He’s a talking-point in the news himself these days, due to his allegorical fiction (namely 1984 and Animal Farm). But he also wrote about the dangers inherent in bad sentences, not just bad societies. And yes, there’s a connection between the two.
The use of language, says Orwell, “becomes ugly and inaccurate because our thoughts are foolish, but the slovenliness of our language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts.”
Sounds a bit harsh. Until you read on. He’s not just dissing disorganized diction. He has a solution.
“The point is that the process is reversible. Modern English, especially written English, is full of bad habits which spread by imitation and which can be avoided if one is willing to take the necessary trouble. If one gets rid of these habits one can think more clearly, and to think clearly is a necessary first step toward political regeneration: so that the fight against bad English is not frivolous and is not the exclusive concern of professional writers.”
A refreshing thought, no? If you haven’t yet read his short but famous essay “Politics and the English Language,” you can find the whole thing here.
Take this as a rallying cry, writers. Your quest isn’t in vain, even if your draft gets scraped, or the poem you published in the pages of an obscure lit journal doesn’t find another venue, or the novel you publish in a small press with a small print run has a small audience.
If you’re striving for good craft, word by word—whether you are or are not achieving what you hope to achieve just yet—what you’re doing, every day, placing word after word, helps clarify your thinking. It helps to rid your mind of the riffraff and gunk embedded in and grifting on slovenly language.
And in turn, your well-crafted writing helps clarify the thoughts of your readers. It can challenge not only “foolish thoughts,” but dangerous thoughts.
Orwell also wrote, “Political language is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.”
Let us work, word by word, to encourage clear thinking. Let us use good writing to channel our thoughts so they go deep, not shallow—and connect in ways that inspire and revitalize.
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