When I'm watching TV shows and movies, I get bored easily. Oh, I stay riveted while Benedict Cumberbatch emotes his way through World War I in Parade's End. When Mulder and Scully banter over UFOs, I'm all eyes and ears. But if the science fiction tale I'm watching goes into CGI, I turn my attention to my loom knitting, and only look up again when the overorchestrated fight/chase scene/life-or-death struggle is over. I check who's still standing, or what happened to the vehicle in question, and let them get on with talking, which is what it's all about.

I hate 'action' sequences. They'd better be necessary. They must be short. And they should be purposeful, i.e., advancing the story. Above all, they shouldn't contain too much CGI.

There's a TV series I like called Once Upon a Time. It's a mishmash of fairy tales, and it's clever. Mostly I enjoy it because Robert Carlyle plays Rumpelstiltskin with such extravagant glee. But if the main character, a feisty young woman, grabs a sword and heads off to look for a dragon, I tune out until it's all over. It's more boring than watching paint dry. Why do these things go on for so long?

In contrast, I've just finished rewatching The Almighty Johnsons. It's a brilliant New Zealand series about four brothers who are the avatars of Norse gods. It's hilarious. It's insightful. It's a science fiction/fantasy-type series. And there is very little in the special effects line. Sure, there are occasional flashes of 'some kind of energy'. The stick from the tree Yggdrasil pulls a stunt or two. But mostly, when a Polynesian sea god shows up, it's just a Maori actor standing in the surf with a funny wreath on his head. And you know what? That series is a whole lot more absorbing than those Thor movies. (Sorry, Mr Branagh.)

So what does that have to do with writing?

Have you ever read one of those thrillers where the heart-stopping action makes you so tired you want to fall asleep? Now, this may make good bedtime reading and save on sleeping pills. But what good is it as literature, really?

Have you ever read a detective novel where the sleuths are so busy chasing bad guys and clues that they forget to do basic things like, say, eat, sleep, talk to their significant others? Have you ever found yourself adding up the number of days/hours these heroes have been at it and wondered, 'Didn't anybody suggest taking a coffee break at this point?' Noticing details like this have been a cheap-literature pastime of mine ever since I started reading Raymond Chandler. At some point I began to wonder how come Philip Marlowe hadn't passed out yet from all the whiskey he'd consumed in the last two chapters…

Folks, 'action' can look like a laundry list. And sound like a small child telling you a favourite, inevitably long-winded story: 'And then…and then…and next…' I'll never forget 10-year-old Karsten, who hated to practice speaking English – unless I introduced the subject of Jean-Paul Belmondo. 'And then Jean-Paul Belmondo hit the bad guys. And then Jean-Paul Belmondo fell off the train. And THEN he fired his gun, bang bang…' Well, at least we practiced verb tenses.

Now, if somebody's paying you to do this, go right ahead. However, bar a monetary motive, there's no excuse for this sort of thing. Whenever you're faced with a long linear sequence of events, stop and ask:

• Is this trip really necessary?
• If it is necessary, can I summarise, skip over, or let the characters flashback some of the duller bits?
• Can I make the boring parts funnier?
• What's the take-home message of this sequence of events? Can I build up to an 'aha' moment that will make Dmitri sorry he's looking at that doily he's knitting instead of my movie?

A really important question when you're telling a story is, 'Where do I want the reader to be, mentally, at this point?' If your story involves a gradual revelation of truth or character, is the sequence of actions intended to reveal more, or to misdirect? That might give you a clue as to how you want the narrative to proceed.

Are you merely trying to heighten tension? Remember in that case the moral of the rubber band: stretch it too tight, and it will break. (Ouch.) Build your tension sneakily. Use your words, as they say. Don't be like the piano player at the silent movie. People aren't going to emote on cue just because you played the chase music. At least, not anybody you want to talk to – unless, as I said, you're getting paid for it. But if you're aiming to produce something good, put a bit of work into this action stuff.

I suppose I owe you an example of what I mean. Here's one done badly:

"Now, Felix," said the bookkeeper, "tell me how it all came out. Did the paying teller look suspicious when you presented the check?"


"No. He said he hadn't as much money in the drawer, and went to the safe in the back part of the bank. He returned with three parcels of bills in brown paper, and a hundred dollars loose."


"And then you put it in your pocket?"


"Yes, Cousin David; I did exactly as you told me. I put them in my pocket and walked back in a leisurely way."


"Did you see anything of Ralston?"


"Yes, I saw him out of the corner of my eye, while I was looking in at a window on Union Square."


"He took the money?"


"Yes. Now, Cousin David, give me the twenty-five dollars."


At that instant the door was opened suddenly, and Dick Ralston dashed into the office, looking very much excited.


"Mullins," he said, "we've been sold – sold – regularly sold. Look at this!" and he showed one of the brown packages partly torn open.


"Well," said the bookkeeper, "what's the matter?"


"Matter? Matter enough. Here's a package marked one thousand dollars, and it contains only slips of green paper in place of bills. You can see for yourself."

Horatio Alger, Jr., Chester Rand, or The New Path to Fortune

Ugh. I can't wait to see how the hero gets out of that one.

Here's a good example of what to do if you must have an 'action scene'. At least make it worth the reader's while to get all excited.

How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my companion sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness.

From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones of the parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and three, and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall.

Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound became audible – a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with his cane at the bell-pull.

"You see it, Watson?" he yelled. "You see it?"

But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly pale and filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and was gazing up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the silence of the night the most horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it had died away into the silence from which it rose.

"What can it mean?" I gasped.

"It means that it is all over," Holmes answered. "And perhaps, after all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr. Roylott’s room."

Arthur Conan Doyle, 'The Adventure of the Speckled Band'

I included the link because, unless you already know this story, you're probably dying to find out what caused all that scariness in the dark, plus yelling and shrieking. I'll bet you didn't care one bit how they solved the banking crisis in the Alger story, but you definitely want to know what it was that filled Sherlock Holmes with horror and loathing. (Hint: the great detective shares a phobia with Indiana Jones. Not, not Nazis.)

See, it's not about the adjectives. It's about pacing, timing, avoiding the formulaic, and giving the reader a reason to care. Do this, or lose your reader to the exciting world of loom knitting.

End of sermon, go away, I've got a ton of doilies to make and the town fair deadline is coming up…

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Dmitri Gheorgheni

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