Last night, I watched an almost-three-hour movie called The Aviator, directed by Martin Scorsese, whom I admire. It's about Howard Hughes, a famous aviation pioneer who suffered from crippling Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD). I was surprised by the movie: I thought it would be pretty much a spectacle, with lots of movie star gossip thrown in. There was plenty of spectacle – Hughes was also a filmmaker, and spent $4 million in the late 1920s on his World War I epic Hell's Angels   – and there was also lots of gossip, since he had affairs with famous actresses, such as Katherine Hepburn and Ava Gardner. But the film was less about these achievements and foibles than about his struggle to keep working on his ideas in the face of the constant threat of mental breakdown. I found the story moving, and I don't have OCD.

It occurred to me that the reason I like Martin Scorsese's films is that he tends to look at stories and see something other than the obvious. He looks at Howard Hughes and sees a man struggling to keep his sanity, somebody who says, 'If I gave in, I'd be flying blind.' He looks at New York City in 1863 and sees a world that's about to vanish under the forces of time and the city's constant reinvention of itself. He looks at Jesus, and wonders about the personal cost of his crusade to save the world from itself. I like the way he thinks, this Scorsese. And yes, he makes a good film. The visuals are always stunning, and he gives the actors room to manoeuvre in.

It also occurred to me that when we write, we make choices. The first and most important choice we have to make is the one where we figure out what kind of story we're telling. Elsewhere in this issue, you can read an excerpt from the biography of a missionary that was written by a very serious gentleman in the early 19th Century. Dr Alcott obviously thought the story of Robert Morrison's life was an example of how good personal habits, carefully cultivated in youth, led a person to do useful and laudable things in adulthood. This made me groan. There was so much more I wanted to know about the life of an Englishman who went to China at that time. What was it like to cope with this amazing new culture? What problems were there, and how did he overcome them? What did he learn? But Alcott didn't know all those things. Besides, he had a lot of opinions about the virtue of early rising, etc, and he was determined to get them out of his system. So we got this book instead.

What is this story about? is the question we need to ask ourselves. Then we need to make sure we tell that story, and not another one. If our story wanders away, we need to stop and either a) take out the extraneous bits, or b) start over and tell a different story.

Yes, your story is about two lovers in France during the Occupation. But is the story about how good organisation and perseverance can overcome obstacles? Is it that people only truly find out what they're made of when they face adversity? Is it that love conquers all, or that relationships can't stand that much strain? Or is it something else entirely? You have to know that before you can tell the story.

Sure, your imaginary biker cult is visionary. But is the story about the search for truth? The need to belong? The quest for personal freedom? Only you know, because what the story means is unique to you. There isn't one right answer.

An elderly man sits on the porch of a retirement home. What does he think about? Is he sad? Resentful? Confused? Satisfied? Is he still working on a philosophical problem he first confronted as a ten-year-old? Until you decide, you can't tell his story. And then, you will really tell your story.

As Elektra always says, 'Wherever you go, there you are.' Wise words. You can't really tell someone else's story, you know. Because you're bringing your own baggage with you when you tell it. The best you can hope for is that you've learned something from the story yourself, and that you've managed to share what you learned with the readers. Before reading can broaden others' horizons, writing has to broaden the writer's.

Do you know the film Harold and Maude? Harold's mother is a piece of work. Here she is, filling out a dating questionnaire with all her preferences. The problem? The dating questionnaire is supposed to be for Harold. Which might explain what he's doing at the same time.

Don't make your characters want to commit suicide to get out of your narrative. Try to fill out the questionnaire the way they would, not you. Start by asking yourself, 'What is this story about?'

Try comparing a film by Martin Scorsese to one by Steven Spielberg. I think you'll see what I mean.

Writing Right with Dmitri Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

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