This is from an urban fantasy. Set up:  Kathryn and Jimmy had been dating but not sleeping together, and she broke it off. They live in a rural area, and are, in fact, standing on the front porch of a modular home, formerly known as a trailer. No one else is around. Jimmy has never been abusive before now. Neither has Kathryn, although she doesn’t know she has more-than-human strength rolling through her blood now. Jimmy is confronting her not because she dumped him, but because he thinks she putting out for someone else when she wouldn’t for him. She slapped him and he slapped her back.

“You arrogant asshole.” Kathryn’s blood rushed to her face as her anger trampled down her fear. One quick step and she raised her hand, arcing her arm as hard and fast as she could as she returned Jimmy’s slap, with interest.[I feel like this sentence is saying the same thing three times- she raises her hand and arcs her arm and returns a slap with interest. I’d cut one of those and stick with your favorite (mine would be ‘She raised her hand to return Jimmy’s slap… with interest.’)

It was his turn to stagger a step back. He rubbed his jaw and grinned at her. “You really shouldn’t have done that. I don’t take shit from women.” He rolled his shoulders, watching her. [You start off with a great threat from Jimmy, and then follow up with him being passive. The scene would carry a lot more weight if he says that and then wades into her, giving her a chance to defend. It also makes him a clear aggressor.]

Kathryn planted her left foot and shifted her weight. Her right foot went back, toes resting lightly on the snowy deck. She dimly registered that she was standing barefoot in the snow.[I like this little paragraph, but I think you should move it to right after she slaps him. I also think you should get a little more visceral with the barefoot in the snow part. “She dimly registered that she was standing barefoot in the snow.” is pretty dry. Ever stuck your bare foot into snow? Your skin prickles with sharp ice crystals, the shock of the cold drives your blood to seek warmer climes, your bones ache, etc. You’re not hurting the pacing of the narrative at all to use a visceral, descriptive sentence instead of a simple declarative.]

When he came forward, [How did he come? Did he charge in a bull rush? Did he sidle in like a nervous prizefighter? Give us something we can see in our mind.] she was ready. The first time. His slap missed but the backhanded blow half-connected with the side of her head. [And how did that feel? It’s not going to hurt the pacing to give us some “insider information” about Kathryn’s feelings, so long as you limit it to a few words here and there. Put the audience inside her head.] She blinked back stars, pivoted and drove her foot into his stomach.

Out of practice, she didn’t have as much force as she should have. His reach was longer. She hoped her head was clearer. [I think these prior sentences could be cut. They’re too dry and analytical and drag the pacing down.] He grabbed her from the side then slipped on some ice. She brought her heel down on the inside of his knee and he went down. [This, by the way, is extremely painful and he might not bounce right back up again, unless he’s really drunk. It also doesn’t take much lateral force to dislocate a knee. With her unknown more-than-human strength, it’s very likely she would dislocate it with this type of blow. That would be, uh, pretty difficult for him to recover from. Maybe if you decide to have that happen, she responds to his name-calling instead of a new attack from him.] He lurched back to his feet, swearing at her, calling her bitch and whore and worse. [Don’t tell us what he said; have him say it. That has more power in the narrative. You may have a problem typing out the words “You fucking cunt whore!” but the fact is, that will make Jimmy seem more real and make Kathryn’s response more valid.] One clout connected with her shoulder, another glanced off her skull. When he charged her, every self-defense class she’d ever taken deserted her. She danced to one side and skipped around him. She grabbed his arm and used his momentum to slam him into the porch railing. [“Dancing” and “skipping” are playful, lighthearted verbs. They don’t convey the right feel for a combat situation unless she’s toying with him and enjoying herself doing it. How about “She dodged to one side and attacked his flank by grabbing his arm and slamming him into the porch railing.”

[Pacing-wise, this should be part of the previous paragraph as it completes the action begun with her slamming him into the railing.] He stayed bent over it for a minute. She thought he’d give up, go away. But he stood up again and came at her, limping a little.[Or a LOT if his knee is hanging sideways. 😉 ]

Nothing fancy this time, she aimed straight for his crotch and poured every bit of anger and misery she felt into her effort. [“Her effort” is taking the easy way out. What did she do? Did she punch his nuts a la the Cockknocker? Seismic knee-lift? Fire a fifty yard field goal between the uprights of his legs? Don’t leave the action up to the reader to imagine; show us what happens instead.] The contact lifted him off his toes. When he came down, he kept going down, but Kathryn grabbed his hair before he could fall and slammed his face into her knee.[I like the imagery in this last sentence, but it should be broken into two sentences for better effect.]

Pain shot through her leg. If that hurt him half as much as it hurt her, she’d be happy.

He collapsed to the ground. The sounds coming out of him sounded like a cat with a hairball stuck halfway up its throat.[This is good. One of the best descriptive sentences in the entire scene. This is the kind of visceral feeling you should shoot for in your combat as well. Ew. LOL]

If she acted quickly, she could bring her heel down, hard, on his throat and stop that noise forever. Stop everything about him forever.

[I feel like you’ve got a good start to a scene here. The Hero and Opponent are clear, as is the conflict. Don’t be afraid to wade in and get your hands dirty, though. Dry, analytical description makes for a boring scene. You showed you’ve got the sense of powerful phrases in that next-to-last paragraph. Bring that skill into the rest of the scene and it will POP. Thanks for your submission!]

I’ve already hinted at this in prior posts.  At its most basic level, an action scene involves two characters:  the Hero (the narrator or focal character of the narrative) and the Opponent.  The Hero is, of course, who your story is about.  The Hero has a goal of some kind, and the Opponent has a goal which opposes it.  That opposition creates the conflict which is the root of all action scenes (and indeed, all fiction).  Without an Opponent, there can’t be any conflict except the Hero’s internal conflict, and that type of conflict cannot be resolved through action scenes.

When I say Opponent, I don’t necessarily mean it has to be another character.  If your Hero has to defeat a series of mechanical traps that will try to kill him before he reaches the Golden Cup of Valhalla (or whatever), those traps are Opponents; their goal is to kill him, while the Hero’s goal is to survive.  Opposite goals equals conflict equals action.

The problem with using non-character Opponents is that their goals can’t change in response to the actions of the Hero.  In the example above, if the Hero decides to forgo the traps and the Golden Cup to go party with Heidi the Valkyrie instead, the traps can’t get angry and come after him.  If you want real excitement and drama in your action scenes, Opponents should be characters.  Let’s look at the four essential types of conflict in literature and why three of them don’t really work as a basis for action scenes.

Character vs. Self
This type of conflict stems from a character having a problem with him- or herself.  This makes for compelling drama and loads of introspection.  Unfortunately, what it doesn’t lend itself to is action.  Unless you’re going to have your character beating himself to a pulp in a bathroom, internal conflicts just aren’t resolved by the external means of action scenes.  Let’s let our poor, conflicted characters figure themselves out and move onward to the next kind.

Character vs. Society
At first glance, this might seem to work well for the basis of an action scene.  Your character is fighting against something about his society.  Doesn’t that make him a rebel, prone to action?  Well, no, not really.  In this type of narrative conflict, the characters’ issues are with social norms, mores, and other cultural factors.  You can’t really write a character having a fistfight with racism, for example.  That’s not the same as battling agents of society, but that’s a different type of conflict.

Character vs. Nature
Now we’re getting somewhere.  How many movies have this as their basis?  It can be very exciting, watching characters as they flee molten lava, tornadoes, earthquakes, meteors, etc.  There’s room for lots of spectacle and insane action as Nature pushes on its merciless course.  The main issue with this type of conflict when it comes to action scenes is the fact that Nature is not only merciless, but has no antipathy toward the characters.  It may seem like the avalanche is trying to kill the characters, but the fact is that forces of Nature happen whether the characters are in the way or not.  Yes, it can create action, but an essential element of a true action scene is missing: the goal of the Opponent.  Nature has no goals; Nature only exists.  While this kind of conflict can sustain a story for awhile, eventually the reader will want to see a clear Opponent for the Hero—one whose goals work against the Hero.  Overcoming Nature is possible but nowhere near as rewarding as overcoming an active Opponent.

Character vs. Other
This is the meat and potatoes of the action scene.  When a character or group of characters enters into some kind of direct conflict with another character or group of characters (or machines, or zombies, or genius biker punks—you get the picture!), it becomes the catalyst for action scenes.  In fact, all the other types of narrative conflict can make a story better if you can make the ultimate conflict personal:  Hero versus Opponent.

Say your Hero is suffering from a mental disorder that is causing him to question his every move, paralyzing him.  Okay, that’s great, but if he discovers the root cause of his problem is that he was imprisoned and brainwashed by a sinister organization, he now has an identifiable Opponent, which makes his eventual victory (we hope!) much sweeter.  Rebels against the Evil Empire is a noble cause, but when they’re battling the Empire’s top military commander, it becomes a personal conflict.

I will be doing a Writing Better Action workshop for the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers on Saturday, January 22, 2011.  It will most likely be from 1 PM to 3 PM, M.S.T.  Location yet to be determined.  Hope to see you there!

Backstory: Northern Mexico. The Kid and his amigo Montoya [“Hallo! My name is amigo Montoya…You killed my father…”] have convinced the old scout Ulysses his patrons, the McCullochs, and their cowboys, that is is in their interest to help rescue the Mescalero Apache sisters, Tzoeh and Evangelina, from Cain’s band of mercenaries who sell Apache scalps to the Mexican Governor.  [Fair warning: I secretly love Westerns. I’m liable to be biased in your favor because you wrote one.]

            “¡Hombres! Traigo caballos para cambiar por las mujeres. Men! I bring horses to trade for the women.”

            Cain stepped forward, Colt‘s .44 in one hand, Bowie in the other. Cain glanced back at his men, all ready, behind him.

            “It’s a trap, boys,” Cain said, quietly. “But once we kill ‘im we’ll outrun the others, on their own horses. Grimes, git my horse ready. We’ll take ‘im an’ them seven fresh ones. Git ready ta move out fast. I’m gonna bring ‘im in close.”

            Cain called to Montoya:

            “Esta bien, pase por aqui. It’s all right, come on in.”

            Montoya rode slowly forward, but at an oblique angle, showing the scalphunters the horses’ sides and concealing the Kid, hanging on a leather lattice, cleverly woven by Ulysses, between the last two horses in the remuda. [I like this setup – I can picture it very well.] As Montoya drew near the fire and passed Long Soldier, he called out.

            “Nesistamos las mujeres para pasar, en paz al norte. We need the women to pass in peace to the north.”

            “Now why d’ ye lie?” Cain laughed, “Ye folks ‘er headed south,” Cain raised and aimed his .44 at Montoya’s chest.
[I see from the next paragraph you’ve chosen an omniscient narrative. Have you used that throughout the entire tale? Combat scenes are actually much more difficult to write using an omniscient viewpoint because as readers, we find it harder to connect to characters within the scene because of what I call “Dispassionate Distance.” This makes it harder to keep track of everyone when there are lots of characters. It also makes injuries, deaths, etc. carry less emotional weight with the reader. I’m assuming here your Heroes are the Kid and Montoya (and, I see, several others). Is the Kid the main narrative focus of your tale? Right now you’re headhopping and it makes the fight a little jumbled. Consider writing the scene from their perspective, using a close-in narration. I’m not saying what you’ve done here is wrong, but as readers, we want to know what’s going on with the main characters.]
            High Wolf was facing away from the camp now, studying the arroyo, and the back of his skull blew out toward the fire in a sheet of gore an instant before the roar of Ulysses’ Hawkin sounded. Montoya dived from his saddle to his right as Cain fired and missed. The Kid ducked out from behind the horses, firing both his six guns. Cain took two slugs in his chest and flew backward. The Kid shot Scully between the eyes and Scully collapsed like a ragdoll by Tzoeh’s head. The Kid hit two others in an instant and Montoya rolled, came up on his feet firing and his bullets hit them too, but the scalphunters were firing back shot after shot even as they went down. Montoya’s horse, Relampago, now leapt between him and the fire and another horse reared, screaming, and collapsed. Two other horses whinnied and cried out as they took slug after slug. Other horses bolted all about the fire. A killer named Leach fired at Montoya and his bullet ripped through Relampago’s flank. Leach turned and ran for his horse. The Kid fired, hit him just below the nape of his neck; his head snapped back and he hurled forward to the ground. [You’ve scripted the action very well here. To me, it feels like there’s not enough continuity – a series of quick cuts that happen so fast it’s hard to get any flow to the action. If you’ve seen action scenes directed by Michael Bay, you understand what I mean by that. I think this scene overall would be better served if the action occurred strictly from the Kid’s perspective instead of a more global one. Doing so would give us a better sense of what’s happening.]

            Diego, Ignacio and Ulysses ran forward. Diego and Ignacio fired their Winchesters at Grimes and Dream Walker, both unwounded. Dream Walker fired back. Grimes tried to bridle his horse, unable to mount up and shoot back at the same time. Ulysses loaded his Hawkin even as he moved in. [This is where the issue with omniscient narrative comes into play. I want to follow the Kid and here are some other characters instead. That’s not to say you should cut out action that doesn’t feature your Hero directly. Your Hero can observe what’s going on elsewhere, or try to affect it (say, a long-distance shot), or realize he can’t affect it. All of these things keep the reader close to your Hero, and since stories are about characters, not action, you want to make sure the action doesn’t bring around that Dispassionate Distance.]

            The McCullochs and all their men, mounted, came up out of the arroyo two hundred yards away and thundered forward, whooping. As they drew within range, the cowboys began firing their six guns wildly at Grimes and Dream Walker.

            Horses danced around the Kid and Montoya but Long Soldier, behind them, got a glimpse of Montoya and fired his Sharps. The ball tore through the back of Montoya’s left shoulder knocking him to the ground. Long Soldier charged and drove his body into the Kid’s back as the Kid aimed at Dream Walker. They hit the ground together and both the Kid’s guns flew from his hands. The Kid twisted onto his back and he was able, with both his arms, to tie up Long Soldier’s right arm as Long Soldier pulled his knife up to a striking position. The Kid held on tightly to the immense warrior over him, allowing no striking room. Montoya, his left arm hanging uselessly, staggered forward and dove into Long Soldier, knocking him off the Kid. They tumbled through the legs of the panicked, kicking horses and rolled over the fire. Long Soldier came up on top. Long Soldier would have driven his knife into Montoya’s neck but he sensed the Kid was scrambling for a six-gun. Long Soldier chose not to spare a moment; he leapt off Montoya and sprinted toward Dream Walker who struggled to hold the Pawnees’ rearing horses in the firestorm… [Another benefit to keeping to a close 3rd person narration is that you don’t have to name every single character. In this paragraph you’ve got the Kid, Montoya, Long Soldier, and Dream Walker. Almost every sentence here you name at least two characters, and that’s a lot of names to keep track of.

Overall you seem to have a good sense of action and how to write it. I think you might be getting in your own way by having the “camera” hovering up over the entire fight. Bring the focus in tighter and I think this would be a masterful scene. Watch the multiple-clause sentences and don’t get too heavy-handed with them. Thanks for submitting your scene!]

 At its most basic level, an action scene is an expression of plot or character development through violence.

Wait, violence?  Is that really necessary?

In a word, yes.  We’re still essentially the same cantankerous hominids we were a hundred thousand years ago.  Ever since the first proto-human got angry about something done by one of his neighbors and picked up a rock to bash the other fellow’s head in, we’ve been solving our disagreements through violent acts.  And over the millenia, we’ve gotten very, very good at it.

We may use the trappings of civilization to try to curb our instinctive violent cores, but in the long run, virtually anyone is capable of committing violence at some level.  Because of that, action scenes in media play to our low brains.  Perhaps it’s some kind of Jungian racial memory, but when we observe others in action, it gives us a kind of catharsis we haven’t been able to obtain socially for thousands of years.  That’s why an action scene has to be every bit as important and planned out as a dramatic conversation, an erotic encounter, or a beautiful description.  Readers crave that kind of feeling, and it’s up to you to provide it.

Can an action scene be nonviolent?

Sorry, pacifists.  No, it cannot.  Because action scenes are defined by some level of violence, you cannot have a nonviolent action scene.  Scenes without violence are driven forward by other impetuses, such as dialogue or emotional content.  Sooner or later, though, a character will choose to take action which is counter to the goals of another character, and that will beget violence.

Your best bet is to make sure it’s a good scene.

Backstory:  A space courier is refilling his spaceship when three thugs he’d seen the previous night appear on the landing pad demanding his cargo.

The Hunters split up, boxing him in.  One donned brass knuckles; the other a switchblade.

Deep mentally rehearsed his moves.  He pressed his foot against the base of the rig, waiting for the last moment.  He had to move fast, without remorse.  It was them or him. [This is good – you establish the character’s goal right away. Survival in the face of superior odds is a good basis for an action scene.]

Knuckles came in range. [I’ve noticed throughout this narrative that you have a lot of very short paragraphs. Unfortunately, I don’t think it works as well, because it breaks up the flow of what should be a smooth, well-paced fight scene. Every action doesn’t have to mean a new paragraph. I think if you were to consolidate these down, it would make your narrative read much better.]

Deep moved.  [This 2-word sentence could be cut without hurting the narrative in the least. We know he moved, because you describe his motion very well in the next sentence.]

He lunged at the Wayfarer’s fuel port, ripped out the hose and sprayed it in Knuckles’ face.

Knuckles stumbled back, screaming, clawing at his eyes.  Switchblade swung forward at Deep’s stomach.

Deep parried with the hose.  The blade sizzled straight through.  Pressurised fuel squirted out like a fountain, raining down on the pad.

Deep swung the hose nozzle at Switchblade, but Switchblade ducked and thrust his blade forward.

Deep fell back against the rig. [Try to change up the rhythm of your sentences. Five of the previous seven start with a character’s name, and three of those with Deep.]  He grabbed the flow meter, rolled back onto the rig and kicked Switchblade in the face.

Switchblade’s head snapped back.  His feet skidded in the fuel, but he managed to stay upright. [The previous six mini-paragraphs could be consolidated into a single paragraph. It would flow better and consists of what I term a single Stunt. If you think of this scene as a film director, the previous six paragraphs could be shot as a continuous take. When I’m writing a scene, I tend to think of paragraph breaks as new camera shots. When you see a movie that has action scenes broken up into lots of cuts, none lasting even as long as a second, do you find that it has no flow? I do. Same thing applies when writing one in fiction.]

Deep dropped back to a crouch and pulled the stiletto from his pocket.  Them or me.  [I like this little thought interjection.] He charged at Switchblade, slipped, fell forward and rammed the stiletto through Switchblades’ chest. [If you wanted to draw this out a little without hurting the pacing or flow, you could take all four of those clauses and give each one its own sentence. Longer sentences read faster than short ones, believe it or not, and sometimes readers blast through them so quickly they skip clauses (or forget and have to go back).] They fell together in a splash of fuel.  Switchblade whimpered then lay still. 

Deep hauled himself up—

Brass smashed into his side and a vice clamped his chest, squeezing him tight. 

Pain rolled up his body like a tidal wave as he crashed to the ground, Knuckles holding him tight.

Deep clawed at the arms, but his hands were slippery from the fuel.  Knuckle’s eyes were blood red, his face screwed up in rage.

Spots cluttered Deep’s vision.  He couldn’t breathe.  He smashed his elbows down on Knuckles’ head and back.

Knuckles kept squeezing.  He battered at Deep with his knees.  [I’m having a tough time picturing how this works. If you’re holding someone and squeezing them, even if you’re on the ground, you’re going to find it difficult to also knee people.]

Deep gasped as a rib cracked.  He was beyond pain now though; he just kept crashing his elbows down again and again.  Time had no meaning; all that existed was his arms and Knuckles.

Finally Knuckles grunted and his grip slackened.

Deep rolled away, gasping.  Fuel thundered down from the heavens, deafening him, stinging his eyes.  The switchblade lay by the rig.  He dropped, fumbled, grabbed it, turned and slashed as Knuckles ran at him. [This is another four-clause sentence that could be split up. You’ve actually used an identical pattern as up above when Deep acts, missteps, acts, acts again.]

Knuckles’ stomach split open and he crashed to the ground.

Deep fell backward, chest heaving, fuel washing the blood from his hands.

The world darkened.  The leader reared over Deep, pistol inches from his face. [I’m confused about who the leader is. Maybe you established that in the part coming up to the action scene. If you didn’t, you need to clearly identify who that is. Also, if he has a gun, why doesn’t he use it first?]

Fuel saturated every inch of the leader.  It ran down his face, tracing the scars.  He looked like a pieced-together monster.  He spoke with a dark finality.  “The ship fob.”

“Ok, ok,” Deep forced a shaking hand into his pocket and tossed the fob toward the ship.  “Take her.” 

The leader’s chuckle rang in Deep’s ears.  “We’re way past that now, boy.”  He jammed the pistol’s emitter into Deep’s forehead.  “The human skull is a good flash suppressant.”  He smiled.

[Overall you’ve got a good start to this scene. If I were rewriting it, I’d think in terms of Stunts. The first Stunt would be Deep defending himself against Switchblade and Knuckles. The second Stunt is Deep going on the offensive and stabbing Switchblade. The third Stunt is Knuckles on the offensive. The final Stunt is Deep turning the tables on Knuckles. Each of those Stunts could be a single paragraph. Thanks for submitting your scene!]

To effectively create an action scene that meets both the needs of the story and the needs of the reader, you must think more like a movie director. This means that you must consider not only the characters and their goals, but their motion through a given scene. Action scenes require characters to be in motion, and the effective description of that motion is what makes the difference between a good, cinematic-quality action scene and a merely adequate one. By making this transition from good to great, your action scenes will be exciting to read, memorable, and have a visceral quality that will have your readers turning the pages, desperate to keep up.

Blocking and staging are terms for the motions a character performs during the course of the scene and in what order. Example: Joe enters the room, spots his opponent, Bob, and charges to attack him at the room’s center. Those are three simple stage directions one might find in a script, but they’re just as effective to use when planning out an action scene in a novel.

Scripting is the dialogue of the characters uttered during an action scene. It’s neither necessary nor welcome to place every single shout, grunt, or groan inside quotation marks. This is, after all, an action scene. But in movies, characters always seem to find enough time to carry on some kind of conversation during action scenes, whether taunting their opponents, arguing with them, calling for help, or uttering pithy zingers. Depending upon the tone you’re trying to create, dialogue can be a good addition to any action scene that demands cinematic quality.

Choreographing is the planning of specific stunts performed by the characters in your scene. Choreographing is not the same thing as blocking. In the above example, the blocking of Joe is to enter the room and move to meet Bob. Once they’re engaged in actual combat, choreographing takes the place of blocking. If Joe swings with a heavy left hook and follows it up with a knee to the nuts, that’s choreographing. In other words, choreographing is the blow-by-blow breakdown of any given action scene, the interaction of characters.
Taking the example of Joe vs. Bob a little further, we can identify the characteristics of each part of the scene:

Joe flung open the door [Blocking]. Bob smirked at him from across the room, raised his hand, and beckoned to Joe [Blocking]. “Come get some,” he said [Scripting].
With an inarticulate yell of rage, Joe charged across the floor as Bob dropped into a fighting stance [Blocking]. Joe launched a heavy left hook at Bob, but the man ducked underneath the blow [Choreographing]. Before Bob could respond, Joe drove his knee hard in between Bob’s legs [Choreographing].
Bob turned the same color as the floor, grabbed himself, and collapsed [Blocking].

Poor Bob. If only he knew the fundamentals of action scenes, he might have given a better accounting of himself. Let’s see if we can teach him.

More to come!

(Excerpt from the Introduction to Action!  Write Better Action Using Cinematic Techniques)

I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume everyone reading this has seen a movie.  If you’ve never seen a movie, well, you probably shouldn’t be reading this book because you have a barn to raise and a beard to grow.

In the 19th Century and before, writers had far more leeway to write action than they do today.  Outside of live performances, books were the only game in town when it came to entertaining people.  Consequently, readers had to imagine whatever the writer described, sometimes without any frame of reference at all.  Motion pictures changed all that.  Suddenly, filmmakers could take their imagination and, through the use of carefully-planned stunts and special effects, film exactly what they were imagining.  By committing those images to film, they shared their action scenes as they intended them to look with mass audiences.  Instead of audiences having to imagine, they could sit passively and observe someone else’s imagination. 

For example:  The two men, one garbed in shining black and the other in soft brown, battled across the floor with their laser swords.  I’ll bet most of you immediately pictured the Darth Vader—Obi-Wan Kenobi duel in Star Wars: A New Hope.  Your memory of the scene as it was shot filled in the details without me describing them.  If I’d written that sentence as part of a story that involved neither of those characters, you’d still think of the movie scene, because that’s how motion pictures have affected the modern reader—by giving us a common frame of reference.  For a century now, from the earliest silent films loaded with dangerous and creative stunts, to the shootouts of the Westerns, to the car chases of the ‘60s and ‘70s, through the martial arts movie craze of the ‘80s and the CGI era after that, action scenes have become indelibly imprinting upon our minds.  We’ve become a visually-oriented culture instead of an imagination-oriented one.

So what’s a modern writer to do to reach this jaded reading audience?

Join me for this journey, won’t you?