The Goldilocks Method

Once upon a time, there was a girl called Goldilocks who was fed up with other people writing stories about her, so she decided to write a story of her own. How hard could it be?

When the story was finished, she showed it to Gretel who (since the whole thing with the gingerbread house) had become an editor. And Gretel said the story was great but it wasn’t perhaps the most original thing that had ever been written.

So, Goldilocks went away and added a talking toadstool and a disco of dragonflies and a mirror that showed you what you would look like when you died. And when she returned to Gretel, she had a look of triumph on her face.

But Gretel, being an experienced editor, had seen such looks before, and even without reading through the story, she knew it would now be a case of “too much” rather than “too little.” This was okay, she explained to Goldilocks. “You just need to find a balance between the two.”

So, Goldilocks went away and wrote her story for a third time. And this time Gretel thought that Goldilocks had got it “just right.”

Some of you might be thinking at this point that I’ve lost the plot entirely (while long-term readers of this newsletter will know this happened several years ago…), but there’s a reason why I’m waffling on about Goldilocks and Gretel, and it’s to do with editing technique.

When I provide feedback on a writer’s story, I often suggest there might be “too much” of something or “too little” of something. This might apply to pacing (a moment that is “too hemmed in” or “too drawn out”). It might apply to the number of ingredients a writer has thrown into the mixing bowl (“too many” ingredients meaning a story can lose its focus, “too few” meaning it lacks a sense of layering and depth). It might apply to backstory or context (“too much” or “too little”). It might apply to voice (“pushed too far” / “not pushed far enough”) or character depth (“contradictory” / “too thin”) or emotions (“too pared back” / “too melodramatic”); and it might also apply to language level stuff like imagery or repetition.

There is therefore a lot within any particular story that might be described as “too much” or “too little.” But when an editor (or critique partner or other eagle-eyed being) points this out, it inevitably leads to the question of what is the right amount—which is very similar to asking yourself “how long is a piece of string?” We often only know the answer when we know the answer. Editing is not an exact science. It mostly takes trial and error, push and pull, seeing what everything looks like when you try it one way then seeing what it looks like when you try it another.

This is where I come back to Goldilocks. While Goldilocks’s approach is still very much trial and error, it’s at least a three-stage process rather than a process that could be infinite. With whatever element you’re trying to change, you intentionally push things too far. Then you step backwards and hopefully land things exactly how you want them on your third editing pass.

You could, of course aim for “just right“ on edit number two. But there’s a problem with aiming for “just right.” If you aim for “just right”, generally you’ll take a baby step. You’ll see the recommendation that a moment feels “too hemmed in” and you’ll add a word or two. Then you’ll be frustrated when the suggestion comes back that the problem still remains. So, you take another baby step. Same problem. And another baby step. Same problem. And before you know it, you’re on draft six-hundred-and-seventeen.

But with the Goldilocks Method, there’s first draft, second draft, final draft—that’s the plan at least. And often by aiming to reset “too little” as “too much”, you might still underestimate how much is required and (ta da!) end up at “just right” in a single glorious leap.

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If that isn’t already enough nonsense for one newsletter, this has made me consider how other fairy tales might be applied to our writing. For example, another thing I often think about when I’m wearing my editor’s hat is how writers need to be like the princess from “The Princess and the Pea” where the princess can sense the presence of a single pea underneath eleven mattresses. In a similar way, we need to be just as nit-picky (or pea-picky) with our writing, because those “single peas” can be quite problematic, pulling our reader out of an otherwise sparkling story.

And what if the story isn’t sparkling? We’ve had a great idea (or so we think), but now we’re looking at our first draft and we’re full of self-loathing and doubt. We’ve produced an ugly-duckling draft in place of a chirpy little chick. But all we need to do is remind ourselves that ugly ducklings transform into beautiful swans. In fact, in my experience, some of the most brilliant pieces start off this way.

Next, I come to “The Three Little Pigs” which is a wonderful reminder of the importance of structural solidity. What we don’t want with our stories is for a wolfish reader to come along and start huffing and puffing when our stories are made of straws or sticks. Instead, we want a structure made of brick, for there to be a clear arc (or sense of movement) from beginning to end, and a sense of balance between the various sections or scenes and how they’re cemented into place.

Thinking about character, I remind myself of “Beauty and the Beast.” The beast is a complicated character who is someone very different to who he first appears, which is a great reminder that people (or beasts) generally have multiple layers to their personalities; they have backstories and burdens, passions and dreams.

On the subject of dreams, when you’re contemplating a new story, maybe give a thought to “Jack and the Beanstalk.” Jack could have gone to market and sold his cow for coins like his mum requested. Instead, he dreamed big. He took a risk and that risk led to something much more wonderful than if he’d played it safe. Obviously, there’s a danger with risks that they don’t pay off. But I, for one, would rather read an imperfect story with a sense of ambition than one that achieves “perfection” through playing it safe.

Finally, a lesson in doing your own thing from “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” It can be so easy to read a story that’s being universally lauded and try to replicate it even if it isn’t your cup of tea. But if the emperor is naked then the emperor is naked. Or rather, everything in art is highly subjective. And that brings me back to the Goldilocks Method for one final detail. The definitions of “too much”, “too little” and “just right” for any of those many story elements I’ve listed above are also highly subjective. All we can do is write towards our own particular ideal.

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