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The hubs and I just finished watching all four seasons of The Righteous Gemstones, an HBO Max show created by Danny McBride and starring John Goodman as Eli Gemstone, head of both his enormously dysfunctional family and of a megachurch.

The show is over-the-top in every way: Larger—and so much stranger—than-life characters; plot lines that strain credibility; big, broad, farcical comedy.

With almost every episode, Righteous Gemstones screeches right up to the line, zooms past the line, and then gleefully leaves the line in their rearview. It features straight-up filthy dialogue, the potty-mouthing so dazzlingly beyond the pale it makes Dexter’s sister Deb look like a rank amateur. Gags go farther than you think they should to stay funny—like a scene of endless contagious emesis, or an ongoing bit about a toilet baby that takes things inevitably, indelibly too far. The characterizations are bigger even than the exaggerated South Carolina accents (Tony Cavalero’s Keefe is an especially bizarre marvel of strange), and plotlines burst at the seams of plausibility.

It is not our usual fare. I’m not a fan of farce, and slapstick often leaves me cold.

But oh, this story works—my husband and I are frequently reduced to desperate giggles on the couch, and despite the ridiculousness of these characters and their often outright despicable behavior, damned if we don’t actually invest in them: sometimes for their redemption, and sometimes for their comeuppance. (There are no deeper spiritual journeys to be had for the characters, for the most part, despite the subject matter and setting…or maybe because of it?)

As I often do (as I am constitutionally compelled to do, I think), I can’t help but analyze why this show is so effective, when most everything about it tells me it shouldn’t be. And whether you’re writing comedy or any other genre, I think McBride is onto some core storytelling techniques that can help both ground and free you as a writer.

Read more posts on analyzing story: https://foxprinteditorial.com/category/analyzing-story/

Don’t Be Afraid to Try Things

Even things that may seem far, far out of the box.

You’re not always writing this kind of broad Commedia dell’Arte story, but this is advice I’ve offered many authors in every genre who may be holding themselves back in the interest of finesse and subtlety and not spoon-feeding readers.

Those can be good instincts, and valuable for creating believable and effective stories, but sometimes we’re holding ourselves back too much, fearing that if we give ourselves free rein, our story may gallop out of control.

But that’s what’s beautiful about the drafting and revision process—in fact that’s such a huge part of what it is: This is the time for experimenting, for taking things too far, exaggerating and overcompensating. Especially when you’re stuck, giving yourself permission to pull out all the stops can unlock the fierce creativity inside that may be chomping at the bit to stretch its legs.

No one need ever see your wild overwriting, if that is indeed what results. It’s easy to go in and pull back, but sometimes giving yourself permission to go too far is what lets you unlock levels in your story and characters that may have felt too ridiculous or risky.

Even if they are, trust that you and your objective reading support system—beta readers, crit partners, editors—will keep you from making a fool of yourself on the dance floor.

Sometimes giving yourself permission to go too far is what lets you unlock levels in your story and characters that may have felt too ridiculous or risky.

When I was an actor one of the best pieces of advice an acting coach ever gave me was that great actors make the strongest choices. Does that sometimes result in melodrama? Yes. But that’s what the rehearsal process is for. To fully loose all the power of your creativity, squeeze every ounce of juice from the art you’re making–and then figure out how to fine-tune, hone, and trim back to best serve the story and heighten its effectiveness.

This technique can work to unlock memorable, original moments not just in comedy (like another unforgettable vomit scene in one of my favorite movies, I Love You Man), but by taking things farther than expected even in other genres. Avengers: Infinity War thwarted the conventions of superhero movies and unexpectedly killed off half the Avengers in the final minutes. Game of Thrones bucked expectations and killed off half the cast in the first season—including major and beloved characters. The relentless and unflinching 23-minute Omaha Beach scene in Saving Private Ryan made painfully visceral the experience and horror of war.

Actions that feel like they are too big or melodramatic might indeed be too much for your story, or strain reader credibility, or simply fall flat—but they may also give you a fantastically original story that surprises and delights your readers.

Worst-case, they get you out of safe, pedestrian thinking and can unlock your imagination, elevating your story beyond clichés and tropes. Don’t be afraid to try things in your writing; give your creativity free rein and a workout and see what it might release.

Commit—Hard

Big choices work only if you do them fully—halfhearted efforts cut them off at the knees. Big ideas don’t have a chance at succeeding unless you give them “everything you got” (to cite an actor who took that advice maximally to heart).

You have to believe in the characters and situations you’re creating, no matter how outrageous. Every single character in Righteous Gemstones is written and acted full-bore. Every operatic, telenovela plotline takes it all the way.

You can’t “sell” the story to a reader unless you wholeheartedly commit to it yourself. Especially with big swings, sometimes the instinct is to stand at a safe remove and give a tacit wink to the reader, a preemptive move to protect yourself from accusations of overwriting. Don’t worry, this attitude conveys. I recognize this is stupid or ridiculous—or however you fear your reader may judge you. It’s as if we’re trying to pre-insulate ourselves from criticism just in case our idea falls flat.

You can’t “sell” the story to a reader unless you wholeheartedly commit to it yourself.

But as soon as the reader detects that narrative distance, you pop the balloon of credulity. If even the author isn’t taking the characters or story seriously, how can they?

Don’t hedge your bets. If you take a leap but hold yourself back, you’re probably going to slam into the rocks. If you’re writing a big, over-the-top character, go all the way. If you’re trying a plot twist or development that’s out of the box, then venture way out of the box—crush the box behind you.

You might chew a little scenery, but you might also wind up with something memorable and even classic. Batman’s Joker isn’t a half-measure villain. Sherlock Holmes isn’t kind of insightful or a little reserved—he’s a brilliant misanthrope. Jack Sparrow is the world’s strangest pirate. And Nicholas Cage doesn’t play any character just a little bit anything.

You can convince readers of nearly anything in your stories if you make it feel grounded not necessarily in reality, but within the reality of the story world you’ve woven.

One of the things I love most about our field is its endless freedom and autonomy for creators. The only limit on the reach of our imagination is ourselves, and we have a safety net for walking even the highest high wires, because we get to determine when others see our work. You might decide you’ve gone too far and bring it back in revisions.

But you might just find you’ve shattered stereotypes in all the best ways, created a brand-new archetype, written your way deep into readers’ memories and hearts.

Ground Your Characters in Heart

Even with all the rampant humor of The Righteous Gemstones, it would quickly grow tiresome if it weren’t anchored in some kind of relatable, recognizable heart.

Yes, McBride’s Jesse Gemstone, eldest progeny of John Goodman’s paterfamilias Eli, is an absolute caricature of unrestrained but fragile ego—but who hasn’t experienced a longing for respect and admiration against the fear of not getting it, or not deserving it?

Middle child and only girl Judy Gemstone is a wholeheartedly filthy-mouthed, oversexed, tough-talking broad, but there’s something so relatable in feeling as if you have to assert yourself among a bunch of toxically swaggering personalities, and in putting up a tough front to cover the scary vulnerabilities underneath.

Their baby brother Kelvin is a righteous mass of true-believing, self-deluded grandiosity. But his sincere and suppressed longing to be himself and be loved for it is about as universal a human urge as I can imagine.

For all their farcical leanings, there’s a core of truth and heart in every one of the characters in the show that keeps its weirdness anchored in reality. And each one shares just enough common human longing, lack, and drive to let viewers recognize, relate to, and invest in them.

They are a complicated mess, just like all of us are, and they’re trying to find their way, however clumsily, just like every human on their own human journey. They are our worser angels writ large, and the promise and hope of our better ones always lurking underneath.

Take things too far, play your story too big, but keep it rooted in those common human shared experiences and readers will take the ride with you, no matter how extravagant or unhinged.

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One of the most fun things I’ve ever written was a short story I created for my nephew when he was a child being bullied in school.

It starred him as a boy who could change shape into any animal, and who was made fun of for being different—until danger struck his school and only he could save the day because of his special abilities.

But I went further than that. Feeling furious and helpless to protect my sensitive nephew, I put his tormentors in the story too, and while I let my nephew’s character show them mercy, in an epilogue I disposed of them in some pretty operatic ways. (The last line in the story describes the fate of the worst of the bullies, who as an adult becomes a hunter and shoots himself in the eye with a ricocheted bullet: “We wish we could say he died instantly, but he suffered horribly for several minutes before he was good and dead.”)

Was it the most appropriate ending for a fable meant for a young reader? Probably not. (Okay, definitely not. That story, now decades old, still lives in a file in my desk drawer, never having seen the light of publishing day.)

But did it delight my nephew, my target reader, to read about the merciless justice I meted out to his tormentors? One hundred percent. And did I have an unfettered ball letting my imagination run wild and satisfying my most primal and base instincts? Hell, yes, I did.

And ultimately isn’t that the highest purpose of our creative efforts? The part of our writing careers that’s fully within our control?

Yes, Danny McBride got himself a no doubt lucrative production contract for his wild story, but what really strikes me about Gemstones—and I think one of the things that makes it so damn much fun to watch—is how much fun it looks like every single one of them is having.

That’s the heart of my creative work, the thing that drew me to it and keeps me at it—and I’m betting it is for most of you too. Storytelling is fun. Finding the way I want to tell it is challenging but rewarding. Sharing it completes the circle, whether that’s for an audience of one, as with my short story, for a few thousand as with this blog, or the hundreds of thousands or millions we may hope for with our books.

Okay, authors, let’s let the wheels come off. Do you ever find yourself holding back for fear of overwriting or overdramatizing, and if so how do you push past that internal hall monitor? What writing exercises or techniques have you tried in the past that have freed your imagination and creativity? How could you push beyond the boundaries with your WIP in a way that might uncover some new level you hadn’t foreseen?

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