Perhaps hotdogs are the secret to writing good flashbacks?
Depending on how they’re used, flashbacks can make a reader’s jaw drop… or make their interest in a story drop.
Let’s discuss flashbacks, then practice writing our own together!
During the last stream, a subscriber requested that we go over how to write flashbacks.
Watch a short version of the stream here or scroll down for what we wrote.
How to Write a Flashback
What IS a Flashback?
- A flashback is a section of a story that jumps into the past
- It can range in length from a few paragraphs, to a whole scene, to an entire chapter
- It’s also usually separated from the main text somehow, either with italics, a scene break, chapter break, etc.
Why Use a Flashback?
- Flashbacks convey information to the reader in a more intimate/emotional way, typically by getting right inside the protagonist’s head, but…
- …it comes at the cost of breaking the pacing of the main story
- If the main story is shaky, then a flashback can make it crumble; if the main story is good, then readers might skip over a flashback. Either way, readers stop reading
- Flashbacks often come too early in the story, before the reader cares enough about the character to want to read about their past
- Flashbacks also tend to use cliched phrases that make readers cringe, like “I remembered when…” or “I thought about…” or “it took me back…” or even “I flashed back to…”
How Do I Know If I Should Use a Flashback?
Ask yourself these questions:
#1. Can you just get away with some quick narration instead?
Example from Hunger Games, where we get quick narration about Katniss’s dad’s death, not a whole flashback:
But there’s also food if you know how to find it. My father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.
#2. If not, can the reader get by without knowing this now?
Ex: We don’t get the story about the Capitol hovercraft capturing the boy and girl in the District 12 outskirts in chapter 1 when Katniss is there hunting, we get it later in chapter 6 when Katniss recognizes the Avox servant girl
#3. If not, is there any other way to weave it into the story?
Ex: We don’t get any flashbacks to the war that started Panem, instead we get a speech from the mayor before the Reaping begins:
Just as the clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. It’s the same story every year. He tells of the history of Panem, the country that rose out of the ashes of a place that was once called North America.
#4. Finally, using a flashback should be last resort
Ex: When we first meet Peeta, we get a flashback to Katniss’s memory of him as a child:
Peeta Mellark and I are not friends. Our only real interaction happened years ago. He’s probably forgotten it. But I haven’t and I know I never will…
It was during the worst time. My father had been killed in the mine accident three months earlier in the bitterest January anyone could remember. (And goes on for nearly 8 pages)
This flashback is long, but it works because we’ve already spent a chapter getting to know Katniss so we care about her past, it has a clear break (ellipses), and doesn’t use cliches
So How DO You Write a Flashback?
- #1. Go into the flashback in response to something relevant, not out of the blue
- #2. Keep it short and/or clearly distinct from the main text
- #3. Come out of it with some sort of effect on the story
- #4. Avoid flashbacks in chapter 1, and limit the number of them per story
Get Creative With Your Flashbacks!
- If your story really needs flashbacks in order to be told, then have fun with them
- For example, Harry Potter uses the Pensieve to give flashbacks to important plot points
- In Ready Player One, the first chapter shows Wade’s name appearing on the scoreboard before anyone else, and then the next several chapters are flashbacks showing how he did it
- In Gone Girl, when a husband’s wife goes missing, the chapters showing the wife’s POV are all flashbacks told in diary form about their life/relationship before she went missing
After that, chat voted that we practice writing a story with flashback(s) in it using this prompt: A man saves a dog in a hot car. A car saves a hot man in a dog. A hotdog saves a car in a man.
Here’s what we came up with:
I was walking through the Wal-Mart parking lot, adjusting my backpack and thinking about my “shopping list,” when I heard the whimpering. It was coming from a rusted old car parked diagonally between two spaces, sizzling so hot in the July sun I could practically hear it cooking.
Staring at me from the rear window was a young German Shepherd. Its black ears drooped down the sides of its head, and it painted the glass in a thick layer of fog with each hard pant.
Seeing that made my blood boil. Shaking, I reached into my backpack….
***
I was working at Wienerway Park, the worst job I’d ever had. And I’d worked at Panera Bread, so I know hell on Earth.
The reason it was so awful was the smell. Not the dirty kids or the vomit rocket cleanup, but the wieners. For some reason, the big man in charge, Carson Shepard, had two loves in life — cars and hot dogs — and he let everyone know it. Every ride was car-themed, and every snack stand sold those god-awful mystery meat tubes.
I was allergic to the damn things. Some people are allergic to bees or peanuts or whatever, I apparently won the genetic lottery and one bite of those squishy sausages would send me retching. The smell alone was enough to make me dizzy, so I did my best walking around the park in my car-costume, waving at kids, weaving between vendors, heaving with every sniff.
Still, a job was a job, and I was thankful to have it while I was waiting for something more lucrative to come along. Plus the coworkers were great; nothing beat crapping on customers in the backroom while dressed up as a Toyota, and Steve smoking a cigarette with Dirty Dawg’s massive head on his lap, even if we had to be on our best behavior while outside.
Which is why seeing Steve, in his dog outfit, on his knees and choking, sent such a shock through me. All of the idiot guests were standing around gawking, thinking it was one of Dirty Dawg’s funny tricks, but I knew better.
The sweat stains pouring through his costume. His flailing arms behind him. His zipper had broken, and there was no way out of his hellish prison.
Steve was dying of heatstroke right in front of me, and there was nothing I could do….
***
It was my first real job. I had to infiltrate the Colorado Collectible Car exhibit, steal the most expensive vehicle there, and escape without being caught.
Considering the micro cars were all about two inches long, I had a decent chance of pulling it off.
Getting in was easy: all I had to do was show the man my ticket and I was there, part of the party. All around me were hundreds of micro-car lovers, browsing the booths and chatting about the latest micro-inventions. Apparently new regulations required even Hot Wheels to be fitted with tiny seatbelts and airbags.
But my mind was elsewhere. My eyes were on the prize. The rare 1969 rear-loading beach bomb. Basically a small, pink version of a van that you’d expect to see pulling down the street with the words “FrEe cAndY” painted on the sides. And some surfboards pointing out its open back.
The damn thing was worth over 100 grand, and I found myself standing before it, nothing more than a small glass bell jar and the careful eyes of its caretaker preventing my fingers from snatching it.
The caretaker smiled at me. “If you want, I can show you some of the photobooks I’ve made with this beaut. Me and Betty, we’ve traveled the world together.”
“It’s name is Betty?” I asked. The weirdo didn’t stop smiling.
“Oh, she has a lot of names. Here, one second. Let me show you.”
In the moment he bent over to grab whatever he was going to get from underneath his booth, I made my decision. I lifted up the glass, snatched the beach bomb, and dropped a fake lookalike in its place.
I didn’t even wait for the dude to show me his weird fetish photos. I just walked in the opposite direction as fast as I could, the beach bomb burning a hole in my pocket.
My body heated up like I was stuck to the sun. I could feel my steaming face peeling away from my skull. Any second now, that creep was gonna find the fake, call the police, and have me arrested. I needed to get rid of the evidence, but I couldn’t give up either!
So I swallowed it.
It went down surprisingly easy, kind of like a Jolly Rancher in one gulp. And just in time too.
“Hey you,” said an officer, grabbing me by the arm. He stared me up and down suspiciously. “You take anything you shouldn’t have?”
I shook my head. He didn’t seem convinced though, and he patted me down all over, sticking his hairy fingers into my pockets and feeling around for any missing Bettys. The whole time I was silent, thanking myself for my quick decision.
He stopped just short of a strip search, then seemingly satisfied, sent me on my way. As I walked out, drove home, and sat there in my grungy apartment thinking about what I’d done, I realized I had a big problem.
I had to get Betty out of me, and the back door was not an acceptable exit. She wouldn’t likely survive the trip through my intestines, and even if she did, the final push would probably destroy her. There was only one other option.
Hot dog-induced retching. Plugging my nose with a clip and using tongs to keep the moist meaty tube away from me for as long as possible, I grabbed one from my roommate’s side of the fridge, shakingly brought it to my mouth, and took a single bite. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say this.
A hotdog saved a car in a man.
***
I was the only one who could save Steve. Sucking in as much air as I could, I dashed over to the closest hot dog stand and grabbed the tongs straight from the vat of boiling water.
The mustached chef yelled after me, waving his noodly arms in the air, but I was already at Steve. Using all the strength in my body, I clasped onto the back of his zipper-less Dirty Dawg costume with the tongs, and ripped as hard as I could.
It was as if Dirty Dawg gave birth to a middle-aged man, right there in the middle of Wienerway Park, surrounded by hundreds of children and their families. Steve, wearing nothing more than his yellowed underwear, smacked onto the asphalt in a thick puddle of his own sweat.
But he was breathing! Someone called over the Fish-sician, and the nurse in the carp costume waddled over to give him the help he needed.
As Steve had the cold compresses applied to his body, I stood there, tongs in hand, holding them like the sacred weapon they were. They’d helped me vomit up that 100 grand car years ago, and now they’d saved a life. I swore then I would never go anywhere without a pair of tongs on me again.
A car saved a hot man in a dog.
***
I took out the tongs from my backpack, walked up to the slightly-cracked window of the rusty car in the Wal-Mart parking lot, and stuck them inside, unlocking the front door for the poor dog.
The German Shepherd leaped into my arms as soon as I opened the door and he licked me all over, his ears perking straight back up to where they should be. I looked all over the parking lot, to see where its owner was so I could scold them. But there was no one, only a lady in crocodile leather two lanes over, and some kids spitting on the ground to see how fast it would sizzle away.
I started to leave, but the dog whined behind me and followed. The last thing I really wanted was an animal potentially interfering with my “shopping,” but then a thought hit me.
No one would suspect a guy with a cute dog of stealing.
“All right, buddy,” I said, slapping my thigh. The dog trotted right over by my side, staring up at me and panting. “I’ll tell you what. You keep the manager’s eyes on you instead of me, and I’ll add some kibble to my grabbin’ list.”
A man saved a dog in a hot car.
If you want to join us and help write a story by trolling in chat, or share your own writing for feedback, then we’d love to have you join us on Twitch.
And you missed the stream, you can still watch them on the YouTube channel or watch the full stream reruns.
Hope to see you next time, friend!
Images: Pakutaso