Write Great Fiction--Plot & Structure (11 page)

Forrest Gump, who suffers from physical and mental challenges as a boy, gains our sympathy from the start.

The key to using hardship is not to allow the character to whine about it. Sure, there can be moments when the character lashes out emotionally due to the hardship, but don't let her stay there. We admire those who take steps to overcome.

[3] The Underdog.
America loves people who face long odds. John Grisham has used the underdog in many of his books. One of his best,
The Rainmaker
, is the classic David-and-Goliath story switched to the courtroom. We can't help rooting for Rudy Baylor as he battles a huge defense firm.

Rocky Balboa became a permanent part of our culture when Sylvester Stallone brought him to the screen in
Rocky
. The movie was a phenomenon not only because it was about a pug fighter's chance to beat the champ but because it was like Stallone's own story as a struggling actor.

[4] Vulnerability.
Readers worry about a Lead who might be crushed at any time. In
Rose Madder
, Stephen King follows a battered wife who, after years in a hellish marriage, finally gets up the courage to run away from her psychopathic cop-husband. But she is so naive about the ways of the world, and her husband so good at tracking people down, we worry about her from the moment she steps out the door.

A likable Lead, not surprisingly, is someone who does likable things. For example, likeable Leads do favors for people. Or they are witty in conversation. They are supportive and engaging. They are not selfish. They have an expansive view of life. These are people we like to be around. Think about people
you
like, and then incorporate some of those characteristics into your Lead.

A witty character, a character who doesn't take himself too seriously, is likable. So is the character who cares about others without calling attention to himself.

Irwin Fletcher, in the
Fletch
books by Gregory MacDonald, is witty and self-deprecating. So is Elvis Cole, the private investigator creation of Robert Crais.

But note that people who try too hard to be likable often miss the mark. It's a fine line your characters walk, but worth the effort to get it right.

You
can
write about an unlikable Lead
if
you compensate in other areas. Giving the Lead power is one good method. Scarlett O'Hara has a certain power over men. She also demonstrates her power to overcome obstacles as the story progresses.

In
The Godfather
,Michael Corleone is a monster, and a powerful one.

Make the unlikable Lead fascinating in some way, or readers will be turned off.

Characters who are absolutely sure about what they do, who plunge ahead without fear, are not that interesting. We don't go through life that way. In reality, we have doubts just like everyone else.

Bringing your Lead's doubts to the surface in your plot pulls the reader deeper into the story.

In
How to Write a Damn Good Novel II
, James N. Frey writes that inner conflict “can be thought of as a battle between two ‘voices' within the character: one of reason, the other of passion — or of two conflicting passions.”

Many times it is fear on one side, telling the Lead not to act. Inner conflict is resolved when the Lead, by listening to the other side — duty, honor, principle, or the like — overcomes doubt and acts accordingly.

What sort of world does your Lead inhabit? Not merely the setting, though that is important. But what is life like for the Lead?

In
Mystic River
, Dennis Lehane gives us Jimmy Marcus's story world in the first chapter after the prologue:

After work that night, Jimmy Marcus had a beer with his brother-in-law, Kevin Savage, at the Warren Tap, the two of them sitting at the window and watching some kids play street hockey. There were six kids, and they were fighting in the dark, their faces gone featureless with it. The Warren Tap was tucked away on a side street in the old stockyard district …

We get a sense of Jimmy's life and routine here. He's an average guy in a working-class location (near the stockyard). The rest of the section gives us more explanation of Jimmy's situation — how he'd been in prison, but now has a wife and three daughters and owns a store. He's a guy just trying to make it in the world.

Sometimes we begin with the Lead practicing his chosen profession. This allows for some explanation, as in Lawrence Block's
Eight Million Ways to Die
:

She said, “You used to be a policeman.”

“A few years back.”

“And now you're a private detective.”

“Not exactly.” The eyes widened. They were very vivid blue, an unusual shade, and I wondered if she were wearing contact lenses. The soft lenses sometimes do curious things to eye color, altering some shades, intensifying others.

“I don't have a license,” I explained. “When I decided I didn't want to carry a badge anymore I didn't figure I wanted to carry a license, either.” Or fill out forms or keep records or check with the tax collector. “Anything I do is very unofficial.”

“But it's what you do? It's how you make your living?”

“That's right.”

Notice this isn't just raw exposition. Block shows us the narrator's close observations, and some of his attitude about “official” things.

Chapter one of Steve Martini's
The Judge
begins like this:

“You have two choices,” he tells me. “Your man testifies, or else.”

“Or else what? Thumbscrews?” I say.

He gives me a look as if to say, “If you like.”

Armando Acosta would have excelled in another age. Scenes of some dimly lit stone cavern with iron shackles, pinioned to the walls come to mind. Visions of flickering torches, the odor of lard thick in the air, as black-hooded men, hairy and barrel-chested, scurry about with implements of pain, employed at his command. The “Cocoanut” is a man with bad timing. He missed his calling with the passing of the Spanish Inquisition.

We are seated in his chambers behind Department 15 …

A legal setting and a tough tone from the narrator; a lawyer facing a tough, unfair judge. We know this is going to be a certain kind of book with a distinct voice.

Contrast that to the following excerpt from Tom Robbins's
Another Roadside Attraction
:

The magician's underwear has just been found in a cardboard suitcase floating in a stagnant pond on the outskirts of Miami. However significant that discovery may be — and there is the possibility that it could alter the destiny of each and every one of us — it is not the incident with which to begin this report.

Notice any difference in tone? I think you do. Readers want to settle into a consistent tone. That does not mean a serious novel can't have comic relief, or a comic novel some drama. In fact, that variety is a good thing — it keeps readers engaged.

But the overall impression one gets from a novel should be consistency of tone.

All of this Act I material described above exists to move the reader on to Act II. Why should they care to read on?

Because you have given them the following in Act I:

• A compelling Lead
  
• Whom they bond with
  
• And whose world has been disturbed
  

And when the Lead passes through the first doorway of no return into Act II, we must know who or what the opposition is.

Not that a complete identity has to be established. It is perfectly all right that there is a mysterious opponent out there, someone to be revealed later. But that there
is
an opponent is all important.

Make sure the opponent is as strong as or, preferably, stronger than the Lead. And do not scrimp on the sympathy factor! Give the opponent his due, his justifications. Your novel will be the stronger for it.

Nothing will slow down plot faster than an information dump. This is where the author merely tells the reader something he thinks the reader needs to know before moving on with the plot.

It's bad enough when this is done in the narrative portion, but dreadful when it is done in dialogue.

For example, you might run across a paragraph like this:

John was a doctor from the east. He went to medical school at Johns Hopkins where he was a star student. He completed his residency in New York City when he was 30 years old. He lived with relatives on Long Island while he was an intern. John loved New York.

Now, in certain contexts this might be perfectly fine. Sometimes telling is a short cut, and if it is indeed short, it can work. But take a look at all exposition like the above in your manuscript, and ask yourself if you can be more creative in how you give this information to your readers.

I have a few rules about exposition in the beginnings of books. I have formulated these only because I saw in my own writing the tendency to put in a lot of exposition up front, thinking the reader needed this to understand the story.

Not so. Most of the time I could cut with impunity and not lose the flow of the story; in fact, my novels started to take off from the beginning.

Don't start slowly with useless exposition. Thus, the rules:

Rule 1: Act first, explain later.
Begin with a character in motion. Readers will follow a character who is doing something, and won't demand to know everything about the character up front. You then drop in information as necessary, in little bits as you go along.

Rule 2: When you explain, do the iceberg.
Don't tell us everything about the character's past history or current situation. Give us the 10 percent above the surface that is necessary to understand what's going on, and leave 90 percent hidden and mysterious below the surface. Later in the story, you can reveal more of that information. Until the right time, however, withhold it.

Rule 3: Set information inside confrontation.
Often, the best way to let information come out is within a scene of intense conflict. Using the characters' thoughts or words, you can have crucial information ripped out and thrown in front of the reader.

In the first chapter of
Midnight
, Dean Koontz skillfully weaves in exposition during a tense jog at night:

First sentence:
“Janice Capshaw liked to run at night.” Follows the rule: Open with a character — named — in motion.

Next two sentences:
Author explains something about her running, gives her age and something about her appearance (healthy).

Next five sentences:
We learn the time and place (Sunday night, Sept. 21, Moonlight Cove). Description of the place. Mood established (dark, no cars, no other people). Background on the place (quiet little town).

Next three sentences:
Mood details in the action (as she runs).

Next two sentences:
Background on Janice's likes about night running.

Next five sentences:
Deepening details about Janice (why she likes night).

Next three sentences:
Action as she runs. More details and mood.

Next sentence:
Action as she runs. How she feels.

Next seven sentences:
Deepening Janice by describing her past with her late husband.

Next two sentences:
First sign of trouble.

Next three sentences:
Her reaction to the sign.

And so on throughout. Read this opening chapter. It is a great example of handling exposition.

For the next example, let's widen our scope and look at how
Final Seconds
, by John Lutz and David August, progresses within the first six chapters:

Prologue:
New York public school has bomb scare. Harper, a grizzled veteran, and his young partner, arrive. Tension builds as he tries to undo the bomb. Finally, left holding a bit of explosive, Harper is almost there when … boom. His hand is mostly blown off.

Chapter one:
Two-and-a-half years later, Harper is going to see his partner (who was sort of at fault for the accident). He's working security for techno-thriller author Rod Buckner. Harper is no longer with the NYPD.

Chapter two:
Harper can't talk his old partner into coming back to the NYPD. As he's driving away from this very secure complex, a tremendous explosion is heard. The whole house, along with Buckner and all the others, is blown up.

Chapter three:
Harper tries to get information on the investigation into his ex-partner's death, but his old captain isn't giving any. Tension builds here.