Surprise!

Mavis fails to impress Simon Cowell when she dives into a tiny paddling pool held by a bear.

Esy recently raised the topic of surprise.
And I overheard my son and mother discussing Indiana Jones the other day. They both agreed that they liked the surprise bits best - the parts where Indy is progressing through some catacomb or another and then a decomposing corpse pops out of the wall.
So let's have a look at this surprise, and ask ourselves how much of a surprise it actually is.

First of all, it's logical. When one is hanging out in tombs, one might reasonably expect to discover the odd skeletal remain here and there.
Or, to put it another way, I wonder what the effect might have been on my son and mother if Indy was brushing away the cobwebs to suddenly be assaulted by a giant egg whisk.

Sunset Bickham won't forgive you if you go egg-whisky on him:

Because fiction is make-believe, it has to be more logical than real life if it is to be believed. In real life, things may occur for no apparent reason. But in fiction you the writer simply cannot ever afford to lose sight of logic and let things happen for no apparent reason.

So why do corpses pop out of walls?

In Raiders of the Lost Ark, (and this is from memory here) Indy stands at the entrance to a tomb and his guide explains that nobody ever comes out alive (premonition/suspense). Indy recalls some archaeologist who went into this tomb and was never seen again.
Sure enough, his guide activates a trap and the cadavre of said archaeologist springs out on spikes.
Surprise!
This scene has many functions, all of which are bound by logic.
It warns the viewer to expect corpses - it suggests the boundaries of the movie (preparation/establishment). And with this knowledge comes suspense (through expectations).
It shows the viewer that Indy is cleverer than this other eminent archaeologist, simply because Indy has avoided this trap. Also, Indy is more familiar with such expeditions than his guide - Indy is savvy. These are shows. Rather than the guide saying 'Gosh Indy, you're probably the best archaeologist around,' this exact same information is demonstrated.
The functionality is wrapped up in surprise.

Surprise is like an electric shock. It's sure to wake the viewer or, if he's already awake, to keep him alert. Surprise spikes the emotional topography. Surprise is not there for it's own sake, and the audience will not thank you if you cheat them.

At number 23 in his how-to book, The 38 Most Common Fiction Writing Mistakes, Sunset Bickham explains why we shouldn't drop alligators through the transom.
Legend has it that some writer had her detective interrogating a beautiful woman in his office, and then couldn't think of a way to end her scene with a disaster. So the writer had an alligator fall through the transom.
You can almost feel Sunset shaking with anger:

That's the worst kind of cheating, the sorriest kind of writing!

Why Mr. Bickham?

Because it didn't answer the scene question.

Somewhere in that book, and probably in every other how-to book on my desk, you'll find a diatribe on the evils of deus ex machina. The Ancient Greeks loved their plays. The playwrights built all manner of conflict and obstacles into their plots. And then, at the end of every play, an actor would be lowered on a winch, proclaiming to be whichever god, and then righting all wrongs with the wave of a hand.

It's like Quidditch. You can battle for ages, winning points with cunning and broom-flying exploits and teamwork and tactics, the points swinging from one team to the other, and then some little git catches that golden snitch and the game's over and nothing else in that match mattered after all.

You'll also find in these books tirades against coincidence. However, Robert McKee proposes an exception, where an Antiplot is created, not from causality, but from coincidence, the distinction being (essentially) that causality creates a chain-reaction through to the climax and expresses the interconnectedness of reality, whereas coincidence fragments the story into divergent episodes and expresses the disconnectiveness of existence. He uses After Hours as an example of such an Antiplot. (Robert McKee: Story.)

Thinking over my own conclusion, I reckon this is the recipe for a satisfying reveal:

The more obvious (and logical) the reveal seems, the more satisfying it is.

I think this distinction clearly separates Saw from its weaker sequels (weakquels?).
The final revelations in Saw are unexpected. However, they instantly feel extremely obvious and natural and effortless and unforced.

When presented with a reveal, the viewer will want to trace its history. The reveal suddenly makes sense of all that has gone before: those little pieces of dialogue that didn't quite sit right (Rachel tells her father to leave her splinter be because her body will push it out when it's ready - War of the Worlds); those characters who lurked in the shadows and seemed to have little purpose (Sweeney Todd); those props that were briefly brought to the fore and then subsequently neglected (let's say ... Chekhov's Gun!).

It's all there! Every ingredient is in place! But the author hides them with misdirection or imbues them with insignificance, or he might present the elements plainly and simply choose to conceal the connections.

N.B. In my post Utopian Dominoes, I argued that we need to feel something is significant in order for it to register. I would amend this slightly by suggesting that everything is automagically given significance by nature of its inclusion. Therefore, even when we pretend that a plot device is insignificant, a part of the reader's brain assumes that it isn't so. And this is possibly why I have trouble with MacGuffins.

Surprises are an essential, inescapable ingredient of plot. They can get the pulse racing, and they can inject a freshness into a story and they can even change the course of the hero's quest. But they are also subject to the strict regimes of logic and clever preparation. The logic pleases the reader's brain, assuaging any notion of cheating, even offering gold stars for cleverness should the reader have pieced an amount of the puzzle together. The preparation facilitates the logical revelation and, where visible, provides suspense.
That one memorable aha! moment might have been crafted from an entire novel's worth of preparation!

There will be more thoughts to come, perhaps when I discover a satisfying way to classify surprises.

Degrees of Space

I like degrees, and I like radians. But which is best? There's only one way to find out ... FIGHT!

I never did get round to exploring degrees of space.

So I want to pose this question:

Why do we have chapters?

Well, many works of fiction are not split into chapters.
In non-fiction, chapters serve (primarily?) as means of navigation.

Let's ask my brain why it chose to end Act I with a lengthy chapter which contained so many reveals and developments that it could easily have split the chapter into many chapters, each with a cliffhanger.
BRAIN: Hey, well it was really a question of pace y'know: the intention of the Act I conclusion was to leave the reader breathless and reeling, and also to develop lots of stuff that could be considered between acts.

Ah, so when we look at degrees of space, we consider that the duration of the space somehow tallies with the amount of stuff to be considered?
BRAIN: And, perhaps, the intensity of the stuff too!
Gotcha.

I reckon a short space is required here because there's stuff to consider.

--- here is space ---

Malapropism of the week!
My son's into 80's music at the moment. The other day, he was listening to Adam Ant's Stand and Deliver.
Unfamiliar with highwayman etiquette, he asked me what the lyrics meant:
'Dad, what does he mean when he says "Stand in the liver"?'

In my last post, I postulated that we can create a break at the drop of a hat.
I'm beginning to wonder about that.
When using third-person, I stand by that statement (in a liver):
The author can shift effortlessly between characters and places, so character one is facing a charging elephant, and then the author crosses the globe to spend some time with character two, who might be tied to train tracks (double suspense), or even reading a book about elephant attacks (increase single suspense).
In first-person (present tense so help me!), I haven't found so many opportunities. (Lots of agents are now smirking.)
When I'm moving around, I use either a line break or a chapter break. The line break serves the same purpose as the chapter break, but it doesn't hamper pace in the same way: the chapter break is rather more conclusive.
When I'm developing more than one sub-plot (or plot element) in a single chapter - that is to say, when I'm developing two things with a single character (protag) - I might employ flashbacks. These are breaks in the narrative too!: they break from the narrative's own present-tense. But, when the flashbacks are creating suspense, they hardly slow the pace at all.

Perhaps, then, we use spaces for these reasons:
1) To move about (in time and/or space).
2) To slow pace - to give the reader room to breathe/think.
3) To move away from a development such that it hangs, creating suspense.

If we pull out the microscope, we can also see spaces created by punctuation and even the length of the words used, the complexity of the words (how many times have you read a novel to have pace destroyed because you had to turn frequently to the dictionary? Also, what are the effects of using long, unpronouncable names?), the shape and sound of the words, and so on. And spaces creates by spaces. Ornot.
I don't really want to pick spaces apart to that level here though.

Hey, I have to crack on with my day.
I'd like to leave you with some space. You might like to use a parcel of that space to consider the nature of reading:
We cobble some words together and the reader takes them in and makes sense of them. Hopefully, we will have caused him to feel a certain way and/or to consider something.

How long does it take to feel a certain way as a direct response to the meanings we create?
How long do we want the reader to feel a certain way?

How long does it take to think about the ideas we present?
How long do we want the reader to think about these ideas?

How many different emotions can we feel at once?
How many different thoughts can we consider at once?

Is our chosen reader more likely to read on because he likes thinking about our ideas, or because he likes feeling the emotions we deliver?

Ooh, and consider this:

1) I go into the bookies and hand over £26.

2) SPACE.

3) We win nothing.

Notice the transformation when I fill that space with:

I hurry home and switch on the tv and watch the build up to the Grand National and wonder if my horse will win or if my son's horse will win and how much we'll make if we win and how excited my son will be if he wins and the race begins and our horses are still running, and they're doing alright, and half-way through they're still running and then my son's horse falls, but mine is still running, and then he's up there with the leaders and he's gaining ...

He comes sixth.

Which bit is the most exciting and, as such, most likely to sustain interest? 1, 2, or 3?

Choose now!

Ta ta.

Cliffhangers

Cliff tires of the hangers.

What do you call a man with a seagull on his head?
Cliff.

I gotta exorcise this once and for all because it's been bugging me for years, like some ticking wristwatch left behind by a surgeon.

The mechanics of the cliff-hanger.

Here's one I've read several times in 'how to' books:

The elephant charges.

End of chapter.

Here, Michael Legat suggests that we might want to move elsewhere for a time before returning to the elephant peril. In this way, the reader is left hanging, with suspense sown into his soul.

If we lose the break (the chapter end, and the shift elsewhere), we get this:

The elephant charges and the protagonist rolls out of its path and goes off elsewhere and everything is fine again.

The peril is still there right? but it lasts only for a tiny measure of time.

So, mechanically, the chapter end is designed to distend the threat, and any time spent elsewhere in the narrative is also time spent dangling the reader.

This is, I presume, why many 'how to' books advise us 'what's going on? where am I?' authors to end a chapter with a cliffhanger.

And it looks to me as if there are two types of cliffhanger:

The MacGuffin, in which the threat is nullified;

Chekhov's Gun, in which the threat comes to fruition.

N.B. I'm using these terms, perhaps, in an uncommon sense. Suffice to say, though, that a MacGuffin is a plot device which serves a purpose but is ultimately insignificant, whereas Chekhov's Gun would have significant ramifications simply because it is fired. There are probably better ways to distinguish between these two types of cliffhangers, and I elaborate in a moment. *

Hold up! This is where the alarm on that wristwatch buried amongst my internal organs goes off.

We develop stuff and then provide a resolution, and then go off on some other development or resolution.

Question: Where's the best place to suspend the reader?

In the charging elephant example, given that the resolution culls the suspense, the best place to suspend the reader would naturally be at the point where the threat is at its peak.

Let's swap the MacGuffin for a CG and see what happens.

The elephant speaks to the protagonist:

'Hey, I'm an elephant and my name is Biggles and you have the ability to understand animal speak.'

Another good place to hang the reader. But now we have what is probably a major plot development which is going to spread its ripples through the entire novel (and sounds rather like an inciting incident to me!).

In this way, we can see how moot the charging is:

The elephant charges, but stops beside the protag to reveal that the protag has a special gift.

I'll 'fess up: The MacGuffin still troubles me. Tick tock, brrrrrring.

I think it's because I find more power in a CG than a MacGuffin; I think it's because a MacGuffin seems to me like a weak substitute for a CG.

If I have enough material, then I shouldn't need to resort to a MacGuffin right?

If my story is a tapestry of cunning sub-plots, each feeding into the hero's quest as and when I choose, I shouldn't have need for a charging elephant that misses? - a device tailored for suspense which has no punchline and leads into a hollow abyss.

I think the distinction I'm making is this *:

Development > Resolution

versus

Development > Bigger Development (multiplied by x) > Resolution

If we look at suspense as a development which is understood to have potentially serious ramifications, we can easily see the benefits of holding the reader at arm's length. And we know that the reader enjoys wallowing in suspense, and that we should be bathing him in suspense for a good proportion of the novel.

And, I acknowledge that these 'how to' books also suggest that we are careful to always have something open - to never close everything.

I also acknowledge that these 'how to' books don't explicitly suggest that the only place to create a cliffhanger is at the end of a chapter: The chapter end provides a natural break in the narrative and becomes an ideal place to present the reader with something to consider and to fret about, for sure, but we can create breaks at the drop of a hat, anywhere in the narrative we choose.

I just tire of charging elephants. They serve their purpose, but I think a clever author can find enough material to keep the reader engaged with a stream of open-ended developments and 'shocking revelations' (wikipedia) and the like. Maybe I'm making a distinction between pop-fic and lit-fic? Maybe I'm lost?

Moving Forwards

Happy April Fool's Day!

Things are going well!
Since my last blog post, I've been such a busy bee.

I have a suspicion that a very noodly post is in order ...

I've refined my plot (although I struggle to imagine how anyone could create a watertight plot from the outset without need or desire to amend it during that very revealing writing stage). My arcane eye of development reigned over the revisions.

I've filled some holes with lots of research.

If you're unfamiliar with the structure of sonata form, you might be interested to learn that sonata form is written in five parts: intro, exposition, development, recapitulation, and coda. And it's fascinating to examine how composers dealt with these parts in different ways!

Ah yes, development!

I've rewritten chapter four twice.

Trying to predict the questions in the reader's head helped me to decide what needed to be developed. But I also had so many set-ups in the chapter that I elected to shift many of them to other parts of the manuscript. I even decided that one set-up could/should wait until the second act. And, in order to unify those apparently disparate set-ups which remained, I found a word-palette - a theme which I discovered in the final chapter of the first act, and which I have woven into a good number of other chapters.
The chapter was also problematic because it required a series of flashbacks, and I'm not a huge fan of flashbacks because they take the reader out of 'the moment' and are liable to damage immersion. Plus, the frequent shifting between present day and the previous winter forced me to create a series of seamless links. However, in order to present information in the order which gives the best solution (that I could conjure), the flashbacks were necessary.

Above all, though, the distribution of set-ups still troubles me.

I was watching a tv programme last night in which Alan Davies learned about, amongst other things, the distribution of prime numbers, from Professor Marcus du Sautoy. If you missed it, check out this cool excerpt!

It struck me that the topography of the distribution of primes, which is a pattern found throughout nature (much like the golden ratio), resembled my idea of the distribution of set-ups. There's a bunch of them at the beginning, and then little clusters spread along the topography. Really, it kept me awake for hours! Yes it did.

And I got to thinking about my French chummy who argues, very eloquently, for the slow beginning.

If we go back to the concept of multiple games of Deal or No Deal, we can imagine that several games begin in quick succession, and then are developed in turn, and then more games are started ... What we find is that there's a certain down-time required at the start of each game, where the player is introduced and the viewer goes to make a cuppa. However, once set-up, the games are free to develop without loss of momentum. (Btw, it's the 1000th Deal or No Deal today! Guess it's still popular eh!)

I wrote the final chapter to Act I.

With so many sub-plots established, I had a joyous time writing the conclusion to Act I.

Question: Does a wonderful pay-off justify a slow opening?

I had a ball, tying up loose ends and splicing sub-plots into the protag's quest, spiralling through reveal after reveal, forging an emotional topography which never stays still and which swings across all manner of emotions. It came in at over 6000 words and is the longest chapter I have written, and I wrote it in two sittings. I think it's the best thing I have ever written too.

But I am a little concerned that, in order to create this chapter, I had to scatter a good few set-ups throughout the first act.

I'm being very careful about which books I'm reading: I don't want to ingest a style which is too different to mine. So I've been limiting myself to Hemingway, and now I'm half-way through Manuel Puig's Kiss of the Spider Woman.

Actually, this is my second attempt to read it. I'm finding it a very slow book. However, my interest has been rekindled with a brilliant reveal mid-way through the book. I have to wonder at this logic; I wonder how many people would bail out before reaching the wonderful twist.

Question: What keeps a reader reading?

Puig develops very little. His two protags, Molina and Valentin, share a prison cell. Want to know more about them? Well tough, because Puig elected to have Molina relive his favourite movies, much to Valentin's pleasure. So Puig develops a series of stories in quick succession, which he does well, but he chooses to develop the relationship between Molina and Valentin (which is the heart of the plot) in sporadic dribs and drabs. Moreover, I've taken to skipping all the psychoanalytical footnotes in order to retain any sort of pace. (I'll maybe read them later.)

Developing stuff isn't the only way to keep the reader interested, for sure. I'm guessing that literary minds far greater than mine have found pleasure in Puig's techniques, and I'm guessing that, for many people, the retelling of the movies is enjoyable. But what about the questions I want answered? What about developing the things that are important to me?: what about demonstrating that the story is moving towards a conclusion? which is something that a series of unconnected tales does not achieve.

Hey, I might eat my words once I've finished the novel. However, half-way through the novel, in my opinion Puig has moved too slowly because he has shown me little motivation and, as such, given me few developments towards a resolution.

I've written the opening to Act II.

It's very strange. So much has changed. So much has been developed.

And, I confess, I'm getting little guilt pangs knowing that I'm setting my poor protag up for a major fall. Gosh, he's been with me for ages now.

Act II picks up the story two months later. My first problem was how to bridge the gaps without employing flashbacks. I found several ways of doing so whilst remaining 'in the moment'; mainly, little hints threaded into pertinent dialogue works well.

I've employed a variation on McKee's charge switches. That's to say that, as I give something to my protag, I then choose to take something away. The pace of the switches in the final chapter of the first act is all but breakneck. But, considering a more holistic charge, I have attempted to end the first act on a positive, and I intend to end the second act on a negative, with an open-ended positive to conclude the ms.

I'm in love!

Mystery Genius blogged fairly recently about something with which we are all familiar: Falling in and out of love with our work. To be honest, if I stop to think about all the things that might prevent an agent from loving my ms, I would be most discouraged. I could probably make a very long list.

However, there's little use in thinking in such a way, and I'm attempting to finish this ms as I ride out my redundancy. It's comforting to think that, if I average 3000 words a day, I'll have the second act first-passed in ten days or so. Even if I only succeed in averaging 1500 words a day, and allowing for time spent in the real world, I'll have it first-passed in a month. Just have to keep the faith!

And so we keep moving forwards, learning and striving for something unseen, and I begin to wonder how I will feel when this ms is completed.