Your First Novel Read online

  Act II. Obi-Wan and Luke find allies in Han Solo and Chewbacca, they face danger as they rescue Princess Leia, Obi-Wan's death is a sacrifice for the cause. The turning point comes when Han quits and Luke goes on without him.

  Act III. The final battle and the return of Han. The climax occurs when the Death Star is blown up.

  JURASSIC PARK

  Act I. The concept of the DNA experiments is introduced and the major players brought in. The turning point is Oh my God! there are real dinosaurs walking around.

  Act II. Conflict is created between the scientists who are curious about dinosaurs but have a respectful fear of nature and the business people who are greedy and foolish. The humans are placed in the dinosaur world. The turning point is when the humans discover that the fences are down and the dinosaurs are hunting them—it's life or death now.

  Act III. Dinosaurs munch on some people and miss others—a chain of action cliffhangers. The climax occurs when the humans escape.

  Look for the three-act structure in your own story. Where are your turning points? Where does the plot thicken? Where is the beginning of the end? If you can't find the dramatic peaks, look back at your scene cards and find the best spots to raise the stakes. You don't want a flat story line. Give your plot shape.

  DENOUEMENT

  Denouement is the way a story winds down after the climax. This is when the story lines resolve. You don't start rolling the end credits on Star Wars as soon as the Death Star explodes. You don't bring down the curtain as Juliet stabs herself. You don't end To Kill a Mockingbird with the discovery of Bob Ewell's dead body. There needs to be an unraveling and a debriefing. A brief debriefing—you don't want to go on too long. Go back and read the ends of your favorite novels. Try and feel where the climax ends and denouement begins. Now think about the climax of your own novel. How will you resolve your story lines? As readers we need a little decompression time, especially if the book is crammed with action or full of psychological suspense.

  There are certain circumstances in which denouement is not recommended. If you are ending your novel with a kind of surprise, it might be more effective to leave your readers in shock. On the last page of Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier catches us off guard by closing with a powerfully understated description of the great manor house at Manderley burning down. It is so short we are left breathless, especially because the rest of the details in the story, down to what was served for tea, were described at length.

  Denouement may also be excluded if the suddenness of the ending is meant to make the reader think—"How can it end there? We never found out who killed the dog. Or did we?' If upon reflection the reader realizes the clues were there all along—the fact that the bicycle was gone means the butler must have done it—denouement is excluded in favor of an abrupt ending that encourages the readers to tie off the loose ends themselves.

  TENSION_

  Tension, that combination of conflict and suspense, is indispensable—it's what makes a reader buy your book after flipping it open and reading only one page. It's what makes a reader stay up all night racing through your book.

  Make sure there is always something we're waiting for (suspense) and there's trouble at every turn (conflict). There always has to be fear, the possibility that we will lose something we want badly. When the reader is worried about what might happen in the next scene, he will not be able to put the book down. Here are some examples of common conflicts as applied to the classic structures we looked at earlier in this chapter.

  Rags to Riches. The antagonist or a group tries to block the protagonist from success. Cinderella is blocked by her evil stepmother and stepsisters.

  Boy Meets Girl. The antagonist (or something like self-doubt or social norms) stands between the two lovers. In Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen, as you can imagine, pride and prejudice stand in the way of the future Mr. and Mrs. Darcy.

  Coming of Age. The protagonist (the person evolving) fights the transformation out of self-doubt, or an antagonist (or group) refuses to acknowledge the evolution. In The Pleasure of My Company, the reclusive protagonist literally has to learn to step off a curb before he can find true love.

  Fall of the Corrupt We want the person in power to get hisjust desserts, but he fights and weasels out of justice's grip many times before the end. In Charles Dickens's Nicholas Nickleby, it's the destructive acts of Ralph Nickleby, everything from sexual harassment to child abuse, that make his eventual financial and emotional breakdown so powerful.

  The Making of a Hero. The chosen one is at first reluctant. The enemy is strong and almost destroys the hero. In Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, Harry starts out by insisting that he can't possibly be a wizard and is nearly defeated by "he-who-must-not-be-named" before winning the battle (though not the war).

  There's No Place Like Home. People and circumstances make the wrong decision look right to the protagonist, but soon the false happiness starts to fall apart. In The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant, the devil, the other woman, the team, and baseball fans across America all lull Joe into a false state of well-being while the reader knows that by selling his soul he's made a mistake that he'll have to pay for.

  Salvation. The hard heart, or cold community, refuses for a long time to be healed by the protagonist. Until nearly the end of Chocolat, religious tradition resists the invitation to the proverbial party.

  STAKES

  To heighten tension, raise your stakes. When Scarlett took Melly out of Atlanta, they weren't just fleeing from the war; the whole city was in flames. In Arthur Golden's Memoirs of a Geisha, failing to win the Chairman as her patron would not only mean Sayuri would never have true love, it might also mean failure as a geisha and a life of poverty and shame. Harry Potter wasn't just defending himself at the climax of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone; he was protecting the entire world from evil. What is at risk in your story? How can you heighten the drama by raising those stakes?

  Is your hero about to lose his girlfriend? Maybe it should be his wife. Maybe she's carrying their first child. Is the hero risking her reputation? Could she also have her sanity on the line? If the villain wins, what will be lost? Will a trial go wrong and an innocent be imprisoned? Executed? Will a child be given to the wrong parent? Does that parent mistreat the child? How could the situation be worse?

  On a grand scale, our gut instincts tell us that if Robin Hood had not felled the Sheriff of Nottingham, if Richard the Lionheart had not returned to the throne, not only would England have fallen, but all the world would have suffered, too. In Star Wars, if the Jedi had not won, long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away, would we even exist to hear about it?

  On a more personal scale, our gut instincts tell us that if Bridget Jones does not end up with Mark Darcy, true love does not exist. We know that if Atticus Finch does not turn the other cheek when Bob Ewell spits in his face, there is no hope for the nobility of humankind. A story doesn't have to involve a nuclear bomb to make us feel there is a lot at stake.

  How does Harper Lee make us feel all our hopes are balanced on one man's shoulders? Why do we feel Mr. Rochester is the only man for Jane Eyre? We'll be heartbroken if Bridget doesn't get Mark Darcy because Bridget would be. We have almost become her by the end of the book. Small stakes become huge stakes when we've developed an intimacy with the characters.

  That being said, don't be fooled—it isn't just small stakes that need character intimacy. Maybe you're writing about huge stakes. The hugest—the universe will explode if the hero doesn't make it to the red button in time. We still need to feel for, feel with, the hero, or we won't believe in or worry about his universe. (We'll talk more about making characters accessible in chapter six.) Raising the stakes only works if the characters care about the outcome and we care about the characters.

  Just a reminder—tension is an essential element in any novel. No matter if your genre is comedy, romance, or thriller—tension is required. You might be dealing with a different style of tension in a
mystery than in a chick-lit romp, but it's still tension. There must always be something we long lor and haven't received yet, something we fear we'll never receive. Or something we greatly dread that is just around the corner, something we're worried about. There should be conflict at every turn, tension on every page, new information at the end of every chapter, no matter what genre you have chosen.

  DOWNTIME

  The term downtime, when referring to computers or machines, means a disruption in service caused by a malfunction. But writers use downtime on purpose to balance the tension—downtime is in contrast to action. Look at the most successful thrillers. A scene of wild action will often he followed by a quiet conversation, a love scene, narrative reflection, a subplot with a subtle clue, a scene of family life, even a dream. Your novel should take the reader on a thrill ride, whether you're writing a thriller, a comedy, or a romance. You need a varying rhythm. Fast and slow. Hot and cold. Bright and shadowed. If your action novel moves at breakneck speed for four hundred pages without variation, by page 200 your readers will start going numb—they'll get immune to the tension—and they'll close the book for relief. If your romance is titillating on every page, it will eventually become a turnoff. If your comedy has no dark moment, it won't seem real enough to make us laugh. Subplots are good ways to vary your story rhythm, and we'll get to those shortly.

  THEME_

  I could tell you that theme is the concept that the novel illustrates, and I could give examples—"War is not glorious but ugly" is the theme of Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms, "Censorship is evil" is the theme of Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451—but it would not make those novels any more enjoyable nor would it help you write a better novel.

  Theme is such an inherent part of a good novel that it's hard—and inappropriate—to pull it out and examine it separately. The best advice is to not approach your novel through theme. Only one out of a thousand writers says, "I think I'll write a book on such-and-such a theme! Now what should my characters and plot be?" Barbara Kingsolver might be able to do this, but a first-time novelist creating a story this way would probably come off sounding preachy, fake, stilted, lifeless, and unreadable. Remember, your job is to write the best story you can in the best way you know how. The themes you will address in the novels you write will be themes that are part of you. They will come out naturally in the stories you fall in love with, the stories you write with care.

  The one piece of advice I will give about theme is that when your theme appears to you somewhere down the line, honor it with subtle layers of detail and meaning while you rewrite your book. Don't plaster it all over every page in huge letters or (have mercy) name your novel after it. Be gentle.

  You'll discover your theme by exploring your outline, getting to know your characters, and researching your setting. You'll learn how to weave theme subtly into your pages by looking at what your characters are struggling with on the inside and outside. In John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men, there is a theme running through the book—the dual sides of a man, the stoic survivor and the impulsive child. On the surface, George and Len-nie could not be less alike, but symbolically they are one. This theme, the dance between the adult and the child, comes through in both George's outer and inner lives. In the outer realm George is constantly having to remind his friend of things—Lennie keeps forgetting what he's supposed to say and not say, do and not do—George tries to manage his companion's behavior so people will give them work but also leave them be. The inner struggle is more difficult—George finds himself angry at Lennie for being his opposite, he has to choose when to unleash Lennie's physical power for their own protection, and he ultimately needs to sever the bond between them before they are both destroyed.

  Think about the key tension in your story. How can you illustrate those dynamics through your characters' inner and outer struggles?

  SUBPLOTS

  A subplot is a smaller plotline that runs through your story, supporting your main plot and intertwining with it. If your outline is short, you might add a subplot, maybe even more than one. But don't add too many. And don't ever put in a subplot that is not vital to your novel. Not even if it's re-ally cool. If it's really cool, cut it out and put it in a file folder called "Cool Subplots" and save it for a story that needs it.

  The rule is, if you can cut out a subplot and your main plot doesn't fall apart, the subplot must go. Never put anything in your novel that's not essential to your story. A subplot has to add something. And that something can't just be more pages or characters. Some beginning writers will argue that a certain scene in which nothing vital happens is there because it helps you get to know the characters better. Still not good enough. Combine character painting with vital plot pieces.

  • A subplot that doesn't work: If you took the story of Robin Hood and added a romance between Little John and one of Maid Marian's servants, no matter how sweet or sexy, it would not belong because it's not necessary.

  • A subplot that works: In Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, the subplot in which a poor man is gradually paying off his legal fees to Atticus in bags of hickory nuts is essential because it is Scout's mentioning of this debt that disbands the lynch mob outside the jailhouse, saving Tom Robinson's life.

  SUBPLOT AND THEME

  The theme I mentioned from Of Mice and Men—the dance between the controlled and emotionless self and the loving but destructive self—is perfectly woven through two subplots. First, Lennie is attracted to little, soft things—his dead mouse, his puppy, a pretty girl—and George is constantly trying to keep him from harming these fragile things. Second is the dream of raising rabbits, a fantasy the two of them have created in which they save up enough money to buy a farm. This dream would give them a home, peace, warmth, plenty of food, privacy, security, and little soft furries for Lennie to pet—it seems like the only place on earth in which the Child and the Man could be safe together. For George it is just a daydream, something to calm Lennie and cheer them both, but to Lennie the rabbit farm is more real than any boarding house they've slept in or road they've walked. These subplots weave together when, just as they think they might be able to actually purchase a farm and make their dreams real, Lennie, while petting the soft hair of the foreman's wife, panics when she screams and accidentally kills her. Their dreams are over.

  EXPOSITION______

  Sometimes it is necessary for information to be conveyed to the reader or to a character in the story. This is called exposition. But it is also absolutely necessary that the information be passed along in a natural way. That would be good exposition. If the exposition sticks out, if it slows down the action, or if, when your character speaks this information in dialogue, it sounds out of character, that's bad exposition—cut it out.

  The beginning of a story is often a place where readers need some exposition—yon need to lay out the main characters, setting, and central problem. Here are the openings of some successful novels. Notice how much we learn in only a few lines.

  At first, Officer Jim Chee had felt foolish sitting on the roof of the house of some total stranger. But that uneasiness had soon faded. Now this vantage point on the roof had come to seem one of Cowboy Dashee's rare good ideas. Chee could see almost everywhere from here. The drummers directly beneath the tips of his freshly shined boots, the column of masked dancers just entering the plaza to his left, the crowd of spectators jammed along the walls of the buildings, the sales booths lining the narrow streets beyond, he looked down on all of it.

  —Sacred Clowns, by Tony Hillerman

  We learned: The protagonist is apparently a Native American police officer; a ceremony or celebration is taking place, including outside observers; and some kind of trouble might be anticipated if our hero is staked out where he can see everything.

  124 was spiteful. Full of a baby's venom. The women in the house knew it and so did the children. For years each put up with the spite in his own way, but by 1873 Sethe and her daughter Denver were its only victims. The grandmother, B
aby Suggs, was dead, and the sons, Howard and Buglar, had run away by the time they were thirteen years old—as soon as merely looking in a mirror shattered it (that was the signal for Buglar); as soon as two tiny hand prints appeared in the cake (that was it for Howard).

  —Beloved, by Toni Morrison

  We learned: The house at 124 has been haunted for years by a spiteful entity, one likened to a baby, and three of the five family members are now gone—two driven out by violent and frightening episodes. What other writers might have taken twenty pages to explain, Morrison powerfully describes for us in less than a hundred words.

  The old ram stands looking down over the rockslides, stupidly triumphant. I blink. I stare in horror. "Scat!" I hiss. "Go back to your cave, go back to your cowshed—whatever." He cocks his head like an elderly, slow-witted king, considers the angles, decides to ignore me. I stamp. I hammer the ground with my fists. I hurl a skull-size stone at him. He will not budge. I shake my two hairy fists at the sky and I let out a howl so unspeakable that the water at my feet turns sudden ice and even I myself am left uneasy.

  —Grendel, by John Gardner

  We learned: The protagonist is not human but has hairy hands and the strength to throw small boulders, and he emits a scream that freezes water instantly. He apparently lives in a time of kings, for he knows what they look like. The fact that he is bothered by the visiting goat gives us the impression he is used to solitude. The fact that he is scared by the goat even though he is so strong gives the impression that he is young.

  Remember to show, not tell, the reader what he needs to know. If the reader needs to know that a character is smart, show her doing something smart—figuring out a code or riddle, solving a problem, catching someone in a lie. Don't have someone say to someone else, "Gee, that Jane sure is smart."

  If you want to let the reader know that Joe is a doctor, show him writing a prescription, seeing a patient, cleaning his instruments. Don't have someone say, "Hey, Joe! You're a doctor. What do you think?" No one really tells someone else things they both already know.