Sleuth, page 8
Chapter 8
Plot
The plot is just a bribe to keep them reading.—Kurt Vonnegut
In the glossary to his excellent text Three Genres: The Writing of Poetry, Fiction, and Drama, Stephen Minot offers the following definition of plot:
The sequence of events, often divided into scenes in Fiction. It may be chronological, or it may be non-chronological in any of four ways: by flashback (inserting an earlier scene), by multiple flashbacks, by a flash-forward (rare) or by using a frame (beginning and ending the story or novel with the same scene).
Base time refers to the primary plot from which flashbacks and, less often, flash-forwards depart. A sub-plot is a secondary plot that echoes or amplifies the main plot or provides comic relief. In traditional tragedies, the increasing complications are called rising action, the turning point is the climax, followed by falling action, which in turn leads to the denouement.
A few years ago cbc Radio invited me to write a five-minute mystery for its summer programming. All of the elements of plotting for a mystery are present in the 640 words of the short story cbc broadcast. Please consider “Eldorado” “a bribe to keep [you] reading” while illustrating the basics of plotting.
eldorado
Exposition: (Scene 1—The Opening) The night Cole Elliot moved into Precious Memories I was standing in the shadows with my walker, smoking the single cigarette I allow myself each day. From the first I knew that Cole did not belong in an extended care home. Most of our residents hadn’t driven in years, but Cole arrived in a sleek, 1959 Cadillac Eldorado with tailfins that glowed in the moonlight. Cole glowed too. His snowy hair was thick; his tan was deep, and his teeth were improbably white. His step still had the spring of youth, and he carried his bags into the reception area unassisted.
(Scene 2)—Rising Action The next morning he arrived at breakfast wearing a periwinkle blue shirt that matched his eyes. (The Catalyst) By the time the dishes were cleared, Cole had explained his presence to everyone’s satisfaction but mine. His story was simple. He was a widower who missed his wife’s companionship and her cooking, so he moved into Precious Memories. I was not convinced. Intellectually, most of us had long since passed our best-before date, and the meals were a succession of grayish-brown casseroles and dishes with names like Hawaiian Surprise.
(Scene 3) I watched as Cole attached himself to Angel, the frail blonde across the hall from me. The first time I met Angel, she told me she’d been at Woodstock, then in a sweet voice she sang the Joni Mitchell song about the weekend that changed history. The next time I saw Angel, she repeated her performance note for note. Every afternoon, as Cole helped her into the passenger seat of his Eldorado, Angel was warbling “Woodstock.” Cole was singing a different song. Once, as I passed them in the hall, I overheard him urging Angel to give him power of attorney.
(Scene 4) Death is a fact of life at Precious Memories, and when Angel unexpectedly made her way back to the garden I felt a pang. Cole did not. At dinner that night, he sat with Rita Dolcetti, an ex-showgirl who had married well. The next day Rita took Angel’s place beside Cole in the Eldorado. Ten days later Rita, like Angel, passed away in her sleep.
(Scene 5) That night when I went out for my smoke, I witnessed an odd tableau. Cole approached his Cadillac, stroked her flaring fins, inserted his key into her trunk, removed a lockbox, and filled it with cash. (The catalyst pushes the action toward the climax) Logic suggested that Cole was paving the way to his own city of gold with the assets of the women of Precious Memories, but I needed proof.
(Scene 6) The next morning, when I dithered about needing help with my investments, Cole had me in the passenger seat of his Eldorado headed for my bank within the hour.
My investment portfolio was robust; nonetheless, Cole was concerned. He suspected I was anemic and recommended a vitamin regimen. As a retired pharmacist, I immediately recognized Cole’s “vitamins” as depressants that, in combination with other drugs, could kill.
Climax: (Scene 7) Steeling myself for the task ahead took time, but on a balmy June night I brought along my BlackBerry to photograph Cole counting his cash. I had him nicely lined up when a cat leapt out of the bushes, straight into my walker. As the cat yowled, Cole looked at me with distaste. “I never trusted you,” he said. “Secret smokers have no moral centre.”
I moved my walker toward his car. “It’s your word against mine,” he said, slamming the trunk. Cigarette between my lips, I removed the cap on the gas tank. Cole was too quick for me. My intention had been to blow up the Cadillac, but just as I threw my lit cigarette toward the gas tank Cole jumped into the front seat.
Denouement: (Scene 8) The lockbox with the cash was fireproof. Cole was not. His memorial service was held at Precious Memories. We buried Cole with the ashes of his Eldorado.
Most mystery novels have a word count of somewhere between 80,000 and 100,000 words, so the “rules” here are just a guide. That said, they do work for novels too.
Opening
Don’t ramble. You’ll lose your reader. Move quickly into the mind of the character who is your reader’s means of perceiving the story. Details about setting and character can be added later. Note how the salient details about menu and inhabitants at Precious Memories are inserted into the exposition. Note also that the details do not overshadow the effectiveness of the opening.
John Irving, author of A Prayer for Owen Meany, believes that the opening sentence should contain the entire novel. The opening sentence of that book is lengthy, and Irving does need a semicolon to help with the heavy lifting, but the entire novel is there: “I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice—not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.” Most of us aren’t in Irving’s league, but the point is clear. Don’t waste your first sentence or your first paragraph. Cut to the chase.
The catalyst is the plot point that precipitates the action. When our unnamed narrator’s suspicions about Cole Elliot are alerted (“By the time the dishes were cleared, Cole had explained his presence to everyone’s satisfaction but mine”), the action begins.
Rising Action
From that point on, the narrator-protagonist is watching and assessing Cole. She is looking for proof that he is up to no good, and proof is not long in coming. Cole selects and zooms in on Angel, a particularly vulnerable resident of Precious Memories. After the narrator overhears Cole asking Angel to give him power of attorney, the tension rises. When, after her death, he begins to repeat his modus operandi on Rita Dolcetti, another resident of Precious Memories, and she, too, dies, the protagonist knows she must get the proof she needs to stop him. From the moment the narrator decides to use herself as bait to catch the killer, the reader is hooked.
Pacing
Pacing the plot of a 640-word story is easy; pacing the plot of an 80,000–100,000-word manuscript is not. But here are some strategies that should help you to pace your plot.
Follow the Goldilocks rule by avoiding extremes. Mysteries are about revealing what has been concealed. Make sure the rate at which you reveal your plot points is neither too fast, nor too slow, but just right. Don’t keep the action moving so rapidly that your readers feel as if they’re standing on the receiving end of a fire hose, and don’t submerge your readers in a molasses swamp of unnecessary reflections, descriptions, and so on.
Aim for Aristotle’s “golden mean.” Find the perfect balance between action and reflection. Consider alternating passages of rapid-fire plot development with more leisurely passages of description or contemplation. Stephen Minot has a useful metaphor: “[An ideal] pace of fiction often resembles the technique of an experienced skater: The forward thrust is followed by a glide.” To extend his metaphor, if a skater’s performance is all forward thrusts, then there is movement but no grace. If the skater focuses primarily on glides, then her performance might have beauty but will lack energy and momentum. Writers, take note!
Wait until you have a complete first draft to review the pacing of your novel. As you read the draft, the problem areas will quickly become apparent. A section where there are too many “thrusts” will have the hiccup breathlessness of a child describing a movie (“and then . . . and then . . . and then . . . ”). A section where there are too many “glides” will lack vigour and slow the momentum.
The strategy for correcting both problems is the same. Ask yourself, “What do I hope to achieve with this piece of writing? What is my theme? What do I want to say about living a life?” If your manuscript is so action driven that it seems to lack thought or heart, then try inserting a scene or two in which the protagonist reflects on the meanings and possible consequences of what’s happened or speculates about why the characters involved in a particular incident felt compelled to act as they did. While the character is speculating, give him or her something interesting to do—planting a garden, putting up Christmas lights, making chicken soup—something that will humanize your character and retain your reader’s interest.
Man Booker Prize winner Hilary Mantel suggests concentrating your narrative energy on the point of change: “When your character is new to a place or things alter around them, that’s the point to step back and fill in the details of their world.” I would add that the point of change is also the logical place for your character to reflect on the effects of recent events on her life and speculate about what will happen next. This tactic will slow the rate of revelation but keep the reader’s interest high.
There is no Cialis that will cause a flaccid manuscript to suddenly pulse with life, but there are some solutions. If you’re still working with a first draft, consider introducing a subplot. Think about your protagonist’s domestic life. Police officers, lawyers, and disillusioned private eyes have been known to fall in love with people who, for one reason or another, spell trouble. A subplot in which a protagonist is powerfully attracted to a person who plays a significant role in the story, fights a prolonged battle against the attraction, and then agonizes over how to resolve the relationship once and for all will bring energy to your manuscript and add depth to your characterization of the protagonist.
Carl Jung (there he is again!) says we are drawn to people who complete us. What can an ill-starred romance reveal to the protagonist about herself? What can it reveal about her to your readers? If there’s a spouse in the picture, for whom will the reader be rooting? What, ultimately, does the protagonist decide to do? How does her decision affect the outcome of the action? A subplot takes the pressure off your main plot, creates interest in your protagonist’s inner life, gives you a new and intriguing character to work with, and creates suspense.
The red herring, a clue or character intended to be misleading, has long been a staple of the mystery genre. If the red herring is a character, then he or she must be a logical choice for the culprit. Although ultimately the protagonist will discover that the red herring is innocent, the pursuit of a false lead can add some zing to your limping narrative. Remember, it’s not the destination that counts; it’s the journey.
Scene
In fiction, a scene is a unit of action marked either by a shift in the number of characters or by a shift in time and place. The keywords in this definition are unit of action and shift.
In conversation, we make this division all the time. Without thinking, we subordinate unimportant units of action to quickly bring focus to the significant episode we want to discuss. For example, if you ran into me in the hall at the university on the first day of classes and saw I was agitated, you’d ask me if there was something wrong. In answering you, I would subordinate a couple of minor irritations (out of coffee at home, stuck in traffic on my way to work) to get to the source of my frustration and anger. A computer glitch had scheduled ninety students in my English 100 class, which should have been limited to thirty students and which had been allotted a classroom that accommodated thirty students. Not surprisingly, when I walked into the room, the students, all on the first day of their first semester, were confused and upset. It took me the rest of the morning dealing with boneheads to straighten out the situation. I’d end my account with a summing up: “Anyway, crisis over; the registrar’s office is dealing with it, so I’m not going to throw myself under a bus.” A scene must involve a shift of some kind—either physical or mental. That particular scene involves a mental shift from problem to solution, from annoyance to relief.
Sometimes, as in Scene 6 of “Eldorado,” the shift is both physical and mental. Physically, the protagonist sets herself up as bait; Cole takes the bait, and they drive in his Eldorado to her bank. Satisfying himself that her portfolio is healthy, he prescribes a regimen of “vitamins” that our narrator, a retired pharmacist, recognizes as medication that could kill her. But the significant shift for the narrator is mental: she moves from well-founded suspicion to concrete proof. The scene, having done its work, ends.
You don’t have to mark every scene in your 80,000–100,000-word novel, but remember that every scene in a well-wrought novel has a purpose. Reviewing your first draft is an ideal time to isolate scenes that aren’t carrying their weight. Make those scenes more effective by adding material that makes them somehow advance the purpose of the novel or by combining them with other scenes. If neither option works, then ditch the scene altogether.
Plot and Structure
Plot is what happens. Structure is the order in which what happens is presented. The events in most novels are presented in chronological order: that is, they follow a generally linear timeline from the beginning of the story to its conclusion.
Nonlinear narrative, disjointed narrative, or disrupted narrative presents events out of chronological order to suit the writer’s purpose. These techniques are frequently used in movies, where they can be integrated into the main story with relative ease. Writers of fiction dealing with parallel plotlines or a story narrated within the main plotline might find these methods congenial.
Technically, a flashback must be an entire scene (setting and dialogue included) that takes place before the base time of the plot. I’m going to stretch the definition to include those flashes of memory we all experience that seemingly come out of nowhere but have powerful impacts on our emotions or perceptions.
In fiction as in life, a flashback can be ignited by a scent, a piece of music, a shaft of light, or, in Proust’s case, a madeleine. I don’t believe I’ve ever written an entire scene as a flashback, but because I use a first-person narrator I find brief but intense bursts of memory (mini flashbacks?) useful tools for conveying Joanne’s emotions and insights.
Angus Kilbourn bears a startling resemblance to his late father, Ian. After Joanne learns about Ian’s affair, Angus’s gesture of running his fingers through his hair to tame a wayward lock—a gesture startlingly like his father’s—stabs Joanne with memories of both her deep love for her former husband and his betrayal. A major theme of 12 Rose Street is betrayal and forgiveness, and these mini flashbacks allowed me to show how fraught her path to forgiveness is.
Agatha Christie’s genteel spinster sleuth Miss Marple is frequently able to solve crimes because of flashbacks that conjure up memories of nasty behaviour in her sleepy village of St. Mary Mead. These flashbacks to incidents that, in some way, parallel the crime that Miss Marple is currently confronting have a way of leading Christie’s disarmingly chatty sleuth to the truth about the identity and motivation of the murderer.
Christie’s use of flashbacks to solve crimes works because Miss Marple is such a perfectly realized character. We know that she is a shrewd observer of human nature and that her keen intelligence will lead her to bring what she has seen in the past to understand the present. Readers accept her method of solving crimes without question because of what they know about the character.
The Miss Marple novels demonstrate that, in the right hands, flashbacks can be a handy tool for the writer of crime fiction. By all means, make use of them, but be sparing. Make sure the flashback always advances the story, and don’t let it overshadow the baseline of your narrative. Remember Stephen King’s sage advice: “Don’t let the tail wag the dog.”
A flash-forward is rare in part, I think, because, in giving the reader information the characters don’t have, it puts distance between reader and character that lessens the emotional impact of a piece. With great trepidation, I began The Winners Circle (2017) with a half-page flash-forward. I was uneasy about it, but my editor and I agreed that my reason for taking the plunge was sound. The murders don’t take place till page 230, near the end of the book. I wanted readers to know and care about the doomed characters and their situations before the tragedy occurs, so the novel opens with a flash-forward to Joanne reflecting on her state of mind in the weeks following the unbearable losses. So far there have been no complaints, so it appears the strategy worked.
Ending
Near the top of the list of words I’ve taken a solemn oath never to use is closure. Yet closure, the sense that the story you have been telling is fully completed, is one of the goals you must achieve before you pat yourself on the back for crossing the finish line.
If your readers don’t feel that click of closure when they reach the end of your novel, then they will be dissatisfied. Instead of contemplating the pleasant prospect of mentally revisiting your characters’ ideas and adventures, they’ll be reaching for their pitchforks and asking, “What the heck happened?”
The hbo series The Sopranos offers definitive proof of the case for closure. Nearly 12 million people watched “Made in America,” the eighty-sixth and final episode of the series. For over six years, viewers had been avidly involved in the lives of crime boss Tony Soprano and his extended family. The writing for the series was superb, and the plot lines leading up to the finale promised a stunning ending.
