March 2006
To sum up ...
A plot is not just a sequence of events. It is easy to confuse a plot with a synopsis.
As an author, you probably have a powerful image of a defining moment in your story – a flood, a baby weeping in its pram, the appearance of a ghost. But if you are to hold your readers' attention, what happens in your story must mesh like gears with your characters.
A synopsis might say: 'A man takes his son to Legoland for a treat but spoils the day with his excessive worrying.' Notice the absence of cause and effect, the absence of characterisation.
The plot says: 'Geoff has recently separated from his wife Saira. To care for his son, he has given up a well-paid job. Saira's solicitor has lodged papers that assert Geoff has allowed the boy to come to physical harm. Geoff takes him to Legoland for a treat but spoils the day with his excessive worrying.'
In any story that grips and intrigues, there is a balance of power. Imagine a novel in which a child comes of age, or in which an oppressed spouse finds the will to fight back or to leave.
The game of paper, scissors and stone is a good narrative because the forces are precisely balanced. In the works of superior writers, several or even many forces combine – think of the multiple allies and enemies in The Lord of the Rings, the unexpected alignments, realignments and betrayals.
Sometimes, towards the end of a story of this kind, a writer will show the reader a new status quo. This changed balance of power will take account of the conflicts that drove the narrative and resolve the greatest imbalances – at least for a time. These are the writers whose works we call 'satisfying', as having a 'good ending'.
Sometimes a good story concerns a mismatch in power. Think of Theseus – just a man – and the monstrous Minotaur. Think of Lata, her 'unsuitable boy' and her implacable family. Consider the numerous female private investigators who blunder heroically into hopeless physical confrontations with hugely more powerful opponents.
The apparent impossibility of the challenge helps drive the narrative. It is like a gauntlet thrown down by the author, with the reader as witness to the act: 'You can't see how I can possibly make this come right, can you?' (In tragedy it doesn't come right – that's what tragedy means.)
Writers with a more intellectual cast of mind use the same device in a different register: the boy and the tiger adrift in Yann Martel's boat; the sealed chamber that houses an inexplicable murder; the novel which may not contain the letter 'e'.
Suspense is important in any story, but does not necessarily mean physical jeopardy. Suspense is created whenever the author generates for the reader a sense of anticipation. Anton Chekhov was delighted when he finally managed to write a play without a gunshot.
'Geoff returned the solicitor's letter to his pocket. He took out his wallet and counted the money he had left. He looked at his son whose thin little fingers clung precariously to the rocks. He raised a hand and opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated. But he couldn't help himself. "Get down off there you little idiot." The boy came and stood beside his father, docile, like a dog brought to heel.'
Perhaps you worried the child would hurt himself. Perhaps you hoped that Geoff would bite his tongue.
A sensitive writer shows the plot, but does not define it utterly, exhaustively. He or she allows the reader's imagination to paint in the background, to hear the hesitation in the character's speech without being told what to make of it. Then the reader begins to own the story and, when they have finished, they hold the book up and they tell their friends: 'You should buy this!'
Good luck with your Labyrinth!
