Read Elements of Fiction Writing - Conflict and Suspense Online
Authors: James Scott Bell
Elements of Fiction Writing - Conflict and Suspense (13 page)
Other obstacles? The setting will seem forbidding to Roger. He’ll think there is someone watching him. Maybe there’s a cop car parked right outside the store for some reason. This could happen before or after Roger is in the store.
Let’s decide on after, because that way Roger has an extra reason to be careful when he comes out.
OUTCOME:
At the end of the scene, will Roger have the information he needs or not? In other words, will he achieve his scene objective?
Almost always, you want the scene to end in frustration, trouble, or setback. That makes sense in view of the “worry factor” we’ve already talked about. Or you can have the Lead achieve the scene objective, but doing so results in some other event that makes the character’s situation worse.
Let’s keep the serial killer’s identity hidden from Roger at this point. More suspense. So we know Mr. Kim will not give up that information. Maybe he can issue Roger a warning of some kind, a place to avoid.
Or maybe he just gets angry as Roger continues to press him.
We’re brainstorming here. Make a list of possible scene outcomes.
Maybe Mr. Kim pulls out a shotgun and tells Roger to get out of the store.
Maybe Mrs. Kim comes out of the back with the gun.
Maybe a guy chooses that moment to rob the store.
What if the cops pull up outside and Mr. Kim screams at them to come in and get this guy?
I could go on. The secret to creativity is to get lots of ideas then choose the best one. Part of that is cutting the ones you don’t like.
I decide I don’t like the robbery scenario, as it seems too much of a high-concept coincidence. Even though coincidences that make the situation worse for a character are generally okay (as opposed to rescuing the character, usually a no-no), this one seems too far-fetched.
But the cops rolling up looks good. I like that one. Roger is going to be in a heap of trouble if the cops get wind of who he really is.
Now I’ve got my three elements lined up. Next I want to find the right place to start the scene.
There are, in general, two ways to open a scene:
- Establish the location and proceed to the action.
- In media res,
in “the middle of things,” starting with action and dropping in location details as needed.
Your decision will come down to pacing. The first option slows things down a bit, while the second gets things moving fast. You can control the pace further depending on how many words you use for each.
I want a fast pace in the scene I’m writing, so I won’t spend much time with location. I’ll drop in details as the action proceeds:
Roger got out of the subway at Pershing Square. For a moment he was disoriented. He didn’t know which way was north or south. He could have been trapped in the middle of a maze.
Okay, we have Roger in a location and some of what he’s feeling. Remember, emotion is the key to character bonding with the reader. This glimpse into Roger’s inner life—feeling like he’s lost or trapped—sets the mood.
Finally he got his bearings and headed to Broadway. The sun was hidden by the concrete canyon formed by buildings. Some old, some new, some needing work like right now.
He pulled his hat down lower, snapping the brim. He could have been Bogart. No he couldn’t. He was no PI and this was no forties film noir. He was an accountant and this was real. All it would take was one person recognizing him and the reality would become the end point of his life.
Or something to that effect. This is all first drafting and playing with mood. And that’s what you should do, too.
Try things, but make it consistent with the tone of the scene. Because you know your three
O
s, you can play in the right ballpark.
The liquor store guy, what was his name again? Kim, that was it. Sixth and Broadway. If Thompson was correct, Kim would be the key to ending Roger’s nightmare.
It took him five minutes to get to the place, tucked in between a cafeteria- style eatery and a cheap clothing store blasting salsa music.
Roger saw a black-and-white prowling the opposite side of Broadway. He turned into the alcove of the clothing store.
Try not to look suspicious, he thought. But is there anything more suspicious than a guy in a hat trying not to look suspicious?
He gazed at the T-shirts in the window. Mexican soccer and Telemundo babes were apparently the big seasonal items.
When the cop car was a good block away, Roger ducked into the liquor store.
The man who Roger assumed was Mr. Kim stood behind the counter looking at a newspaper spread in front of him. He was about fifty, with thick black hair and black-framed glasses.
He gave Roger a quick look then went back to his paper.
“Are you Mr. Kim?” Roger said, approaching.
The man looked up. “Eh?”
“Mr. Kim?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
And now I’m into the scene and obstacles as described.
It is reported that once upon a time, Muhammad Ali was on a plane when turbulence hit. The pilot ordered all passengers to buckle their seatbelts.
Ali did not comply. A flight attendant came over and politely asked Mr. Ali to fasten his seatbelt. Ali said, “Superman don’t need no seatbelt.” The flight attendant, without missing a beat, said, “Superman don’t need no airplane, either.”
There are no supermen in novels. Everyone needs to feel something along the fear continuum.
The thread of fear that runs through
To Kill a Mockingbird
is of the unknown phantom, Boo Radley:
Had Jem’s pants been safely on him, we would not have slept much anyway. Every night-sound I heard from my cot on the back porch was magnified threefold; every scratch of feet on gravel was Boo Radley seeking revenge, every passing Negro laughing in the night was Boo Radley loose and after us; insects splashing against the screen were Boo Radley’s insane fingers picking the wire to pieces; the chinaberry trees were malignant, hovering, alive.
But fear can also manifest in simple worry, another form of fearing the unknown (the future).
In
Stone Cold
, a Jesse Stone novel by Robert B. Parker, Jesse is alone on Paradise Beach, thinking about the murder he’s trying to solve. But rather than just rehearse the facts, Parker weaves in several strands of worry:
The town beach was empty, except for a woman in a pink down jacket running a Jack Russell terrier. Jesse stood for a moment under the little pavilion that served, as far as Jesse could tell, no useful purpose. Twenty feet to his left Kenneth Eisley’s body had rolled about at the tidal margin, until the ocean receded. The first one. Jesse looked out at the rim of the gray ocean, where it merged with the gray sky. It seemed longer ago than it was. They’d found him in November, and now it was the start of February. Dog was still with Valenti. Too long. Dog shouldn’t be in a shelter that long.
I got to find someone to take the dog.
Jesse is worried not just about the length of time the investigation is taking, but for the murdered man’s dog that was put in a shelter:
Beaches were cold places in February. Jesse was wearing a turtleneck and a sheepskin jacket. He pulled his watch cap down over his ears, and pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat.
I know who killed you, Kenneth.
Jesse “knows” but has no proof. It’s all instinct. And that bothers him, of course. He can’t even serve a search warrant. There are other murders he “knows” about, including one of his lovers, Abby Taylor:
He stepped off the little pavilion and onto the sand. He was above the high tide line where the mingle of seaweed and flotsam made a ragged line. Ahead of him the Jack Russell raced down at the ocean as it rolled in and barked at it, and dodged back when it got close. He was taunting the ocean.
I know who killed the lady in the mall, and the guy in the church parking lot and I know who killed Abby.
Jesse trudged along the sand, feeling it shift slightly beneath his feet as he walked.
Now me?
Now he has the added worry that he has become a target himself. That leads to a deeper reflection on his own life:
He’d gotten their attention. They were reacting to him. It was a start.
If I stay with them maybe they’ll make a run at me, and I’ll have them.
He smiled to himself.
Or they’ll have me.
He stopped and looked out at the ocean. High up, a single herring gull circled slowly above the ocean, looking down, hoping for food. Nothing moved on the horizon.
I guess if they get me I won’t care much.
There is more of this reflection, then the passage ends:
When he got to the aimless little pavilion Jesse paused again and looked out at the ocean again. Nothing alive was in sight. He was alone. He breathed in, and stood listening to the quiet sound of the ocean, and the soft sound of his breathing.
I wonder if they will succeed.
When you get to a section of your manuscript where the character is alone, reflecting, do the following:
- List all of the story elements that the character is worried about.
- List life issues the character may have (as when Jesse Stone considers that it might not matter much if he’s killed).
- Weave those into a long section where the character is observing a setting that does double duty (not the gray, isolated setting for Jesse Stone’s thoughts).
- Overwrite this section. Put in all the emotion you can.
- Edit the section down to get just the tone you want.
These reflective passage can be some of the most powerful in your novel. When readers get a look into the conflict within a character, there is an immediate increase in interest.
Why do readers respond emotionally? When does it happen?
Readers respond when the character experiences disequilibrium as a result of his actions—in particular, when he expects change and instead frustration is the result.
Frustration is a key element in a novel. Not as in, “Gee, I’m frustrated,” but frustration as a noun of outcome. A turning back off what the character wants or expects.
This gives us the dynamic of every scene as well.
Some time ago I participated in a panel discussion with three fellow thriller writers. During the Q & A we got this question from the floor: How can I learn to write a good action scene?
I answered first. I told the questioner that it’s what happens
inside
the character that’s the key, and you can make that implicit or explicit by using all the elements of fiction writing—dialogue, internal thoughts, description, and action.
I recommended he read how Dean Koontz does it, especially in what is considered his breakout bestseller,
Whispers
(1980). There Koontz has an action scene (an attempted rape) that lasts seventeen pages (that’s right, seventeen pages!), all taking place within the close confines of a house.
Another panelist protested (in a good-natured and professional manner). He said action needs to be “realistic.” For instance, when a gunshot is fired nobody has time to think. It all happens too fast. If they’re shot, the pain comes, and they will not be reflecting on anything. They’ll just be in pain.
Now this was grist for a great discussion. I licked my chops but, unfortunately, we were at the very end of the panel and time was called. I never had a chance to respond.
Now I do.
I would have said, first, that a gunshot does not cover the wide spectrum of action. In the Koontz scene from
Whispers
we have someone stalking the Lead. No guns. So that example is of limited value.
But further, and even more important: Fiction is not reality! Fiction is the stylized rendition of reality for an emotional effect.
That’s so important that I’ll say it again:
Fiction is the stylized rendition of reality for an emotional effect.
Reality is boring. Reality is not drama. Reality is to be avoided at all costs (“We must stay drunk on writing,” Ray Bradbury once said, “so reality does not destroy us”).
Hitchcock’s axiom holds that a great story is life with the dull parts taken out. Reality has dull parts. Lots of them. Fiction, if it works, does not.
A thriller writer wants the reader to believe she is vicariously experiencing the story. We use techniques to engage the reader’s emotions all along the way.
If there is no emotional hook, there is no thrill, no matter how “real” the writing seems.
Let’s have a look at a couple of clips from
Whispers
. Hilary Thomas, a successful screenwriter, comes home to discover that Bruno Frye, someone she’d met once, is waiting for her, and not for a game of cribbage:
She cleared her throat nervously. “What are you doing here?”
“Came to see you.”
“Why?”
“Just had to see you again.”
“About what?”
He was still grinning. He had a tense, predatory look. His was the smile of the wolf just before it closed its hungry jaws on the cornered rabbit.
Koontz breaks into the dialogue exchange for some description. The effect is like slow motion, which is another key to a good action scene. In essence, you slow down real time to create the feeling and tone you desire:
He took a step toward her.
She knew then, beyond doubt, what he wanted. But it was crazy, unthinkable. Why would a wealthy man of his high social position travel hundreds of miles to risk his fortune, reputation, and freedom for one brief violent moment of forced sex?
Now Koontz inserts a thought. In real time, when a rapist takes a step toward a victim, there would probably be no reflection, no pondering. But fiction enhances moments like this. Koontz is stretching the tension. He wants the reader taut while furiously flipping pages.
But seventeen of them? Is Koontz insane? Or is he one of the best-
selling writers in history for a reason?
