Plot: It's What's Happening
Think about the shiniest, most beautiful car you’ve ever laid eyes upon. I don’t mean in pictures, I mean personally. Call up in your (or in this case, my) mind a 1967 Pontiac GTO, the chrome polished to a killing gloss and the deep, rich red paint job sparkling in the sun, sturdy whitewalls with shining hubcaps holding it all together. Inhale that leather upholstery.
Pretty nice, huh? Now open up that hood. No engine. Where there should be a turbocharged V-8 running four hundred horsepower that will take you from zero to naked in the blink of an eye, there’s a big empty space.
Disappointed? Damn right. This is what a novel with no plot is like.
The plot is the engine (in our example literally) that drives our novel and I know what you’re thinking, because I myself used to feel the same way. “My characters are clever and my dialogue sparkles! My prose is spotless, a dead-on view of the world we live in today. My intended audience will forgive me if I just do four months in the lives of my characters, because they won’t be able to help from being seduced by the power of my writing. They will--“
No. I’m sorry, but they won’t. The old “four months in the life of” school of thought is nice for indie filmmakers and literary fiction writers, but both of those examples have woefully small audiences that they play for. If you are okay with the idea that ninety percent of your intended audience will get bored and tune out by Chapter Three and put your book down, never to read another word, by all means, go ahead. If you’d like to skew the odds in your favor a bit more, then read on.
Your plot, ideally, should be upfront enough that it is the single most compelling piece of the book while at the same, staying far enough in the background that it doesn’t get up on a soapbox and scream “THIS IS THE FUCKING PLOT!” like Lewis Black every four pages or so. It is the skeleton upon which you will build your Frankenstein and once you have covered those bones with the pieces of flesh called Characters, Dialogue, Prose and Pacing, nothing else should show through. It should be smooth and natural, a transition from one scene to the next that never feels labored.
For the purposes of the next few paragraphs, I am going to use non-book examples. There is a school of thought in the literary world that movies and television serve as poor examples of writing and they should never be given shrift when talking about the mechanics involved. Don’t you believe that horsehsit for a second. Good writing is good writing, no matter where it’s being presented.
As stated in the past, your book should begin with a compelling event. It can even not be related to the main plot that is to come itself; that’s perfectly okay, as long as it is somewhat in character for what is ahead on the road. Think about how Raiders of The Lost Ark begins. Indiana Jones is not yet on the trail of the Ark, but in the seven or so minutes that begin the film, we learn a great deal about who this guy is, how he deals with problems and what his semi-normal lot in life is.
Your other option is to have the book begin with your main plot right on page one with a big bang. Lost is a great example of this, perhaps the best one ever. We start with Jack running through the forest, and we wonder for a few seconds--because that’s all we get--why he’s doing this. Then he comes out onto the beach, and all hell has broken loose. Immediately we have a very strong sense of who our main character is, we have set the stage with the supporting players and our sparking event has happened right away.
This stage-setting should occupy all of Chapter One and part of your second chapter. In Chapter Three (about 4,000 to 6,000 words), the first main event that leads to the main plot should occur. In the case of our intrepid archaeologist, this occurs when the two government agents arrive at the university to get Indiana to go search for the Ark laying down some background information and showing another side to our main character. In other examples, the event could be blatant (kidnapping, murder, terrorist threat) or subtle (pregnancy test, planning a vacation, going to visit relatives).
From there, you then give a steady buildup until you encounter the first main crisis. In a movie, this usually comes at about the twenty-five minute mark; in book terms where we use a model of 70,000 words where two hundred and twenty double spaced pages gives you the word total, bring this element in after about 10,000-12,000 words. This gives you enough time to introduce your main character via the sparking/compelling event, set the cast and already have gone through a tough time together. A first crisis is the event that let’s us know we are in for a ride here; in Raiders, it’s the barroom brawl between Indy, the sherpas, Marion Ravenwood (our female lead, introduced wonderfully) and the main heels. The first crisis is a great place to introduce the antagonists, because without them, your hero has nothing to struggle against. Don't be shy about having the heels carry the day, either; we need to prove they are a force to be reckoned with, and an easy win doesn't cut it.
About halfway to two-thirds of the way through (35,000-45,000 words), there is a major twist. At this point, it looks like your hero has been making progress and getting closer to their ultimate goal. Now is the time to pull the rug out from under them. Have a trusted ally turn heel, or have the bad guys pull off a stunning victory, perhaps while incapacitating or even killing one of the main characters. In Raiders, this is the sequence of events where with the Ark within his grasp, Indiana goes back and forth with the Nazis via snake pit, airfield fight and truck chase until they finally load the Ark about their U-boat and take it to the island where they plan to open it.
This of course sets up your final battle, where the choices are made that will set up your conclusion. Maybe your main character has decided to stay with his wife after all, or perhaps this is where she straps on her gun and heads off for the inevitable showdown with the main heel. In our continuing example, the Ark is opened. This is where you give your reader the payoff they’ve been waiting for, the ultimately satisfying triumph (or if you’re of a different mind, the ultimate beatdown) that defines the final scoreboartd of your book.
At this point, you have two options. You can either end the book here, or you can have a final epilogue chapter that ties up all the loose ends. The choice is up to you; personally, I like having a nice clean ending, but occasionally you will need to say “this is where everyone is now.” Don’t drag it on; thirty page epilogues may as well be the start of a new book.
So ends our lesson. Hope it helps.
Pretty nice, huh? Now open up that hood. No engine. Where there should be a turbocharged V-8 running four hundred horsepower that will take you from zero to naked in the blink of an eye, there’s a big empty space.
Disappointed? Damn right. This is what a novel with no plot is like.
The plot is the engine (in our example literally) that drives our novel and I know what you’re thinking, because I myself used to feel the same way. “My characters are clever and my dialogue sparkles! My prose is spotless, a dead-on view of the world we live in today. My intended audience will forgive me if I just do four months in the lives of my characters, because they won’t be able to help from being seduced by the power of my writing. They will--“
No. I’m sorry, but they won’t. The old “four months in the life of” school of thought is nice for indie filmmakers and literary fiction writers, but both of those examples have woefully small audiences that they play for. If you are okay with the idea that ninety percent of your intended audience will get bored and tune out by Chapter Three and put your book down, never to read another word, by all means, go ahead. If you’d like to skew the odds in your favor a bit more, then read on.
Your plot, ideally, should be upfront enough that it is the single most compelling piece of the book while at the same, staying far enough in the background that it doesn’t get up on a soapbox and scream “THIS IS THE FUCKING PLOT!” like Lewis Black every four pages or so. It is the skeleton upon which you will build your Frankenstein and once you have covered those bones with the pieces of flesh called Characters, Dialogue, Prose and Pacing, nothing else should show through. It should be smooth and natural, a transition from one scene to the next that never feels labored.
For the purposes of the next few paragraphs, I am going to use non-book examples. There is a school of thought in the literary world that movies and television serve as poor examples of writing and they should never be given shrift when talking about the mechanics involved. Don’t you believe that horsehsit for a second. Good writing is good writing, no matter where it’s being presented.
As stated in the past, your book should begin with a compelling event. It can even not be related to the main plot that is to come itself; that’s perfectly okay, as long as it is somewhat in character for what is ahead on the road. Think about how Raiders of The Lost Ark begins. Indiana Jones is not yet on the trail of the Ark, but in the seven or so minutes that begin the film, we learn a great deal about who this guy is, how he deals with problems and what his semi-normal lot in life is.
Your other option is to have the book begin with your main plot right on page one with a big bang. Lost is a great example of this, perhaps the best one ever. We start with Jack running through the forest, and we wonder for a few seconds--because that’s all we get--why he’s doing this. Then he comes out onto the beach, and all hell has broken loose. Immediately we have a very strong sense of who our main character is, we have set the stage with the supporting players and our sparking event has happened right away.
This stage-setting should occupy all of Chapter One and part of your second chapter. In Chapter Three (about 4,000 to 6,000 words), the first main event that leads to the main plot should occur. In the case of our intrepid archaeologist, this occurs when the two government agents arrive at the university to get Indiana to go search for the Ark laying down some background information and showing another side to our main character. In other examples, the event could be blatant (kidnapping, murder, terrorist threat) or subtle (pregnancy test, planning a vacation, going to visit relatives).
From there, you then give a steady buildup until you encounter the first main crisis. In a movie, this usually comes at about the twenty-five minute mark; in book terms where we use a model of 70,000 words where two hundred and twenty double spaced pages gives you the word total, bring this element in after about 10,000-12,000 words. This gives you enough time to introduce your main character via the sparking/compelling event, set the cast and already have gone through a tough time together. A first crisis is the event that let’s us know we are in for a ride here; in Raiders, it’s the barroom brawl between Indy, the sherpas, Marion Ravenwood (our female lead, introduced wonderfully) and the main heels. The first crisis is a great place to introduce the antagonists, because without them, your hero has nothing to struggle against. Don't be shy about having the heels carry the day, either; we need to prove they are a force to be reckoned with, and an easy win doesn't cut it.
About halfway to two-thirds of the way through (35,000-45,000 words), there is a major twist. At this point, it looks like your hero has been making progress and getting closer to their ultimate goal. Now is the time to pull the rug out from under them. Have a trusted ally turn heel, or have the bad guys pull off a stunning victory, perhaps while incapacitating or even killing one of the main characters. In Raiders, this is the sequence of events where with the Ark within his grasp, Indiana goes back and forth with the Nazis via snake pit, airfield fight and truck chase until they finally load the Ark about their U-boat and take it to the island where they plan to open it.
This of course sets up your final battle, where the choices are made that will set up your conclusion. Maybe your main character has decided to stay with his wife after all, or perhaps this is where she straps on her gun and heads off for the inevitable showdown with the main heel. In our continuing example, the Ark is opened. This is where you give your reader the payoff they’ve been waiting for, the ultimately satisfying triumph (or if you’re of a different mind, the ultimate beatdown) that defines the final scoreboartd of your book.
At this point, you have two options. You can either end the book here, or you can have a final epilogue chapter that ties up all the loose ends. The choice is up to you; personally, I like having a nice clean ending, but occasionally you will need to say “this is where everyone is now.” Don’t drag it on; thirty page epilogues may as well be the start of a new book.
So ends our lesson. Hope it helps.