by Nancy Kress
Further pattern comes from the time-honored use of foils. These are paired characters who are opposites in some crucial aspect, thereby throwing that quality into sharp relief in both of them. Theresa, for instance, cannot face her inner pain. Whenever it tries to break through, she runs away: out of the room, into drink or drugs, into mindless sex. James, on the other hand, calmly faces pain and gives it words. He explains to Theresa why he believes in God:
''The truth,'' he said, ''is that I have chosen to believe in Him. I'm not sure even that's true. I believe in Him and I
choose not to challenge my own belief. Because if I found that my challenge was successful . . . I would feel myself totally alone. And then I would know despair.'' And then I would know despair. She looked at him in wonder. I would be alone and then I would know despair.
Theresa can't bear to think about it. Immediately she starts a quarrel with James, to avoid having to think. That's her pattern, a perfect foil to his.
Pattern and pressure—the two elements that create tension. Neither was present in the facts about Katherine Cleary, but Rossner didn't let her story be bounded by facts. In inventing pressures, she created something different: a choice for Theresa with greatly heightened implications. Theresa makes her choice. And dies for it, in a climax that seems to follow inevitably from all that went before.
You can—in fact, you must—do the same with your factual material. Rearrange existing events and invent new ones to form a pattern of mounting pressure. Then let that pressure explode into a climax we're holding our breath waiting for.
THE FIRST OBLIGATION
Your main goal as a fiction writer should be to create emotional truth, not literal truth, in an interesting and exciting way. If that means changing real-life events until they're nearly unrecognizable, go right ahead. Make life serve your plot. Stanley Elkin understood this completely in his wonderful surreal novel The Living End. The protagonist, a modern-day loser as beleaguered as Job by tragedy and bad luck, finally makes his way to God to ask, "Why? Why did You put so much suffering in the world?''
And God answers simply, ''Because it makes a better story.''
SUMMARY: BASING PLOTS ON REAL EVENTS
• Change whatever facts are necessary to make a better story.
• Concentrate on inventing and dramatizing motives for real-life events.
• Rearrange incidents into a pattern of mounting pressure culminating in a definite climax.
This chapter could just as easily have been titled ''Common Plot Patterns—and the People Who Live Them.'' That's what archetypes are: the original pattern or model after which a thing is made. In other words: the basic, universal characters, the basic, universal plots.
Are there such things? And if there are, haven't they been worn into useless cliches?
Yes, archetypal plots and characters both exist. And no, they aren't useless cliches—if they're handled with a fresh approach. That usually means original characters inhabiting a time-tested plot, or time-tested characters inhabiting a fresh plot. Let's look at some examples.
AN OLD, OLD STORY: THE ARCHETYPAL PLOT
Some researchers into the human brain have concluded that it reasons not by analyzing data, but by recalling stories. We have cultural stories embedded in the very fabric of our thinking, goes this argument, and those stories influence what we notice in a given situation, how we interpret it and how we choose to react. Moreover, some stories seem to transcend individual cultures. They are universal archetypes. The form may look different in different tellings, but the underlying plot is the same.
Here is one such plot: A character becomes discontented with where he lives. He journeys to some other place, which at first seems much better. But over time, the defects of the second place make themselves known. The character returns home, better able to appreciate what he had.
This is a very old plot. It's also an extremely versatile one, adapting amazingly well to different characters and situations, with each new version fresh and absorbing. These versions include:
• ''City Mouse, Country Mouse,'' a seventeenth-century European folk tale. Country Mouse is visited by her cousin, City Mouse, and tempted to the city by tales of rich human houses with lavish table scraps. But the city household also contains a cat, and after a brush with death, Country Mouse decides she prefers her humble but safe nest and simple diet.
• The Wizard ofOz, by L. Frank Baum, in which Dorothy runs away, is taken to miraculous Oz, but eventually decides ''there's no place like home.''
• Bright Lights, Big City, by Jay Mclnerney, in which the narrator, unable to cope with the grief in his home after his mother dies and his marriage ends, immerses himself in the big-city club scene of drugs, drink, easy sex, nonstop hedonism. Eventually he returns home to take up the grief and sanity he left behind.
• Maybe I'll Go Home Next Month, a young adult novel by Robert Carter, in which Sam, fifteen, runs away from parents who are ''always on his case'' and teachers who ''just put him down.'' A summer on the mean streets of New York City helps him decide to return to his family and his education.
• The Dispossessed, by Ursula K. Le Guin. In the far future on another planet, Shevek leaves his peaceful, spartan, anarchistic society on the moon to enter the richer and more intellectually varied one on the planet Urras. Eventually its injustices drive him back home.
Past, present, future. Fable, realism, science fiction. Children, teens, adult readers. This archetypal plot works for each new mood, set of characters and audience. It—and the other archetypal plots discussed later in this chapter—can work for you, too.
I'VE MET YOU BEFORE: THE ARCHETYPAL CHARACTER
When the character is an archetype, the plot may be new, but the character is recognizable. Not because he's a stereotype or a cliche, but because he's an aspect of human nature we all share. We know him because, in some sense, he is us. He embodies some deep part of ourselves that we remember, or fear, or treasure, or hate.
Here is such an archetypal character: the person possessed by some desire who eventually transgresses laws and morals. We all know such a person. She's an alcoholic who can't stop drinking. Or a woman so consumed by the desire for love that she commits terrible acts in her frenzied search for it. (The Glenn Close character in the movie Fatal Attraction comes to mind. So does real-life Susan Smith.) Or a man so desirous of financial success that he sacrifices integrity to get it, breaks the law and ends up in jail.
The obsessed person may also be more than an acquaintance. Even if you personally have never gone over the line in your pursuit of some desire, you may recognize in yourself the capacity to do so. Perhaps you've held that capacity in check, through common sense or decency or good luck. But are you sure that you always could, given extremely provocative circumstances? Completely sure?
Because the archetype of the character possessed by overwhelming desire is so universal, it fuels an enormous number of different plots. Usually the character ends up destroyed by the laws and ethics he's smashed while pursuing his desire. But even within these shared traits and fates, this archetype lends itself to an astonishing range of individual, fully realized protagonists, including:
• Macbeth, whose desire for power leads him to kill his king, initiating a string of other murders until eventually Macbeth himself is killed. (Shakespeare, Macbeth)
• Captain Philip Queeg, whose very human desire is to never make a mistake—or at least to never admit to one. His increasingly convoluted cover-ups and threats lead to the mutiny of his World War II
minesweeper's crew, which in turn destroys Queeg's naval career (along with those of several mutineers). (Herman Wouk, The Caine Mutiny)
• Count Almasy, driven by passion for a married woman and by his desire to keep his promise to her. He betrays his country and, indirectly, dies for it. (Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient)
The character driven by desire beyond human laws doesn't always end up destroyed. It's the character who is the arc
hetype, not the plot. Sometimes such characters triumph, getting clean away with their transgressions. Some examples:
• King Midas, obsessed with gold. His greed turns his beloved daughter into a gold statue. He escapes tragedy because Dionysus, god of wine, just happens to be a cheerful type who turns the statue back into a girl. (Greek mythology)
• Becky Sharp, nineteenth-century adventuress, who engages in adultery, fraud and betrayal—whatever it takes to go on living well and luxuriously. At the end of the book she's still at it, fresh prey targeted in her scheming sites. (William Makepeace Thackeray, Vanity Fair)
• Michael Corleone, driven by a desire to avenge his father's shooting. He commits multiple murders—including that of his brother-in-law—and ends up a respected and powerful Mafia don. (Mario Puzo, The Godfather)
• An endless number of detectives who become consumed by the desire to solve a particular case, no matter what the cost in (pick one) broken department regulations, disapproval of superiors, objections by wives and girlfriends, sneaky tactics. Almost always, the detectives' obsessions pay off.
Whether your character obsessed by desire comes out a winner or a loser is up to you. The archetype is strong enough to support all sorts of outcomes, all sorts of situations, all sorts of individual characteristics.
Can other archetypes also do that? Absolutely. Many writers and critics have amused themselves putting together lists of ''all possible plots.'' I've seen a list with thirty-six categories of plots, a list with twenty categories, a list with three. Such categories are always idiosyncratic. But that's not necessarily bad. If something on the list sparks your own thinking, it doesn't matter in the least whether or
not you agree with the way categories are carved up. The point of the archetypal plot is inspiration, not straitjacketing. Use anything you find in the rest of this chapter as a jumping-off point for your individual characters and their individual situations.
THREE BASIC PLOTS: HEINLEIN'S THEORY
Author Robert Heinlein was convinced that there are only three basic plots for fiction. All three revolve around character change. He named each plot according to what prompts the change:
• ''Boy Meets Girl,'' in which the protagonist changes primarily as a result of his interactions with another human being (who doesn't necessarily have to be a love interest; it could be a child, a mentor, a corrupter, a friend). Examples include A Separate Peace, in which Gene Forrester is changed forever by his complex encounters with Phineas, and The Great Gatsby, which leaves Nick Carraway's life altered by having known Jay Gatsby.
• ''The Little Tailor,'' in which a character changes as a result of facing some great challenge. In response to this challenge, he discovers in himself capabilities he didn't know he possessed, and uses them to triumph. This is the plot of John Grisham's popular The Firm. Mitch McDeere discovers he is able to outwit the Mob, the FBI and the banking system, and retires rich and anonymous on a Caribbean island.
• ''Man Learns Better,'' which is the inverse of the second plot. In this, the protagonist does something, or observes something done, that leaves him ''sadder but wiser.'' He loses, but he (and the reader) learn something about how the world works. In Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park, for instance, characters and readers both learn that it's not a good idea to play God and re-create vanished species. In Joseph Conrad's dark classic, Lord Jim, the protagonist learns that not even a lifetime of atonement may be enough to balance a moment of selfish cowardice.
Are Heinlein's plot categories of any use to you? To find out, compare the broad outlines of the story you're contemplating to the broad outlines of his formulations. Do the archetypal plots open any doors in your mind, spark any ideas? If so, fine. If not, move on to the next approach.
A number of plots are so time-honored they have become classics, rich stories that can still taste fresh on the palate. There exist several different approaches for bottling and labeling these classic plots. The following eight-category grouping is the house brand. One may suit your ripening ideas.
CLASSIC PLOT NUMBER ONE-CHASE PLOTS: SEARCHING HARD FOR HARRY
In the chase plot, someone or some group is pursuing someone else or some other group. The story can be told from the point of view of the pursuers, the pursued or both in alternate sections. Either one can be the good guys. The outcome can feature a capture or an escape. Combining these possibilities gives you many different structures.
For instance, Tom Clancy's The Hunt for Red October, with the Americans as pursuer and the Russian sub as prey, is a classic chase plot. So is Thomas Perry's The Butcher's Boy, in which Justice agent Elizabeth Waring is pursuing the Mafia hit man known only as ''the butcher's boy.'' That novel is told from both of their points of view, in alternating sections. In contrast, the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid concentrates solely on the point of view of the pursued, who earn our sympathy despite being outlaws. So does Jean Valjean in Victor Hugo's Les Miserables, relentlessly pursued by Inspector Javert throughout eleven hundred pages.
Chase novels don't have to involve lawbreaking, murder or national security. You might have an adopted teenager tracking down her biological mother, or a husband on the trail of his runaway wife. In such personal chase stories, the pursuit structure is the same, but the emotions and events will be much different.
A variation on the chase plot is the rescue plot. Here, the protagonists not only have to find someone, they also have to either rescue him or rescue someone from him. The game has become three-handed: pursuer, pursued and helpless victim. Victims can be anyone: a child lost in the wilderness and pursued by wolves, civilians taken hostage by fleeing terrorists, a lover kidnapped by the bad guys. One example is Marilyn Durham's The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing, which was also made into a popular movie. It's a sort of double chase plot; the hero is pursuing his half-Indian son, and is in turn pursued by the husband of his female accomplice.
If you decide to hang your novel on a chase plot, here are some questions to stimulate your thought processes:
• Who is looking for whom?
• Why?
• Which point(s) of view will you use?
• With whom would you like your readers to sympathize/identify?
• Will the pursued end up getting caught? How?
• After they do (or don't) get caught, what will happen to them? Will this outcome be depicted directly, as part of your novel, or will you just imply it?
Once you have the basic chase structure clear in your mind, you can concentrate on creating for it fascinating characters and inventive incidents.
CLASSIC PLOT NUMBER TWO-QUEST PLOTS: SEARCHING HARD FOR HARRY'S LEGACY
In the quest plot, what is being sought is not a person but a thing. There are several variations.
Sometimes the quest is for a specific object, which may be a magic sword or ring, a buried treasure, something valuable mentioned in an ancestor's will or a cultural artifact. In these stories, the characters know what they're after, have some clues (vague or not) to follow, and usually get in each other's way as they look. Within this framework, a wide variety of moods is possible. Object-quest stories include Treasure Island (Robert Louis Stevenson), The Shell Seekers (Rosamund Pilcher), Raiders of the Lost Ark (the Steven Spielberg movie), The Word (Irving Wallace) and the King Arthur legends of searching for the Holy Grail (various authors). A rich diversity indeed.
In some object-quest novels, the object being sought may not even be that important in and of itself. How much was a white whale really worth to Ahab, in the value of its oil and ambergris, over whales of other colors? But, as Herman Melville well knew, objects take on symbolic significance to the human mind. Moby Dick really isn't just about the quest for a white whale. It's about the quest for mastery of nature, for imposing one's will upon the enormous Other. Captain Ahab—like a great many other protagonists of quest novels—is obsessed with his search. He's willing to destroy everything for his obsession. And he does.
If your id
eas lend themselves to a quest plot, ask yourself:
• What is being sought? Why?
• What are the obstacles to finding it?
• How many different groups are looking for it? Who are they?
• Is the object going to be found? Where? Is this where it was expected to be?
• Who's going to triumph in the quest?
• How will the other groups react?
• Where does the object end up at the conclusion of your story?
Each of these questions can be used to create surprises for the reader. In Raiders of the Lost Ark, for example, the Ark of the Covenant has been found by Indiana Jones on behalf of the American government. It ends up as just one more crate among thousands in a government warehouse.
But the search for a specific object is not the only kind of quest novel. In another type, character(s) search for a place. This might be a refuge, a semimythical location or just a new way of life. In such books, the character(s) pack up and move, and most of the book shows them either looking for the new place or exploring its ins and outs after they arrive.
Again, the place-quest plot has infinite variations. Tom Joad, of John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath, is looking for a place where his ''Okie'' family can settle down and make a better life than in dustbowl Oklahoma. The Country Mouse is also looking for a place where life would be easier. So is Nora Silk, of Alice Hoffman's Seventh Heaven (the place she's questing for is Ideal Suburbia). On the other hand, Louis Wu, of Larry Niven's Ringworld, is looking for a place where life would be more exciting (he found it). In my own first novel, the long-out-of-print Prince of Morning Bells, the heroine quests for a mythical place called the Heart of the World. Several different times she believes she's found it. In the end, she actually does—and it's a much different place than she expected.
A variation on the place-quest plot is the place-exploration plot. The characters pack up and go somewhere exotic—the South Pole, Narnia, twenty thousand leagues under the sea—in quest of nothing more than adventure. This, however, is not a real plot by itself. Once the characters are there, and the strangeness has been described, there had better be another type of plot developed. Some other quest, or chase, or conflict had better develop, or you will end up with a travelogue rather than a novel.
