by Lisa Cron
The goal is to set the pace so each burst of intense conflict in the main storyline—each sudden sprint, each unexpected twist—is fueled by the information and insight that’s been building since the previous twist. Each time the conflict peaks, you want to back off a bit to give the reader time to take it in, process it, and speculate on its implications, which is often where subplots come in.
SUBPLOTS: THE READER’S EXPECTATION
Subplots invite the reader to leave the recent conflict behind for a moment and venture down a side road that, he believes, will lead back to the story in the near future. The reader is willing to take this jaunt because he trusts that when the subplot returns to the main storyline, he’ll have more insight with which to interpret what’s happening.
This is the implicit bargain that readers and writers make when it comes to subplots. Readers accept that sometimes the specific story reason for a subplot isn’t completely clear at the outset. But they have the tacit expectation it soon will be, which they trust the writer to fulfill. And so they eagerly begin trying to figure out what the subplot has to do with the story question and what its impact will be. You can see where this is headed. It better actually have an impact! I can’t say this too strongly: all subplots must eventually merge into—and affect—the main storyline, either literally or metaphorically, or else the reader is going to be mighty disappointed. And while in the olden days, disgruntled readers suffered pretty much in silence, now there’s Amazon. The last thing you want are myriad scathing reviews that potential readers “find helpful.”
SUBPLOTS: LAYERING THE STORY
We know everything in a story must affect the protagonist in his or her quest, as in: Neil’s goal is to get into Yale, so when he fails his senior history class, his heart sinks. The effect is clear, concise, and direct. And that’s good. But it could be better. Since nothing spurs readers’ mounting interest more than anticipation, giving us the same information—that Neil will fail history—via a subplot not only adds suspense (as we wonder how Neil will react when he finds out), but an intriguing layer of story as well.
For instance, suppose Neil deserves an A in history, but while he’s toiling away on his term paper, we hop into a subplot in which his history teacher, Mr. Cupkak, a humorless hardliner, decides to fail the entire class because he’s just discovered that an anonymous student posted a video on YouTube photoshopping his face onto a very naked mole rat. We wouldn’t see the effect this has on Neil in that particular scene, but because we know what Neil wants—to go to Yale—we’d instantly grasp the effect it will have on him when he finds out. And so when we return to the main storyline—where Neil is just finishing up his term paper, feeling great because he’s sure it’s the best thing he’s ever written, confident it’ll get him the highest grade in the class and maybe even land him the coveted valedictorian slot—we, on the other hand, are filled with a creeping dread, knowing he couldn’t be more wrong; we are bristling at the unfairness of it—and rooting for him to find a way to take the teacher down. We’ve become his advocate. We’re in his corner; we feel protective of him. And, truth be told, we feel just a little bit jazzed that we’re in a superior position—after all, we know something he doesn’t. We’re engaged to the max, complete with a vested interest in what happens next.
However, it helps to keep in mind that although a subplot gets its primary meaning and resonance based on how it affects the main storyline, it has a life of its own. Subplots arc; they even have their own story question that must be resolved. For instance, don’t you wonder whether that horrid Mr. Cupkak will get away with failing the entire history class—not to mention how he got to be such a sourpuss in the first place?
But not all subplots directly affect the protagonist. Sometimes their purpose is to give the protagonist necessary insight, the same way a story gives the reader insight: by letting him benefit from the experience of some other poor dog.
MIRRORING SUBPLOTS—AS IN MIRROR OPPOSITES, THAT IS
As we noted in chapter 5, mirroring subplots don’t literally mirror the main storyline, because no reader wants to spend time in the department of redundancy department. Rather, they revolve around secondary characters in a situation similar to the one the protagonist finds himself in, and what happens in them doesn’t necessarily have a direct external affect on the protagonist. Instead, the affect is internal, in that it changes the way the protagonist sees the situation—because mirroring subplots reveal alternate ways in which the story question could be resolved. Thus they either serve as a cautionary tale or a validation or provide a fresh perspective.
For instance: Let’s say the story question is, will Danielle and Perry revive their failing marriage? In a mirroring subplot, their unhappily married neighbors, Ethan and Fiona, might simply throw in the towel and break up. This spurs our protagonists to reconsider their options, and because Ethan and Fiona seem much happier now that they’re finally free, Danielle and Perry begin secretly exploring life on their own.
Ah, but as mirroring subplots unfold, they tend to arc in the opposite direction from the main storyline. They often whisper: This is what you’re wishing for; are you sure it’s what you really want? Thus in the end Fiona and Ethan bitterly regret their breakup, triggering Perry and Danielle’s realization that maybe sticking with the devil you know isn’t such a bad thing after all. Plus, devils can be sort of cute, in the right light.
But whether mirroring or not, all subplots must earn their keep by giving us information we need to know, be it factual, psychological, or logistical, in order for the main storyline to make sense. Here are three ways a subplot can do its job:
1. Supply information that affects what’s happening in the main storyline. For example, a subplot that establishes that Mr. Cupkak is so reviled he’d be parodied on YouTube, and so mean-spirited he’d fail everyone in his class as a result, will have a direct impact on Neil’s quest.
2. Make the protagonist’s quest that much harder. By failing everyone in his history class, Mr. Cupkak has indeed made Neil’s quest infinitely more difficult.
3. Tell us something that deepens our understanding of the protagonist. Forget Mr. Cupkak for a minute; what about a subplot in which Neil’s grandfather teaches him to clip schnauzers, revealing Neil’s innate love of dog grooming—a major not yet offered at Yale? That might make the reader think: Gee, I wonder if Neil really wants to go to Yale after all? And so, in the end, the fact that he’s going to fail history could turn out to be a good thing.
Cue the Subplot, Key the Flashback
Tell a friend to ask you, “What’s the secret of comedy?” and when she gets to the word “secret,” blurt out “Timing!” Sure makes the point, doesn’t it? Truth is, timing is the secret of just about everything, especially subplots and their close kin, flashbacks. The question is this: once you’ve vetted their viability, how do you know when, exactly, to slide them in and out of the main storyline without accidentally transforming them into digressions? We already know that subplots (ditto flashbacks) sometimes give the reader a breather from the main storyline, often following a strong scene such as a major turning point, sudden revelation, or surprising twist. What we don’t know is how to gauge exactly whether the information in the subplot or flashback is relevant at that moment. So, since flashbacks can be entire subplots, let’s explore them as we discuss the art of timing.
Flashback—What’s the Cause and What Effect Does It Have?
Recently a student told me a writing instructor had made it very clear to him that one of the first rules of writing is never, ever use flashbacks. It reminded me of the time back in elementary school when our teacher told us the best way to stay healthy was to eat lots of red meat, preferably with potatoes. Oh, wait—does that count as a flashback?
Actually, there’s a grain of truth in the advice my student was given—advice I suspect was spurred by frustration. I told him I was sure the instructor had simply read one too many stories in which the narrative stops cold fo
r no apparent reason so the writer can step forward and tell the reader something really important that, if we’re lucky, we’ll need to know later, and if not, that the writer thought was interesting and so threw in for the same reason a dog licks his you-know-whats: because he can. What’s worse, those flashbacks were probably full of pure exposition (telling rather than showing) that went on for page after page.
I told him that what the instructor probably meant was, never use a flashback poorly. And because that’s what most aspiring writers do, she probably figured she had her bases covered. Because poorly done, flashbacks completely derail a story.
There’s a footnote. I’d just told that story as a guest lecturer in a colleague’s class when, with a throaty laugh, she said, “Uh, that instructor was me.” Talk about an adrenaline spike! Lucky for me, she quickly added, “And yep, that’s exactly what I meant.” She went on to lament the irreparable harm an ill-advised flashback can do to an otherwise engaging story. She’s absolutely right.
A poorly timed flashback is like some guy incessantly tapping your shoulder in a movie theater just after the protagonist has lost everything. You have no desire to look away from the screen, knowing that the second you do, the spell will be broken. That’s why the guy better be telling you something you need to know right that very minute—like, the theater is on fire, or you’ve just inherited a million dollars.
The trouble with flashbacks and subplots is they yank us out of the story we’re reading and shove us into something we’re not quite sure of. It reminds me of Laurie’s speech to Steve at the end of American Graffiti. He’s about to leave for college, and she doesn’t want him to go. “You know,” she says, “it doesn’t make sense to leave home to look for a home, to give up a life to find a new life, to say goodbye to friends you love just to find new friends.”10 Indeed.
That’s precisely what a misplaced flashback feels like. Saying goodbye to a story you love just to find a new one. Which, let’s face it, you may not love as much, if at all. This is exactly what happens when, knowing that at some point we’re going to need to know that Pam (mother of Samantha, the protagonist) was raised by wolves, the writer decides that now is as good a time as any to plunk in a flashback of six-year-old Pam stalking prey with the pack. So he randomly inserts it between a scene in which Samantha finally decides to run for mayor and the one where she gives her very first campaign speech. The reader, who was really wrapped up in Samantha’s decision to throw her hat into the ring, is initially confused. Who’s Pam, and why is she on all fours with a bunch of wolves?
At first we try to find the link between the two stories. Is Samantha going to run on an environmentalist platform? Is this a dream maybe?
But the further we venture into the woods with Pam, the more we realize we have a choice to make. We can either forget about Samantha and throw our allegiance behind this new story or leaf through the book until we find Samantha again, skipping over all this wolf nonsense. It feels like we’re standing on a frozen lake, and the ice beneath us has cracked neatly in two and is beginning to drift apart. We know we can only straddle both sides for so long before we have to leap onto one or the other—or fall into the water and freeze to death. And since, ironically, the flashback is the one moving forward, that’s usually the ice floe we take refuge on.
So off we go with the wolves. And chances are it will get pretty good. Who needs Samantha, anyway? Running with the wolves is much more fun than listening to a newbie’s rambling political discourse. But just when our allegiance shifts to Pam, the author deposits us in some stuffy high school auditorium where Samantha is nervously taking the stage. Except now it’s Pam we miss. Not to mention that we’re still trying to figure out what the foray into the woods has to do with anything, anyway. It doesn’t matter if later on we find out that Pam is Samantha’s mom, because right now, at this moment, we’re lost—which means that we very well might not get to later.
But do we really need a long flashback to tell us this? Couldn’t a few well-placed snippets of backstory do the trick? Very possibly. And hey, what’s the difference between backstory and flashbacks anyway?
Flashbacks and Backstory: One and the Same?
This is a question that often comes up, and the answer is yes, they are. Same material, different uses. Backstory is just that—everything that happened before the story began—and as such it is the raw material from which all flashbacks are drawn. So what’s the difference between a flashback and weaving in backstory? It’s simple. A flashback, being an actual scene complete with dialogue and action, stops the main storyline; weaving in backstory doesn’t. Backstory is, in fact, part of the present.
Neatly woven in, backstory is a mere snippet, a fragment of memory, or even an attitude born of something that happened in the past and runs through the protagonist’s mind as he experiences, and evaluates, what is happening to him in the present.
Here is a perfect example from Walter Mosley’s novel Fear Itself. The novel takes place in Watts in the 1950s, and in this snippet, protagonist Paris Minton is thinking about why he seems willing to continually put his life on the line for his friend, Fearless Jones:
Anyone who knew me and didn’t know Fearless would have been surprised that I would have put myself in such a potentially dangerous situation. To the world in general I was a law-abiding worrywart. I shied away from drugs and crap games, stolen merchandise and any scheme that might in any way be construed as unlawful. I never bragged (except about my sexual endowment), and the only time I ever acted tough was to shout at caged animals.
But when it came to Fearless I was often forced to become somebody else. For a long time I thought it was because he had once saved my life in a dark alley in San Francisco. And that certainty did have a big effect on my feelings toward him. But in recent months I have come to realize that something about Fearless compelled me to be different. Partly it was because I felt a deep certainty that no harm could come to me when I was in his presence. I mean, Theodore Timmerman should have killed me on that street, but Fearless stopped him even though it was impossible. But it was more than just a feeling of security. Fearless actually had the ability to make me feel as if I were more of a man when I was in his company. My mind didn’t change, and in my heart I was still a coward, but even though I was quaking I stood my ground more times than not when Fearless called on me.11
Rendered in stark simplicity that makes it all the more compelling, the passage illuminates Paris’s point of view, giving us insight into how he sees the world, what he values, and most important, why. And in so doing, it also gives us several salient details about his past, without once stopping the story.
A flashback does the same thing but presses the story’s pause button to do it, demanding the reader’s full and complete attention. Which means it better have a clear reason for doing so at that very moment, lest it become another of those poorly placed, ill-thought-out flashbacks that drove my colleague to the conclusion that it’s better to ban them altogether than put them in the hands of those who would use them only to shoot their stories in the foot.
Flashbacks and Subplots: Harnessing Cause and Effect to Timing
The good news is, there’s a nifty set of clear cause-and-effect rules that govern the seamless flitting back and forth between a flashback or subplot and the main storyline:
• The only reason to go into a flashback is that, without the information it provides, what happens next won’t make sense. Thus there is a specific need—or cause—that triggers the flashback.
• This cause needs to be clear, so we know, from the second the flashback begins, why we’re going into it. We must have a pretty good sense of why we need this information now. And as the flashback unfolds, we always need to sense how it relates to the story that’s been put on hold.
• When the flashback ends, the information it provided must immediately—and necessarily—affect how we see the story from that point on. The flashback needs to have given us information without w
hich what’s about to happen wouldn’t have quite made sense. This isn’t to say it can’t also have given us information whose significance we won’t learn until later—but it can’t be only that.
Foreshadowing: A Genuine Get-Out-of-Jail-Free Card
It happens all the time. You’ve carefully plotted out your protagonist Stephanie’s gauntlet of challenge, and she’s doing quite well indeed, until suddenly she discovers that in order to uncover the real truth about Uncle Cedric, she has to hide in that teeny tiny broom closet under the stairs for who knows how long, which is fine, until you remember that you gave her claustrophobia back in chapter 2 to explain why she couldn’t take her niece Becky on the ill-fated submarine ride at Disneyland. Now what? If you ignore the fact that she has claustrophobia and let her spend the evening crouched in that stuffy closet anyway, your readers instantly spot it, and this being the digital age, waste no time in shooting you a snide email telling you so. But if you go back and let her take Becky on the damn ride, it will change everything that’s happened since. So what do you do? This is where a little foreshadowing comes in very handy.
