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I think somewhere back in my education, I took some kind of bookkeeping or accounting course—or maybe it was in a math class. What I do vaguely remember learning is the concept of simple versus compound interest. Now, I know it’s more complex than this, but here’s my understanding of it:

Simple Interest: Interest accrues only on the original amount of the debt.

Compound Interest: Interest accrues not only on the original amount, but on the growing total as interest that is not paid off builds up each month (or whatever the debt’s term is).

Now, I know most writers have just read this and thought—eew, I didn’t come here to read about economics.

WAIT! Before you click away, lemme ’splain what I’m talking about.

When we write, every time we introduce a question or a conflict to the story, we are incurring what’s known as narrative debt—in other words, we are building up toward the payoff at the end in the climax, where all of the reader’s expectations will be (or should be) paid in full. When we incur this debt, we have two choices when it comes to the “interest” that goes along with it: simple or compound.

With simple narrative interest, the debt is paid off by the end of the scene/chapter—in other words, the question is answered, the conflict managed/solved before the next chapter starts. The lost dog is found, the contract on the house comes through, the long-anticipated event goes well.

But the underlying foundation of most plots is compound narrative interest—some conflicts or questions linger and the interest compiles and compiles until you have to pay it off or risk losing your reader. This is like maxing out a credit card and then only paying the minimum payment each month. Yes, you’re keeping your account alive and in “good standing” but you’re not paying it off. It’s a big debt-monster sitting there waiting to devour . . . wait, this is about writing, sorry—flashbacks.

Take, for instance, the Suspense genre. Not only are there going to be breathtaking, spine-chilling scenes where our heroes or heroines are in peril, but then—whew!—are safe again, there is an undertone—a compounding interest—of unease or fear that pervades the entire narrative. Even when things seem to be going well, the reader can sense something isn’t quite right. This can be done through tone—through the words the writer chooses to use in the narrative (see my series on Showing vs. Telling for more hints on how to do this). It’s like the duh-dut, duh-dut of the theme song for the movie Jaws. When first watching the movie, you may not even notice the score. But then subconsciously, every time that music starts, you know something bad is going to happen.

Even though we want to avoid both of them in real life, in writing we want both types of interest—the simple interest to keep the reader satisfied with little payoffs that keep the story moving forward, along with the compound interest that keeps the reader turning pages because they have to find out how the ultimate debt of the story will be paid off.

As we solve conflicts or answer questions in our narrative, we should always keep in mind how these solutions/answers feed into the compounding narrative debt. The best way to do this is to create new conflicts or questions with the resolution of the one that came before. If the heroine gets out of one scrape, the escape may create two new ones down the road.

Unlike in life, in writing incurring debt is a good thing. Just like in life, paying it off is a very good thing.

We interrupt this Christmas programming for the following message:A couple of weeks ago, in the Subplots discussion I wrote about three areas Don Maass suggests as ways to create depth and subplot in our stories. One of these is RANGE which can be a hard concept to grasp.

Last night, after reading a couple of essays in Flirting with Pride & Prejudice: Fresh Perspectives on the Original Chick-Lit Masterpiece, I came across this quote by E.M. Forster: “All the Jane Austen characters are ready for an extended life which the scheme of her books seldom requires them to lead, and that is why they lead their actual lives so satisfactorily.” (Yes, you caught me, I was reading a book of literary criticism essays for pleasure.)

I will admit, I had to read this several times before I figured out what it meant. But once I did, it was a bit of an epiphany moment—I finally realized why I spend so much time with my characters outside of the events of the story I’m writing. Why I want to know everything that’s happened to them in their lives before the opening pages and why I want to know where they will be five, ten, or fifty years after the story ends. Because I am a character-driven writer, there are times when I simply feel like I’m just letting someone else tell me a story—something that happened to her one day as she went about her normal life, rather like listening to a friend. But for that story to have meaning to me, I have to know the person to be able to put the event into context—to know whether it’s funny or horrifying.

What E.M. Forster was saying about Jane Austen’s characters is that they exist beyond the scope of the story in which they are written. They have range. They have connections outside of the cast of characters who appear in the story. They do things in their lives that the reader may never know about (but the author does). In Jane Austen’s writings, Mansfield Park stands out in that it follows the heroine’s life from before her birth (opening with the marriages of her mother and aunts). But for the heroines of the other five major works—Lizzy, Emma, Elinor, Anne, Catherine—we are given only hints at the life they led before the book opens. We know some more about Emma through her relationship with Mrs. Weston, her former governess, than the others. But as readers, we know that these were women who were leading a “normal” early 19th Century life—because we see them doing so in the opening chapters of their novels. We know that we’ve picked up a story in the middle of someone’s existence.

Characters are not born on the first page of a novel (unless you’re writing an epic which follows a character from birth to death). What was your character doing an hour before your opening scene? A week before? A year before? What was she like as a child? Who were his friends? What games did she like to play? Did he have any pets?

When our characters have traumatic events from their childhood that affect the story we’re writing, we tend to spend more time analyzing their past to see how they’ve coped and why they act the way they do in the “present.” But just because a character hasn’t had childhood trauma, doesn’t mean that they don’t have an interesting past. Figuring out who they were before the story starts helps mold who they are as the events of the story transpire.

For the most part, characters do not die on the last page of a novel—okay, yes, sometimes they do, but I’m not writing this for those authors! What is your character going to do five minutes after what happens in the last line of your novel? An hour later? A week? A year? While this isn’t nearly as important to know as what happened to them before the novel’s beginning, it will help give you, as the author, closure. It can also generate ideas for follow-up or sequel books!

An aspect of Jane’s novels that I love is that she gives a very nice wrap-up summary of the “happily ever after” that her characters gain at the end of each novel. There is no wondering if Elinor and Edward Ferrars have to struggle to make ends meet on a clergyman’s salary—Jane shows us. (I wish this would come back in style . . . but I guess that’s what sequels are for.)

Now, go weave some extensions into your characters (wait, that doesn’t sound right)—anyway, go have fun getting to know your characters better . . . it’s writing related, but you can do it while you’re cooking, cleaning, shopping, or wrapping gifts. Just be sure to write down the highlights when you have a moment and they’re still fresh.

After giving us the three rules of subplots (connection, conflict, and range), Don Maass in Writing the Breakout Novel gives some steps on how to build subplots.

The first step he gives is to create a timeline of the main plot and the subplot. Then look for areas where they connect. More likely than not, he writes, you will probably find connections you didn’t realize were there which you can take advantage of to not only build the subplot, but to also add conflict and range to the main plot.

The second step he gives is to interweave the characters. Don’t give secondary characters just one role in the book—give them multiple roles. For example—have your heroine’s best friend be the doctor who has to tell the hero his father has died in an accident. Or your hero’s brother is the man who put the heroine’s father’s hardware store out of business by bringing in a big franchise chain-store. These connections don’t have to be revealed early—in fact connections like these are sometimes better left for an “aha” moment later in the story where it will create the most tension/suspense. (If you’re a fan of the TV show Lost, think about how all of the characters keep showing up in each other’s backstory—it’s almost a game to see who’s going to pop up in someone else’s “real world” life.) If you have a large cast of secondary and minor characters, look for those whose jobs you can combine into just one character and give that character a bigger role.

But something that can happen with character interconnectedness is a feeling that the relationship is contrived. You have to be able to justify to yourself and to the reader why the connection or interrelationship is there—to convince the reader through building realistic characters that this really could happen. That two men named Desmond and Jack could arbitrarily meet each other while running steps in a stadium one day and then three years later find themselves facing each other with guns in their hands down in a weird, psychological-experiment bunker on a seemingly deserted island in the middle of nowhere. (Have I mentioned I’m addicted to Lost?)

Third, if you are having trouble choosing characters to use for your subplot, look at the range of your main characters’ lives. Who is in their life from a different background or social stratus who can weave in and out and bring contrast and conflict to the story? Is there someone of a different “level” with whom your main character can change places—one experiences a sudden fall while the other a sudden elevation?

Fourth, be sure your subplot is not the same storyline as your main plot. Two Cinderellas in one story isn’t going to strengthen it if they both meet their princes and live happily ever after. Be sure your subplot provides some contrast to and conflict for the main plot. Remember the example in my first post in this series on the two subplots in Pride and Prejudice: Charlotte and Jane. Both provide contrast to Lizzy’s story—Charlotte’s story by challenging Lizzy’s ideals of romance, and Jane’s by challenging Lizzy’s trust in true love conquering all.

Finally, don’t let your subplot steal the show. Have you ever seen a movie where a minor character is either so charming, or so funny, or so intense that the scenes he’s in sparkle and the rest of the film falls flat? (Think Pumba and Timon in The Lion King or Chaucer in A Knight’s Tale.) You don’t want that to happen to your main plot. So, while having a well-developed subplot can be important, don’t spend so much time developing the subplot that your main story suffers.

Most of the time, a subplot will grow organically out of your main story. If not, your readers may not buy into your story if it seems forced or contrived. Remember, “When the characters are ready, the story will come out of me” (Jeff Shaara). Don’t force it. Just let it happen.

In the article “Put a Subplot to Work in Your Story” (The Writer, October 2006), Laura Yeager uses the example of the film The Wizard of Oz. The main plot: four misfits (a homeless girl, a brainless scarecrow, a heartless tin man, and a gutless lion) set out on one path (the yellow brick road) toward one goal (to have their “lesses” fulfilled). Much adventure and music ensues. No subplot right? According to Yeager, the subplot of Oz is Kansas—the bookends of the movie. When thinking of that movie, most of us usually remember the part in color with munchkins and witches—because that’s the main story and where we have the main conflict for the characters. But if it weren’t for seeing Dorothy at home and how much she yearned for adventure and excitement and to go “somewhere over the rainbow,” nothing that takes place in Oz would mean as much. Therefore, in this case, the subplot defines the motivation and goal for Dorothy. It gives value to her quest to return there even though in Oz, she seemingly has everything she’d wished for before.

I’ve recently adopted a quote by the writer of historical novels Jeff Shaara: “When the characters are ready, the story will come out of me.” In my case, this has been true with each of the manuscripts I’ve completed. The characters drove the story. It’s just a matter of coming up with the right characters in the right circumstances.

Developing a successful subplot depends mainly on choosing the right characters to work with. You do not have to incorporate additional POV characters to do this—one of your POV characters can be involved in the subplot. For example, in the movie Signs, the main plot of the movie (spoiler if you haven’t seen it) is about the impending invasion by hostile aliens, heralded by the crop circles in Rev. Graham Hess’s corn field. In a super-minor subplot (a conversation he has with two other people), we learn Graham’s younger brother Merrill was a minor league baseball player years ago with the record for most homeruns—and most strikeouts. “Felt wrong not to swing.” In what seems like another unrelated thread, we learn that Graham used to be a pastor but has fallen away from the church as a result of his wife’s accidental death. We see flashbacks throughout the story and eventually learn that the town veterinarian (a cameo by the film’s writer/director M. Night Shyamalan) fell asleep at the wheel and hit Graham’s wife on the side of the road, pinning her to a tree where she lingered long enough for Graham to arrive and speak to her. So what, we wonder, does this have to do with the hostile aliens who want to kill everyone? There is a touching scene of dialogue between Graham and Merrill about faith. We know that what happened in this subplot has affected the way our main character views the world. But it isn’t until the climax of the main plot, when the alien whose fingers Graham chopped off is holding the little boy about to kill him that we discover the significance of the subplot: as she spoke her final words, Graham’s wife gave him the solution. “Tell Graham to see . . . And tell Merrill to swing away.” Graham looks around the room and SEES the trophy baseball bat on the wall . . . and ding the subplot provides the resolution for the main plot. Graham repeats the words to Merrill, who then grabs the bat and does what he does best—swings it—eventually bringing about the demise of the alien.

In Writing the Breakout Novel, Don Maass spends a chapter on multiple POVs and subplots in which he gives some requirements for the development and use of subplots.

1. Subplots need to have a good reason for existing and should be interconnected with the rest of the story. He recommends looking for minor characters to use who are already close to the main character: family, friends, colleagues. He cautions against trying to use characters who are seemingly unrelated to the main story unless the connection will be revealed early on.

2. Subplots need to tie-in with and affect the main plot. If the subplot isn’t going to either help or hinder the ultimate resolution of the conflict of your main plot, it is just a rabbit-trail. So look for characters/subplot opportunities that can increase tension, create conflict, and raise the stakes for your main plot.

3. Subplots give you the opportunity to explore what Maass refers to as “range”: portraying a variety of experience. I had trouble understanding this until I related it to my own life. I don’t exist just as a copy editor for a small publishing house. I am a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a cousin. I am a member of a church in an area of town that is known for being well-to-do—but I don’t live in that area of town. I am a single, 35-year-old woman who is a happy member of a Sunday School class of married couples in their mid-40s and up. I sing in the choir. For the last six years, I’ve been a part-time student. I am former Vice President and current Educational Coordinator for the largest professional organization for Christian fiction writers in the world. Do you see where I’m going with this? If I were a character in a novel, looking at the range or full scope of my life there are several areas from which to pull interesting characters for subplots—family, coworkers, people at church, fellow college students, other ACFW officers or members, etc. We do not live in isolation—our characters shouldn’t either (unless that’s the plot of your novel!).

How many? Maass immediately follows these rules with the discussion of how many subplots to include. His take: “Two or three major subplots are about all that even the longest quest fantasies can contain.” Remember, the reason you’re writing your novel is the main plot. You don’t want to pull the reader’s attention away from it—except when it will build additional suspense. You also don’t want your readers to feel there are too many characters and so much going on that they can’t make sense of what your story is about.

So, look at your novel. If you feel you have too many subplots, determine which are rabbit-trails and which affect the outcome of the main plot. Focus on one or two and start exploring their merit. Do they connect, add complications, and extend the range of the main plot?

Subplots are the spices we add to the main plot. Just like food becomes inedible when too salty or not salty enough, using subplots in our novels is a delicate balance of adding enough to enhance but not enough to detract. Always keep in mind: your story is about your MAIN PLOT. Everything in it—characters, setting, subplots—is there to make it resonate with the reader.

I’ve lived on my own for a little more than ten years. Last year for the first time, I bought a little, pre-lit, 4-foot, artificial Christmas tree. Then, I had to decide how to decorate it. I had a small box of eclectic ornaments I could have used, but I really like cohesiveness and uniformity in the decorations in my home. So I chose to adorn it with glass balls in dark purple and gold (some shiny, some matte) with gold garland and a gold and white angel at the top. Some might find it boring, but I loved it. It was pretty, I liked to look at it, and it represented me—purple is my favorite color and in combination with gold reminds me of home (Baton Rouge where I spent every summer and eventually went to college at LSU. If I had a 10-foot tree, I would probably not do just two colors of glass balls. I would use all of my childhood ornaments and find others that represented me as well—because a large tree doesn’t look as unkempt or overwhelmed with a variety of shapes and colors. Subplots are much like Christmas ornaments (thanks, Donna Alice!). Imagine your story as a Christmas tree:

You have your story structure (the tree itself)—the conventional structure of your genre/your plot at its most basic form.

You have your main characters: The lights.

Then you start adding ornaments.

Setting: gold glass balls
External conflict for the POV characters: red glass balls
Internal conflict for the POV characters: green glass balls
Spiritual conflict for the POV characters: blue glass balls

If you have a “small tree” (a short story or novella), you are going to have a hard time fitting much more than this on your “tree.” Even in short category fiction, there isn’t really room for much other than the main plot involving two POV characters.

However if you have a “large tree” (a full-length novel), there is much more room to add more ornamentation:

Additional POV characters: the themed ornaments you’ve picked up everywhere you’ve ever traveled
Subplot A*: animated Hallmark ornaments
Subplot B**: all of those felt reindeer and Santa Clauses you made in G.A.s or Sunday School
Minor characters: tinsel and garland

*Subplot A—perhaps involves those additional POV characters and seems to be separate from the main plot but ends up having an effect on the story’s outcome.
**Subplot B—perhaps involving the antagonist and his schemes for derailing the main plot.

Do you have to put every single ornament on the tree? No. Nor do you have to explore every idea for a subplot you have. Have you ever seen a Christmas tree so overloaded with ornaments that you couldn’t see the tree nor the lights because of everything hanging on it? Have you ever seen a tree fall over because the weight either isn’t distributed properly or was just overwhelmed? You don’t want your novel to be like that overwhelmed tree. But you don’t want a Charlie Brown tree, either.

My WIP was like a tree starting to lean to one side because all of my ornaments were hooked onto the main plot. One of the first rules of developing a subplot is to take a minor character who is involved in his or her own plot and start writing that plot as well—interrupting the main plot when it will build the most suspense—all the while making sure it is relevant to the main plot.

I had a brainstorm yesterday. I’d written several chapters ago (in a desperate measure to try to stir up the story) that the hero’s mother and sister are coming to town. But it wasn’t until the sister, Charlotte (a name I chose long ago which I’m not sure I like any more), came on stage that I realized she was just the subplot I’ve been needing. I suddenly found myself not only writing in her POV, but seeing how she provides much of the plot and conflict for Book 2 of the trilogy, and becomes vitally important to the ultimate climactic conclusion in Book 3.

Next time: discovering the hidden subplots in your story and determining which to use and which to omit.

I’m having a really hard time with forward momentum with my WIP—not because it doesn’t have a strong plot, but because I don’t have anything to write about BUT the main plot.

So, over the next few posts, I’m going to be delving into subplots: what they are, how to write them, and how to make sure they’re well incorporated into the story so they don’t detract from the main plot, but enhance it.

In Plot Ansen Dibell writes:

Well handled, [subplots] can deepen the story’s context, offer ways to mirror or contrast with the main action, and be used in pacing to offer foreground motion while the main plot is in a temporary lull. When the main plot is busy, they can generate suspense when the narrative splits off to follow the subplot for a while before rejoining the main action, generally with added momentum and impact when they again converge.

Laura Yeager, in her article “Put a Subplot to Work in Your Story” (The Writer, October 2006) writes:

The subplot will either contrast with or run parallel to the main plot. For instance, say you’re writing a story about a woman who wants to get married and is looking for a husband. A subplot in this story might belong to a character who is through with men altogether. This contrasts with the main plot. Or, say you’re writing the same story about a woman who wants to get married. But let’s say her friend also wants to get married.
This plot could possibly run parallel to the main plot.

This example reminds me of two subplots in one of my favorite novels, Pride & Prejudice: Charlotte and Jane. Charlotte’s story—a woman marrying not for love but to avoid being a spinster for the rest of her life—contrasts Lizzy’s story:

“Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte—impossible!” . . .
“Why should you be surprised my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman’s good opinion, because he was not so happy as to succeed with you? . . . I am not romantic you know. I never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins’ character, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage state.” . . .
Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. . . . She had always felt that Charlotte’s opinion of matrimony was not exactly like her own, but she could not have supposed it possible that when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better feeling to worldly advantage. . . . And to the pang of a friend disgracing herself and sunk inher esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen.

If you are familiar with the story, you will remember that later, Lizzy visits Charlotte and Mr. Collins for six weeks and is surprised by how content Charlotte is with the life she has chosen. Mr. Collins is still as annoying as ever, but Charlotte has reconciled herself to her husband’s ways and is happy in the knowledge that she has a secure future. This contrasts with Elizabeth’s romanticism—especially since the first proposal from Darcy comes at the Collins’ cottage—who has sworn never to marry unless for love.

Jane’s story both parallels and contrasts Lizzy’s. Jane and Bingley openly fall in love while Lizzy and Darcy are antagonistic toward each other (although are also falling in love). Jane and Bingley are then torn apart because of the interference of his sisters and Darcy because they feel Jane isn’t good enough for him. Darcy, in the meantime, proposes to Lizzy in spite of his “sense of her inferiority—of its being a degradation—of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed to inclination.” In this instance, the Jane/Bingley subplot provides conflict for the main plot, as it is Darcy’s part in separating Jane from Bingley that drives Elizabeth to not just decline Darcy’s proposal, but to do it in such a way as to make him change his ways and do what he can to save Elizabeth’s family’s reputation to redeem himself from his “ungentlemanly” behavior. At the end, after Elizabeth has accepted Darcy’s proposal, the two couples are once again contrasted, as the family gathers in the sitting room after dinner:

The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The acknowledged lovers (Jane and Bingley) talked and laughed; the unacknowledged (Lizzy and Darcy) were silent. Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth; and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather knew that she was happy, than felt herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment . . . she was aware that no one liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others, it was a dislike which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.

Next time—with the help of some experts—I’ll look into how to develop a subplot.