As I’m certain you can well imagine, there’s a very good reason behind how I came up with the title of this series. We’ve all read them (and perhaps thrown them across the room)—those books that just plod along, that seem to be going nowhere in particular: the navel-gazing introspection; the passages describing the way a dragon fly’s wings shimmer in the fading sunlight; the overly superfluous, ubiquitous, even-an-English-major-might-not-know-it vocabulary; the angst-ridden, whiney, on-the-journey-of-discovering-self-is-nothing-and-yet-everything characters. These are the kinds of novels that happen when the author has a love affair with the words, not the story. YAWN!

I don’t necessarily want to read a book that is so action packed I never get a chance to take a breather, unless I put the book down. I haven’t read Robert Ludlum’s books, but I understand from those who have, he does take plenty of downtime away from the action (apparently in a Clancy-esque need to describe technical stuff in detail). But even with as frenetic as the films are (the third being the most action-packed), they still have lulls in the action to give the viewer a chance to breathe, to catch up, to relax a moment before the next crisis hits.

If asked to draw a plot line on a graph, most of us would draw something like this:

(where the Y-axis [upright] represents level of conflict/suspense/action). This is a good, basic plot. There is rising suspense and action as the plot progresses and the conflicts increase.

Unfortunately, a lot of stories turn out more like this:

Flat-lining, either far short of including a lot of conflict, or throwing such a steady stream of conflict at the reader that there is no actual movement at all.

If you were actually to look at the plot lines of some of the best plot-driven novels, they would look more like an EKG read-out:

Many of these up and down moments in the plot will come from your characters. It’s no coincidence that the first three chapters of The Plot Thickens by Noah Lukeman are all on characterization. Sol Stein spends most of his two chapters on plotting discussing characters. It’s one of Don Maass’s five elements of plotting, and Ansen Dibell defined plot as what the characters do.

Well, I’ve already done a series on creating characters, so I’m not going to rehash all of that in this series as well. Suffice it to say, you must have good characters to have a good plot. If a story is to have one weakness and still be an enjoyable read, it’s in plot—because if the reader doesn’t relate with the characters, they won’t relate to the plot of the story, no matter how good. Characters are the portal through which the reader enters the story. The character is the avatar for the reader—the ultimate role-playing game.

Now, with all this talk of rising action and suspense, I know it sounds like I’m talking about something that is more action related, something that has life-and-death consequences. While those are the easiest stories to use as illustrations for plotting—because they’re plot-driven—what I plan to get into in this series is looking at how plot works at its most basic levels, which can then be applied to all genres.

Think about the plot of your current project. While we want to be constantly raising the stakes for the characters, it does not follow that the conflict, action, and/or suspense must always be rising also (or rising and falling at the same time—but that’s another post). Characters must experience some successes along with the setbacks, the obstacles, the thwarting of their desires. They must be able to stop and take a deep breath, so that the reader can, too.

If you’ve ever been to a classical music venue and heard a symphony played in its entirety, it depicts exactly this type of EKG writing—the rising and swelling of the music, the crescendo to the fortissimo followed by a decrescendo into pianissimo. But even though the second movement may be softer, there’s a tension behind it, a building toward that third movement; and then finally, it crashes into the climax of the piece—think the cannons firing and church bells chiming (and fireworks shooting off) at the end of the “1812 Overture.”

That’s the kind of bang we want our plots to have!

I happened to see this cartoon on a fellow WordPress blogger’s site. The title of the post is:

So, just call me a nerd.

Originally posted October 2006

My mom is a wonderful cook—and she loves doing it. For spans of years at different times in her life, she served as the Wednesday night “chef” at church. She loves having people over to the house for a meal, because it give her an excuse to get out all of her restaurant-size pots and pans. She loves recipe and cooking books, especially books that explore the science of cooking. Her ultimate dream-home is one that allows at least 1,000 square feet for the kitchen. Her idea of an over-the-top romantic gift: a commercial-grade gas stove with six burners and built-in griddle (she’s had one before and unfortunately jobs took my parents to another state, and she had to leave it behind). For Mom, cooking is one of her creative outlets—a stress reliever and something she does to bring happiness to herself and to others.

One of the many projects I’ve got on my desk at work right now is a pile of rough, reader-submitted recipes for a new Dessert Cookbook we’ll be putting out in the spring. A major part of the task is editing them for across-the-board consistency: measurements, terminology, order of ingredients, and step-by-step instructions. Some of the recipes were submitted by dear, sweet ladies who have been making these cakes or candies or pies all their adult lives, and many times, they tend to either leave out or gloss over important steps that someone just learning to cook, or who has never made that kind of recipe, might not be able to figure out on her own. If I did not have a good foundation in what we’ll call cooking theory—learned from years spent helping my mom in the kitchen—I wouldn’t recognize when those steps aren’t there.

Writing is very much like this. We must know our craft well—must become experts in the theory of the genres we’re writing in—so that when our manuscripts leave our desks and land in someone else’s hands, they don’t end up reading a mish-mash of a story because we left out important ingredients—such as story elements, wrap-up of secondary plots, or character development—or step-by-step directions—such as clear and concise plot, conflict, and resolutions.

There are basic fundamentals of cooking theory which cannot be ignored—yeast, baking powder, and baking soda are leavening agents; too much salt makes something inedible, while too little makes it bland; chicken must be thoroughly cooked to reduce the risk of food poisoning; Thanksgiving turkeys have a certain temperature at which they burst into flames; and eggs still in the shell will explode if microwaved. There are also basic fundamentals of writing which cannot be ignored—good grammar; goals, conflict, motivation; a clear beginning and ending; a well-defined plot; interesting characters; realistic dialogue; active rather than passive language; etc.

Then, within the world of cooking, there are certain types of cooking we find more enjoyable: bread baking, cakes and pies, cookies, grilling, casseroles, raw/organic, low fat/carb. These are like the genres in writing: romance, sci-fi, fantasy, suspense, horror, humor, mystery, children’s, inspirational, literary. Once a cook finds a knack for making certain types of food, she can—and usually does—discover that, in addition to the recipes she knows by heart and follows to the letter, she wants to experiment with her own ideas, based upon the principles and fundamentals she has learned by following others’ recipes to the letter. She starts to add a pinch of this, a dash of that. Maybe she has developed to the point where she can eyeball measurements and just throw stuff in a bowl and be confident it’s the right amount.

Because I don’t do a ton of cooking at home (mostly because it’s not so fun to cook for one person, and I hate having to clean up afterward), whenever I make something out of the ordinary, I always follow the recipe—but am comfortable enough with the theory of cooking that I can and do estimate measurements or experiment with different flavors or spices. There are a few things I make where I follow no recipe, just the basic steps I put together by doing it so many times—chili con carne, for example. I must have the basic foundations of the dish: tomato sauce, Rotel, Tennessee Pride HOT ground pork sausage, light red kidney beans. And I add the same amounts of these items every time (which is easy because they come pre-packaged that way). If I stopped there, it wouldn’t taste all that great. So I add spices: basil, oregano, chili powder, red chile flakes, onion (fresh or powdered), garlic (salt, powdered, or minced?), salt, ground black pepper. I’ll add some, stir the mixture, see what it looks like, let it bubble for a few minutes, taste it—knowing that once it cooks for a while the flavors will be intensified—add a little more of this, set that aside. I usually make chili about once a month—and it has never turned out the same any time I’ve made it. Sometimes it’s just okay, sometimes it’s fantastic. Next time I make it (which will probably be this weekend, now that I’m craving it), I’m going to try something that I saw on the Food Network—adding a little bit of cocoa powder to it.

In writing, I know the basic theory of my genre: boy and girl meet; boy and girl fall in love; boy and girl face rising obstacles to their happiness/relationship; conflict ultimately seems to tear boy and girl apart; boy and girl reconcile and live happily ever after. Pretty bland. But then I start adding the spices: a secret identity, a marriage of convenience between two people who think they can’t stand the other, an ex-fiancé returning to the picture, a mysterious illness, a job offer thousands of miles away, miscommunications and misunderstandings, sabotage by outsiders. One of the best things about adding spices in writing as opposed to cooking is if it doesn’t “taste” right, it can be edited right back out!

When we first learn to cook, we’re not doing it for a party of 500+. We’re usually doing it for ourselves and maybe our closest family members. Then, as we gain more experience and confidence, we start offering to bring dishes when invited to a friend’s home for dinner. If that goes over well, we might host a small dinner party for a very few close friends. Once the rave reviews come in (and the suggestions of what dishes to work on or not to serve again), we’ll become more and more confident with our skill and willing to invite larger and larger groups over for dinner parties.

When we first start writing, it’s usually something we do in private, not really letting many, if anyone, see it. But then, once we start learning the craft, we’ll allow a few close friends or family members read it. Eventually, we get to the point where we’re seeking out critique partners to have a taste of it—and then, the ultimate dinner party invitation: sending it out to agents and editors.

So, learn the foundations of the craft of writing. Learn the theory behind your chosen genre. And then, go out and write something tasty!