Flogging the Quill

Hurt Me Good

We all have plenty of tension in our lives, so why on earth would we ask—no, demand more? When it feels good—in a page-turner story. What happens when you don’t deliver a dollop of tension on virtually every page of your novel manuscript?

The agent mails a rejection. The acquisition editor says, “Pass.”

Agents and editors see hundreds of submissions. They all want to discover an outstanding story. They want to be compelled to turn your pages. But they see so many submissions that your storytelling needs to be almost perfectly compelling to get them to go much beyond page one.

Agent Donald Maass says in Writing the Breakout Novel, “To hold our attention a novel’s action needs to compel us to read every word.” That doesn’t mean bloody, balls-to-the-wall action; it can be torment inside a character’s head, or a verbal duel in a courtroom, or delivering the diagnosis in a doctor’s office.

Nor does it have to come from the main conflict in your story. He talks about using bridging conflict when you’re not focused on the main pain.

For example, in a critique group member’s novel, she created a simple but effective bit of tension during a question-and-answer session at a public meeting. The protagonist raises her hand to ask a question. Someone else is called on. She lowers her hand. She tries this a couple more times, but is still not called upon. She feels frustration, and her own tension builds. Finally, after being passed over yet again, she decides to just leave her hand in the air. The reader thinks that surely this will succeed. She’s ignored again. Finally she waves her hand and gets to ask her question. It isn’t much, but it added an edge while the storyline developed.

Elsewhere, Maass writes of a need for tension on every page. Every page? Isn’t that sort of mechanical—can’t a character have a happy time now and then? Not really, not unmitigated happiness, not if you want to compel. If there isn’t trouble, there must be trouble to come that the reader anticipates. For example:

Steve gunned the engine and the boat surged forward. Laura rose from the water on her skiis, unsteady at first, but gaining control. She was able to give him a quick wave and a big smile.

Steve started a turn that would take her past the dam, where the lake plunged into the canyon below. Spray cooled her sun-warm skin and the speed thrilled. The force of the turn sent her arcing out behind the boat, swinging wide and gaining speed. She couldn’t have been more alive, nor more in love.

Everything sounds hunky-dory, but what if the writer has previously planted this: Steve is a serial killer who romances women and then kills them, and water is always an element in his modus operandi? The reader will be feeling tension from the moment Laura gets into that boat, and it will only build. Is she headed over the lip of that dam?

I find it difficult to create overt conflict on every page, but a story with strong stakes and consequences makes it possible to use impending conflict to keep building tension in a reader. Yes, have those happy moments, but create “when-will-the-trouble-I-know-is-coming-strike?” story questions that foreshadow trouble that will damage or diminish the protagonist.

We’re far from done with the subject of tension. In a coming post I want to get into Robert McKee’s (author of Story) design for creating tension.

Please let me hear from you. Even better, email me with an example, published or unpublished, of something that peeves you or you have a question about, and I’ll level a beady eye at it. If it’s from your own work, tell me if I can post it or if you want a “private reading.”

Addict me…please!

The addictive power of caffeine—both biologically and psychologically—accounts for the passion behind the question to the left. Nobody asks that about decaffeinated coffee. What’s more, coffee drinkers volunteer to continue their addiction, coming back for cup after cup. Tension is the caffeine of a story; without it, you get a no go from readers.

Rick DeMarinis, in The Art & Craft of the Short Story, writes, "Fiction is about trouble. Trouble is a direct consequence of desire. Characters are living embodiments of desire. A character in need is the force that sets a story in motion."

So why do so many of the first novels I see have decaffeinated beginnings? The number one problem in first novels is a killer lack of tension in the opening chapters. No trouble or threat to the protagonist that matters, no negative consequences to a character. In short, no story.

That’s what I buy a novel for: story. I don’t think anybody picks up a book thinking, “Boy, I hope there’s a great character here.” Nope, they want a great story. Story isn't the same as plot—story is plot plus characters. Plot makes things happen and raises questions, characters make us care about the answers. The writer’s job is to addict the reader with continuous hits of story questions that matter.

Strong stories hook readers with the stuff that fills the gap between what’s happening now and what’s going to happen next--tension. To do that, something has to be happening now, and it has to mean trouble in the future. And that’s the lack that causes so many first novels to fail. No caffeine. No stimulant. Instead, first novelists lead their readers into the Bog of Exposition. Suddenly mired in information or backstory, the reader wastes no time in closing the book.

For a recent sample edit, I critiqued the opening of a novel in which young people in an African village were being kidnapped, killed and fed to crocodiles. Good tension engaged me, and I wanted to know what was going to happen next. Then the writer opened a new chapter in which he introduced a new character. Unfortunately, as a prelude, he called everything to a halt to describe the company she worked for. He took over 500 words to dispense gripping details such as:

* What city the company was in.

* It had a modern, 12-story building with lavish offices for officers and lawyers.

* That it was an energy conglomerate (just the use of the word “conglomerate” makes me shudder.)

* What its departments were, and how they were broken down, including the fact that each unit had its own clerical support. (be still my heart).

* Field workers didn’t actually go into the field because they disliked roughing it.

Argh. But wait, there’s more. The writer finally gets to the character, but then launches into 400 words of backstory, going all the way back to her childhood.

* A rough childhood, single mother.

* Bored as a teenager and a disciplinary problem.

* Shaped up in late teens, became an overachiever.

* Has fits of depression and chews her nails.

Now, it could have been that some of her backstory was interesting, but this was all told in brief, boring summary. The story stopped while the writer droned on for over 900 words dispensing information. Nothing happened for pages.

Worse, 90% of the information dump had no bearing on what was going on in the story.

How come? The trouble lies in what’s in a writer’s head. He has all this information that makes the story meaningful and feels that the reader needs to know it as well. All too often, it ain’t so. But a new writer is too close to see--only expert “other eyes” can perceive what’s needed and what’s not.

Even when the lack of caffeine is pointed out it’s not easy for a “new” writer to understand because of the depth his inner knowledge adds to the words on the page. In another recent sample I advised the writer of the decaffeinated state of his opening chapters. He replied, “May be you have that one right. If I couldn't get you interested, or the fifty or so agents who have seen this so far, maybe it's something I need to investigate further.”

Fifty agents? Maybe? As long as this writer thinks “maybe,” he’s in denial. He needs to print out the word “trouble” and tape it to the top of his monitor, and then start the rewrite. I once had a novel rejected by an agent who wrote that the writing was good and the story interesting…”but I could put it down.” If you don’t compel, you don’t sell.

Next post: Donald Maass says “tension on every page.” Really? And how do you do that?

Pease let me hear from you. Even better, email me with an example, published or unpublished, of something that peeves you or you have a question about, and I’ll level a beady eye at it. If it’s from your own work, tell me if I can post it or if you want a “private reading.”