Writing Right with Dmitri - Having Your Cake and Eating It
Created | Updated Jul 14, 2013
Writing Right with Dmitri: Having Your Cake and Eating It
The good thing about writing fiction is that you, as author, are in control of the action. You can make the story come out any way you like.
You know what? That's also the bad thing about fiction.
The problem with reality, folks, is that it doesn't work too well. For every time an incident comes out right – the neighbours get together and help, the brave firefighter rescues the people trapped in the building, the right decision is made – there are ten times things didn't go so well. Frankly, reality's not all it's cracked up to be, sometimes. The tendency of reality to create problems is a boon to writers: that's where plots come from. The fact that in RL, these plots do not easily resolve themselves is a hazard, though. The question is, how do you solve these problems?
Writers like to make life difficult for their characters. Then they tend to resolve the plots by using – and sometimes misusing – their executive powers to slap solutions on these problems not found in nature. I call this trying to have their cake and eat it.
Recently, I've been looking at humorous fiction and sitcoms. And I've discovered something. There are basically two ways to make an absurd plot come out:
- Invent a story that has an obvious punchline. Withhold the solution until the last minute.
- Go hog-wild and make up a silly story. Then slap a forced ending on it.
Here's an example of the first option:
On the 1960s US TV sitcom Bewitched, a young man comes to dinner at Samantha and Darrin's house. He's an old friend of Darrin's. Somehow, he felt inspired to move back to New England. Oddly, the young man seems to be ridiculously accident-prone. As a card-carrying witch, Samantha is worried. When he mentions that he comes from Salem, Massachusetts, alarm bells go off.
Samantha consults her Aunt Clara's book of families cursed by witches in Salem – the legendary centre of witchcraft trials in the 17th Century. Sure enough, the family is accursed. If the young man doesn't perform certain elaborate rituals within the next 24 hours, something terrible will happen to him. The problem is: how do they get him to kiss a spotted dog, be dunked in water three times, and ride through the village dressed as Paul Revere, without explaining about witchcraft?
Much hilarity ensues, of course. They invent gobbledygook to excuse the fact that everybody has to kiss the dog. They throw him into the swimming pool three times, much to his disgust. But the last hurdle defeats them – they can get him into the costume by pretending it's a fancy-dress party, but how do they get him to ride the horse and shout, 'Witches are good!'?
Nothing easier. Once they break down and explain that he's under a curse, the guy dashes for the door. Why? 'Because I'm from Salem,' he gasps. 'This sort of thing happens all the time.'
Uh-huh.
Option 2:
In A Town Called Eureka, the writers (and everybody else) were understandably miffed when the network cancelled the series early, not giving them enough time to tie up all their outstanding plots. So what did they do? You shall hear.
The problem with Eureka, Oregon (besides that it's really Vancouver, British Columbia) is that it's government-owned. The mad-scientist characters spend the whole series fighting the military. This time, the military have decided that Eureka is not paying for itself. They fire everybody, and give them three days to get out of town. Sadness and sentimental farewells.
Then Dr Grant rides up in a fancy car. Dr Grant is a time-travelling mad scientist from the founding of Eureka in 1947. It turns out that Dr Grant, during a trip back to his home timebase, had the foresight to invest in some cool stock. (Cheat.) He's so fabulously wealthy, he can afford to buy Eureka from the government. He does, leaves the crew in charge, and rides away with a wave of his ludicrous hat. Problem solved.
As the 19th-century Penny Dreadful writer said, 'With a single bound, Jack was free.'
Is There an Option Three?
Well, of course there is. Otherwise we wouldn't be looking at this. Even if you're writing humour, you might – just might, mind you – want to do something less insulting to the audience than use an obvious punchline or a god out of the coffee machine. But it requires motivating your characters beyond the slapstick.
Do you remember Ghostbusters? Silly story, right? A group of completely useless 'psychic researchers' invent a sort of vacuum cleaner for scooping up ectoplasm. They store all the ghosties in a decommissioned firehouse. The Environmental Protection Agency's useless bureaucrat lets them out. The bogeys all beeline for the nearest Haunted Skyscraper and summon a premature and utterly otiose apocalypse.
Faced with ancient Sumerian gods who look like a glam-rock band gone to seed, our intrepid heroes are undaunted. Well, they're daunted, but still trying. 'Name your doom,' intones the most pretentious god-person.
It is at this point that you realise that not all the script people were completely under the influence of controlled substances during the writing process.
They've managed to make these characters more than cardboard. Yes, they're silly. Yes, there is no visible reason why their nonsense works, though work it does. (That's the premise.) But at heart, they are good folk, and they're brighter than they look. At least a few neurons are firing in the head of Dr Ray Stantz. While his colleague Dr Venkman is telling everyone to remain calm and blank their minds, Stantz is visualizing. He conjures the most harmless thing he can think of.
Dr Ray Stantz: I tried to think of the most harmless thing. Something I loved from my childhood. Something that could never ever possibly destroy us. Mr. Stay Puft!
Dr. Peter Venkman: Nice thinkin', Ray. – Ghostbusters.
Which is why we all remember the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man storming through Manhattan. And the marshmallow roast that follows.
The point is that the answer was embedded in the situation. But not obviously. In order to get to the solution, the characters have to work the problem. Following the way this unfolds is by far the most satisfying path a story can take for reader or audience. This holds true, not only for comedy, but for more serious work, as well. In fact, it isn't even true only in fiction – a factual essay will be much improved if you build a foundation for your readers at the outset, then let them follow your reasoning as you go along, rather than trying to have your cake and eat it by being unnecessarily mystifying.
Consider this Guide Entry about Mel Blanc. Before introducing the problem, I've pointed out that there was a bit more to Mel's relationship with Bugs Bunny than meets the eye:
Running from place to place is what got him into what Daffy Duck would have called 'a revolting predicament'. But Bugs, Sylvester, and the whole gang helped him out, as you shall hear.
This sort of sets the reader up to gather information as s/he goes: what was it about the relationship between Mel Blanc and Bugs Bunny that helped save Mel's life? The solution to the coma problem doesn't come out of left field – it's already been explained. Much more satisfying to a reader than telling it the other way, by having Bugs appear out of nowhere.
Can you do this with any subject? I say yea: remember to inform, motivate, deepen the background just enough, whatever it takes. Let the reader in on the process, just a little. So the next time you're writing a Guide Entry about the Franco-Prussian War, remember the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. Your readers will thank you while munching on yummy roasted sugar.
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