Wired for Story: The Writer's Guide to Using Brain Science to Hook Readers from the Very First Sentence (17 page)

So here is a fledgling premise: what happens when a woman about to turn forty meets the young actor she has a secret crush on and they fall madly in love?

Stop laughing. It could happen. The question is how. And no, we’re not talking stalking, hypnosis, or a Vulcan mind meld. We’re talking for keeps.
Voluntarily
. That means we have our work cut out for us.

On the surface, this story is about how a forty-year-old woman wins the heart of a twenty-six-year-old movie star. But what’s it really about? What does winning the movie star’s heart mean to her? What inner issue must she deal with in order to even try? To find out, we need to probe a little deeper. What’s her love life like, anyway? Let’s give her a boyfriend, one whose personality tells us something about her inner issue. How about a very nice but dull fiancé who’s pressuring her to get married? And damned if she isn’t considering it. Why? Because he’s “safe.” Does this mean she has a hard time taking risks? You bet. So what this
story is
really
about is how a woman learns to overcome her fear of risk taking when she’s forced to choose between a safe, comfortable future, and the possibility of an exhilarating one that comes with no guarantees.

Now we can take our premise—
Can a forty-year-old woman win the heart of a much younger man?
—and harness it to a theme: what happens when a person who’s never taken a risk in her life throws caution—and a safe, comfortable life—to the wind? Which translates to: unless you take risks with the devil you don’t know, chances are you’ll spend the rest of your life shackled to the devil you do know. Now let’s refine it a bit. What are we saying about human nature? How about: when you work up the courage to take a risk, good things happen, even if they’re not quite the good things you expected. Great—now we have an idea of how the world is going to treat her.

So are we done with our character bio and outline? Nope. How do we know? Well, close your eyes. What do you see? Not much, which brings us to another handy one-step test.

If you can’t picture it, it’s general. If you can see it, it’s specific. As we’ll explore in depth in
chapter 6
, you
must
be able to see it. The general, at best, conveys an objective idea that just sits there, idling in neutral; the specific personifies that idea, giving it a context that brings it to life. Big difference.

We still need to do more digging. For instance, this woman—let’s call her Rae—what’s her life like? Does she have kids? As a matter of fact, she does. A daughter. Is Rae divorced, then? Naw, don’t want any ex-husbands lurking in the wings. Let’s say Rae is widowed. Does she have a job? Nope. Her husband Tom left her enough to live on. Wait a
minute, where’s the goal in any of that? The conflict? It’s inert. We’re not looking for stats, we’re looking for balls in play. So if her inner issue is that she isn’t much of a risk taker, what in her past lets us know that? And hey, what triggered her warped worldview, anyway?

How about this: Rae wants to be a painter. Her mom was a painter; Rae learned at her feet. It thrilled her, the way everyone gushed over her mom’s paintings—she didn’t notice that no one ever actually offered to buy one. Until one day Rae overheard her mom’s best friend talking with a neighbor about how horrendous everyone thought her mom’s paintings were, but no one wanted to hurt her feelings by saying so. Rae was mortified for her mom, who she thought would be crushed if she knew. It wasn’t a position she herself ever wanted to be in. So she’s never shown a single one of her own paintings to anyone outside her family and friends. She
thinks
she has real talent. At least she hopes so. That’s what keeps her going. Her fear is that she’ll show her paintings to a pro and find out her main talent is the same as her mom’s: self-delusion. Even so, she vows that soon she really will show them to the art dealer around the corner (aha, a goal!). But not today. That’s been her plan for the past decade. Hey, it’s worked so far.

Let’s review. We know Rae’s inner issue is her fear of risk. Thus, her closeted paintings now establish it as a “preexisting condition.” And because it’s specific, the reader figures that chances are it’s something she’ll try to overcome (meaning, it’s something they can actively anticipate).

Next, let’s turn our sights to Rae’s daughter, whom we’ll call Chloe. Why do we need her? No reason so far. The question, as with all subplots, is how does Chloe’s existence impact the main storyline? Does it move it forward? Perhaps we should give Chloe a subplot that mirrors Rae’s. We’ll discuss subplots in depth in
chapter 11
; for now, suffice to say that mirroring subplots don’t literally mirror the main storyline for the obvious reason—it would be redundant (hence boring). Instead, they reveal alternate ways in which the story question could be answered, usually for the protagonist’s benefit—as either a cautionary tale or an incentive to change.

So how about this: Chloe is sixteen and plays the sax. She’s good. So good she was just accepted to Juilliard, full scholarship. But because they live in, say, Charleston, South Carolina, it’s a long way from home. This gives Rae several legitimate reasons why Chloe should stay home and finish high school, instead of skipping her senior year and moving to a strange city where she knows no one. Besides, despite what a great sax player Chloe is, there are no guarantees, and the life of a musician is so unpredictable. Chloe, of course, is dying to go. Will Rae let her?

Okay, we’ve set up a mirror. And something else—something you’re always on the hunt for as you dig through your characters’ backstories: current conflict. Especially conflict wired to a ticking clock. Like, say, that Chloe has a week to let Juilliard know whether she’ll accept their offer. Good. Ball in play.

Now, what about Rae’s dead husband, Tom? How does their relationship mirror or inform what will happen when she meets Cal? Well, here’s a thought: since Cal is much younger than Rae, why not make Tom much older? Excellent choice. It means Rae knows a relationship with a large age gap can work—even though, of course, being the younger woman mitigated the risk that would have been involved on a more level playing field.

Which brings us to the force of opposition: what’s standing in Rae’s way (beside her inner issue)? Let’s start with societal norms—the kind that spur the snickering assumption that a young man on the arm of a woman of a certain age means that money must be changing hands. Or worse, that she’s a “cougar,” conjuring the predatory image of heavy makeup, collagen-stung lips, and tummy tucks. This unspoken attitude permeates every element of the story, including Rae’s psyche. Her heart beats with the question,
What will people say?
Look at what they said about her mom, and that was just over paintings.

Does that work as a force of opposition? Not yet. It’s still too nebulous, too general. Sure, it will be reflected in the way certain characters react to Rae and Cal, but it remains conceptual. Close your eyes and you see nothing. We’re looking for a more concrete obstacle, something
we can picture. What Rae needs is a specific either/or, preferably one that will be affected by a possible relationship with Cal—which brings us to her boyfriend, the well-meaning but hapless Will, who has begun to push for marriage. Rae isn’t sure why she hasn’t said yes. He’d be a great stepfather for Chloe, he’d never stray, and he’d never tell her what to do. Which isn’t to say there aren’t a lot of traditional things he simply
expects
Rae to do. And why not? She’s led a traditional life up to now. But what Will doesn’t know is that the harder he pushes, the more she realizes there are other possibilities. They’re just on the other side of a door she’s never dared open. Risk. Then again, isn’t security what everyone is really after? And Will isn’t such a bad guy. So Rae promises to give him an answer by the end of the week. Excellent. That’s two balls in play.

And finally, what about Cal? What’s his story? What’s his goal? What’s his internal issue? Story first: let’s say Cal’s been famous since he was fifteen. He’s grown up in the spotlight. In two days he’s due to begin filming the movie that will catapult him from megastar to icon—everyone says so. Trouble is, he’s begun to suspect that being rich and famous isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and he’s feeling pretty darn sorry for himself. He’s sick of being recognized wherever he goes. He wants to disappear for a few days, so he can decide what to do next. That’s goal, internal issue, and ball three.

Okay. Now we know our major players. Are we ready to begin? Well, let’s apply our eyes-wide-shut test. If you close your eyes, can you see anything yet? Nope. We’re still backstage, in the dark. We have the Who and the Why. We need the Where and the How before the action can begin—aka the What Will Happen. The plot.

Let’s pry off another layer in search of a place where Rae and Cal might bump into each other. What if … there’s a place each holds dear? What if it’s the same place? Okay, that would work, but we have to be careful. It
can’t be the same place by coincidence—that is, because the plot needs it to happen. What we’re looking for is a
story reason
that pulls them to the same place, at the same time. Fair enough.

What if Cal’s family used to rent a vacation cottage every summer on a small rugged island off the Carolina coast? What if it was the last place he remembers being “himself,” before fame struck? Okay, good.

Let’s say Rae’s had a crush on Cal since the first time she saw him on screen, when he really was jailbait, and long before he became as famous as he is now. That’s why soon thereafter, when she read that Cal’s family used to vacation on the island, on a lark she decided to see whether the cottage was still available as a summer rental. And guess what? It was. So for the past several years Rae, Chloe, and Will have summered there. Now we have something in both Rae
and
Cal’s past that not only ties them to the same place, but ties them to it for the same reason.

Now that we have a logical place
where
Cal and Rae can believably be thrown together, what about the
how
? We don’t want a lot of people gawking at them—not at first, anyway. In fact, best if these two can get to know each other alone. So let’s sift through what we already know about them and see if we can come up with an answer.

What if … it’s the end of the summer. Rae has a week to decide if she’s going to marry Will and whether she’ll allow Chloe to go to Juilliard. So she decides to stay on the island alone after everyone else has gone home, to make up her mind. She knows there’s a bit of risk in this. The island will be deserted. And it’s September, the middle of hurricane season. But after a lifetime of taking the safe route, she decides to take one little chance.

And didn’t we give Cal a deadline, too? He’s supposed to report to the set for that blockbuster he’s about to film. But like Rae, he is having second thoughts about his future. Knowing his life will be forever changed if he appears in the movie, he needs to take a time out. He needs to be alone to figure out what to do next. And what better location than the last place he remembers being happy? The island. After all, it’ll be deserted; how hard can it be to break into the cottage where he stayed as a boy?

Notice that both our main characters have a clock that just started ticking. That means we’ve found our beginning. Each one is standing on the shore of “before,” staring into the distance, trying to make out the shape of “after.” The story will chart the path in between.

Now we have Why, Where, How, When, and Who. Close your eyes and you can begin to see it actually unfold. Is it the kind of perfectly formatted hierarchical outline that would’ve received a gold star back in elementary school? Probably not. Is it enough for you to start writing? Quite possibly. Our story is now securely anchored in the “before,” and what happens will be meted out by ticking clocks tied to specific upcoming events, which will force our protagonists to confront the long-standing fears and desires that up to now they’ve swept under the rug. There will be a mounting sense of urgency, and readers will indeed be able to anticipate what happens next.

Do we know the answer to our original premise: what happens when a woman about to turn forty meets the young actor she has a secret crush on, and they fall madly in love? Nope. We know something even more important. Turns out that’s not what our story is about. It’s really about whether Rae can overcome her fear and risk showing her paintings, knowing that, regardless of the reaction, she’ll be okay. It’s about facing who you are and taking the consequences, not to mention the perks, one of which just might be finding your true love. Just saying.

Have we set the stage to find out? Yep. So you see, outlining doesn’t have to take the spontaneity out of writing. You don’t need to know
exactly
how the story is going to end, but you do need to know what the protagonist will have to learn along the way—that is, what her “aha!” moment will be. And even if you do have a precise scene-by-scene outline? As we discussed in
chapter 2
, there’s no law that you have to stick to it. Sometimes the excitement of writing is discovering those places where the story suddenly careens into new territory on its own—and you realize its new direction makes even more sense than the one in which it was headed. Of course, in this as in most things in life, luck tends to favor the prepared.

And the best preparation for writing any story is to know with clarity what your protagonists’ worldview is, and more to the point, where and why it’s off base. Thus you have a clear view of the world as your protagonist sees it and insight into how she therefore interprets, and reacts to, everything that happens to her. It’s what allows you to construct a plot that forces her to reevaluate what she was so damn sure was true when the story began. That is what your story is really about, and what readers stay up long past their bedtime to find out.