Wired for Story: The Writer's Guide to Using Brain Science to Hook Readers from the Very First Sentence (32 page)

In other words, memories aren’t just for reminiscing. They never were. Memories are for navigating the now. And not just personal memories. Recall what we’ve said about stories: they are the brain’s virtual
reality, allowing us to benefit from the experience of hard-pressed protagonists.
⁴
By the same token, we learn from watching and discussing how others—whether friends, family, or foe—struggled with the banana peels that life blithely tossed in their path. We get a kick out of this because it reveals what might happen if we took a similar course of action without having to actually suffer the pratfall. As Steven Pinker points out, “Gossip is a favorite pastime in all human societies because knowledge is power.”
⁵
Sometimes this knowledge gives us power over others, and sometimes it gives us the power to make the right decision when our time comes.

What this boils down to is that the memory of everything we’ve done, seen, and read affects, and is affected by, what we’re about to do right now. To quote Tony Soprano’s (rather colorful) lament in HBO’s seminal series
The Sopranos
—when his consigliere Sil presses him to whack his beloved but weak-willed cousin, Tony B.—“All due respect, you got no f*ckin’ idea what it’s like to be number one. Every decision you make affects every facet of every other f*ckin’ thing. It’s too much to deal with almost.”
⁶

This is true of life; this is true of story. And just like Tony, the writer is required to deal with it, no matter how overwhelming it feels. The question is, given that all these memories and decisions are influencing your protagonist as she struggles with her issue, how do you, as a writer, weave it all together? How do you make manifest relevant bits from the protagonist’s past, the events she witnesses that sway her outlook, and the effect outside forces have on her, whether she’s aware of them or not? What’s more, how do you make it seamless and elegant—that is, without calling a big fat time-out to fill us in?

This is where flashbacks, subplots, and foreshadowing come in. And
how
they come in—both literally and figuratively—is exactly what we’ll be exploring in this chapter. We’ll learn how to weigh new information against the story question to make sure it’s relevant; examine the three main ways that subplots add critical depth; explore the role of pacing and timing when it comes to flashbacks, subplots,
and foreshadowing; and discuss how a little judicious foreshadowing can swoop in to save your story from becoming a groan fest.

Here’s a delicious paradox: a story is the shortest distance between two points—the point where the story question shifts into play and the point where it’s resolved. However, the shortest distance between these two points is often a very circuitous route indeed. That is to say, the crow flies in spirals. Because it’s not just about getting from point A to point Z; it’s about being aware of everything—past, present, and future, internal and external—that affects the protagonist’s struggle, each step of the way.

How
do
you capture the multilayered experience of life on something as two-dimensional as a sheet of paper, in a medium as linear as words? The same way a painting does. By tricking us. Ironically, the only way to evoke the fullness of reality is by first zeroing in on the heart of the particular story you’re telling and parsing away all the real-life distractions that don’t affect it. The goal is to then weave in relevant elements of the past, ongoing auxiliary storylines, and hints of the future—whether via a subplot, flashback, or bit of foreshadowing—so the reader sees them for what they are (necessary information) rather than what they aren’t (dreaded and deadly digressions).

This can be tricky, since timing is everything. Give us an otherwise crucial piece of information too soon, and you neutralize it; it becomes a digression in spite of itself. Give it too late, and it’s a groaner. That’s why every subplot, every flashback, must in some way affect the story question—that is, the protagonist’s quest and the inner struggle it incites for her
—in a way the reader can see in the moment
. Because just as your protagonist always views the present through the filter of the past, so will readers view every subplot, flashback, and bit of foreshadowing in light of the story you’re telling.

A story without subplots tends to be one-dimensional, reading more like a blueprint of your protagonist’s day than a revealing rendition of it. Subplots give stories depth, meaning, and resonance in myriad ways. They can give the protagonist a glimpse of how a particular course of action she’s considering might play out; they can complicate the main storyline; they can provide the “why” behind the protagonist’s actions. And in doing so, they can also neatly plug up any otherwise gaping plot holes, introduce characters who will soon play a pivotal role, and show us things that are happening concurrently. Subplots also help set the pace by giving readers a bit of necessary breathing room, allowing their cognitive subconscious to mull over just where the main storyline might be heading.
⁷

Stated simply and eloquently by literary blogger extraordinaire Nathan Bransford, pacing is the length of time between moments of conflict.
⁸
While conflict is what drives a story forward, it’s often the mounting anticipation of it that has readers so engrossed they forget to breathe. Too much sustained conflict is like trying to live on a diet of nothing but ice cream sundaes. You’d get sick of them in a surprisingly short time (trust me on this), probably right before all that fat and sugar lulled you into a nice long nap. This is the flip side of what we were talking about in the last chapter. Once a pattern becomes utterly predictable, familiar, normal, our attention inherently wanders; it’s a biological universal.
⁹
Readers can only take in so much continuous conflict before they switch from finding it riveting to wondering what’s on TV.

The more you stick to a constant heart-pounding tempo, the quicker the story loses its oomph. Look at it this way: Imagine it’s ninety degrees. That’s hot, right? Now imagine it’s been ninety degrees
for your entire life, inside and out, everywhere. In that case, ninety degrees wouldn’t be hot, it would be normal. And normal, no matter how sweaty, is dull. I remember watching the second installment of the Indiana Jones franchise at the drive-in. Toward the end, when the story disintegrated into one long, monotonous multimillion-dollar chase scene, I was so bored that in order to stop losing brain cells, I spent a very satisfying half hour cleaning out my car. The most exciting moment of the evening wasn’t when Indy triumphed over the bad guys (they were already at work on the sequel, so no suspense there); it was finding my favorite pair of sunglasses buried deep in the glove box.

The goal is to set the pace so each burst of intense conflict in the main storyline—each sudden sprint, each unexpected twist—is fueled by the information and insight that’s been building since the previous twist. Each time the conflict peaks, you want to back off a bit to give the reader time to take it in, process it, and speculate on its implications, which is often where subplots come in.

Subplots invite the reader to leave the recent conflict behind for a moment and venture down a side road that, he believes, will lead back to the story in the near future. The reader is willing to take this jaunt because he trusts that when the subplot returns to the main storyline, he’ll have more insight with which to interpret what’s happening.

This is the implicit bargain that readers and writers make when it comes to subplots. Readers accept that sometimes the specific story reason for a subplot isn’t completely clear at the outset. But they have the tacit expectation it soon will be, which they trust the writer to fulfill. And so they eagerly begin trying to figure out what the subplot has to do with the story question and what its impact will be. You can see where this is headed. It better actually have an impact! I can’t say this too strongly: all subplots must eventually merge into—and affect—the main storyline, either literally or metaphorically, or else the reader is going to be mighty
disappointed. And while in the olden days, disgruntled readers suffered pretty much in silence, now there’s Amazon. The last thing you want are myriad scathing reviews that potential readers “find helpful.”

We know everything in a story must affect the protagonist in his or her quest, as in: Neil’s goal is to get into Yale, so when he fails his senior history class, his heart sinks. The effect is clear, concise, and direct. And that’s good. But it could be better. Since nothing spurs readers’ mounting interest more than anticipation, giving us the same information—that Neil will fail history—via a subplot not only adds suspense (as we wonder how Neil will react when he finds out), but an intriguing layer of story as well.

For instance, suppose Neil deserves an A in history, but while he’s toiling away on his term paper, we hop into a subplot in which his history teacher, Mr. Cupkak, a humorless hardliner, decides to fail the entire class because he’s just discovered that an anonymous student posted a video on YouTube photoshopping his face onto a very naked mole rat. We wouldn’t see the effect this has on Neil in that particular scene, but because we know what Neil wants—to go to Yale—we’d instantly grasp the effect it will have on him when he finds out. And so when we return to the main storyline—where Neil is just finishing up his term paper, feeling great because he’s sure it’s the best thing he’s ever written, confident it’ll get him the highest grade in the class and maybe even land him the coveted valedictorian slot
—we
, on the other hand, are filled with a creeping dread, knowing he couldn’t be more wrong; we are bristling at the unfairness of it—and rooting for him to find a way to take the teacher down. We’ve become his advocate. We’re in his corner; we feel protective of him. And, truth be told, we feel just a little bit jazzed that we’re in a superior position—after all, we know something he doesn’t. We’re engaged to the max, complete with a vested interest in what happens next.

However, it helps to keep in mind that although a subplot gets its primary meaning and resonance based on how it affects the main storyline, it has a life of its own. Subplots arc; they even have their own story question that must be resolved. For instance, don’t you wonder whether that horrid Mr. Cupkak will get away with failing the entire history class—not to mention how he got to be such a sourpuss in the first place?

But not all subplots directly affect the protagonist. Sometimes their purpose is to give the protagonist necessary insight, the same way a story gives the reader insight: by letting him benefit from the experience of some other poor dog.

As we noted in
chapter 5
, mirroring subplots don’t literally mirror the main storyline, because no reader wants to spend time in the department of redundancy department. Rather, they revolve around secondary characters in a situation similar to the one the protagonist finds himself in, and what happens in them doesn’t necessarily have a direct external affect on the protagonist. Instead, the affect is internal, in that it changes the way the protagonist sees the situation—because mirroring subplots reveal alternate ways in which the story question could be resolved. Thus they either serve as a cautionary tale or a validation or provide a fresh perspective.

For instance: Let’s say the story question is, will Danielle and Perry revive their failing marriage? In a mirroring subplot, their unhappily married neighbors, Ethan and Fiona, might simply throw in the towel and break up. This spurs our protagonists to reconsider their options, and because Ethan and Fiona seem much happier now that they’re finally free, Danielle and Perry begin secretly exploring life on their own.

Ah, but as mirroring subplots unfold, they tend to arc in the opposite direction from the main storyline. They often whisper:
This is what
you’re wishing for; are you sure it’s what you really want?
Thus in the end Fiona and Ethan bitterly regret their breakup, triggering Perry and Danielle’s realization that maybe sticking with the devil you know isn’t such a bad thing after all. Plus, devils can be sort of cute, in the right light.

But whether mirroring or not, all subplots must earn their keep by giving us information we need to know, be it factual, psychological, or logistical, in order for the main storyline to make sense. Here are three ways a subplot can do its job: