Wired for Story: The Writer's Guide to Using Brain Science to Hook Readers from the Very First Sentence (22 page)

And so in literature,
not as in life
, the goal is to embrace conflict and harness it to suspense. Now, for the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: how do you translate impending conflict into ongoing suspense?

As we know, a story spans the distance from “before” to “after,” when things are in flux. Therefore a story inherently chronicles something that is changing. Usually that “something” revolves around a problem the protagonist must solve in order to actually get from the shores of “before” to the banks of “after.”

On the surface, conflict is borne along by escalating external obstacles that keep the protagonist from quickly solving the problem and getting on with his day, no worse for wear. But those obstacles mean nothing unless,
beneath
the surface, the seeds of that conflict are present from the outset, as they begin pushing their tender shoots through the soil in search of the sun. Picture it as the first hairline crack in the otherwise solid wall of “before.” The cause of this fissure is often the answer to the question,
Why does this story have to start at this very minute?
For instance, in Anita Shreve’s
The Pilot’s Wife
, it’s the ominous sound of a predawn knock at the door that tells Kathryn, the protagonist, that something is very wrong. This initial crack causes the plaster to slowly crumble as Kathryn discovers that her husband, Jack, was in many ways a complete stranger. The story, however, isn’t in the facts of Kathryn’s situation, per se, but in how she struggles to make
sense of them, given that everything she believed to be true up to that moment, wasn’t. Talk about the kind of change we’re wired to resist. Everything in Kathryn wants to believe Jack was the perfect husband, if only life (aka the story) would stop poking holes in her carefully—and largely subconsciously—constructed rationalizations.

Thus a story’s first hairline crack and its resulting offshoots are like fault lines, running through the center of the protagonist’s world, undermining everything. As with an earthquake, the cracks tend to be caused by two opposing forces, with the protagonist caught between them. I like to think of these battling forces as “the versus,” which taken together create the arena in which the story then proceeds to duke it out. Keeping in mind that every story has more than one versus, here are the most common:

So, to enlarge our nutshell a bit: story takes place in the
time
between “before” and “after” and in the
space
between the “versus,”
as the protagonist maneuvers within two conflicting realities, trying to bring them into alignment (and thus solve the problem). Once he does this, the space between them closes and the story ends. Meanwhile, the suspense builds as the reader wonders how on earth these realities, which seem to be moving further and further apart, will
ever
come together.

In short, it’s the story’s job to poke at the protagonist, in one way or another, until she changes. With that in mind, let’s take a look at how the “versus” can shape a story from the inside out.

Before we dive into their story, let’s review three important facts about how our brain processes info:

All this is another way of saying the reader knows way more than you think she does, so relax and don’t worry so much about giving too much away. Chances are your readers will be several steps ahead of your protagonist, which is exactly where you want them to be. For instance, the reader will have a much better handle on the likelihood of whether or not Marco, the office Lothario, will
actually
leave his wife the second she gets back from visiting her sick mother, than his fretful mistress Rita does—even though Rita is the first-person narrator. And that’s a good thing. Because it means suspense arises not only from what we suspect the characters will do, but from the tension we feel watching Rita pick out her trousseau, knowing damn well that not only won’t Marco be leaving his wife, but there’s a good chance he doesn’t even
have
a wife.

Thus while we’re rooting for Rita, the last thing we’re hoping for is that she’ll actually land Marco, even though we’re in her skin and can feel how strong her desire is. Instead we’re hoping she’ll realize Marco is actually the
last
thing she needs, before it’s too late and, god forbid, she actually gets him. Rita’s real struggle—the one the reader is following with bated breath, the one the story is about—is internal. In other words, the story revolves around how Rita
views
her world rather than what happens in it. Therefore there are myriad layers of conflict laced into Rita’s story. Let’s take them versus by versus, shall we?

On the external level we have what Rita
wants
(Marco) versus what Rita
has
(Marco’s promises). On the internal plane, the conflict is between what Rita
believes
(that Marco is her soul mate) versus what is
actually true
(Marco is soulless). This means that on the page we’re watching Rita try to woo and win Marco, as the writer slowly reveals that Marco is a very different sort from what Rita imagines. This gives the reader the space to anticipate how Rita will feel when she finds out and what she’ll do as a result.

This brings us to one of the most potent versus of all, one that often defines the playing field: what Rita
wants
(Marco’s unadulterated love) versus what is
expected
of her (Marco expects her to turn a blind eye to
his cheating). This means that throughout the story Rita will be struggling with the fact that Marco seems to believe all she wants from life is to cater to his every whim, no questions asked. Knowing how weak this makes her look to her friends, chances are she’ll be struggling to at least
appear
to meet their expectations, too. She’s going to dump him, she swears; she just hasn’t found the right moment.

This, in turn, triggers that little voice in the back of her head that’s worried they might be right about Marco. But because she’s totally besotted with him, she ignores her suspicions. Aha! Now Rita is also battling
herself
, which will be evident in her internal response to Marco’s actions. That is, she’ll rationalize. This means that often what she says, and what she’s actually thinking, will be at odds. Talk about a great way to ratchet up the tension!

Which brings us to the question:
why
would Rita ignore something that’s abundantly clear to the rest of us? What we’re looking for is the
reason
Rita is so desperate to hook up with Marco, beyond the fact that he sends her pulse through the roof. Okay, let’s say Rita’s deeper motive is that she is afraid of being alone.

Fear? Could this be grounds for yet another source of conflict? Rita’s goal versus her fear, perhaps? Not quite. After all, rather than keeping her from her goal, her fear is part of what’s driving her
into
Marco’s arms, since if she lands him, she’ll never have to confront her dread of being alone. Not quite a versus, yet. But then, we haven’t explored Rita’s internal goal yet. As fate (that is, the author) would have it, Rita’s internal goal is to be loved for who she is by a man who is truehearted. Sound like Marco? Nope. Definitely a conflict there, and one that reveals a nifty rule of thumb:

And you know what that means? That Rita’s fear is, in fact, part of a very compelling versus: her fear versus her
genuine
goal, which is to be loved by a truehearted man. Thus, if she’s going to remain true to herself, she will shun Marco, even though it means being alone. Being aware of all these layers allows the writer to use Rita’s fear of being alone to shape her reaction to everything that happens to her. Thus her external decisions, internal monologues, and body language will in some way reflect her true motive, whether
she
is aware of it or not. We’re not talking something as obvious as Rita thinking this:

Instead it’s more like this:

The more the reader is aware of Rita’s true motivation, the more we’ll understand why a woman so otherwise smart and savvy would go after a Neanderthal like Marco, and the more we’ll be rooting for her to fall for one of Mabel’s fluffy little kittens instead.

Which brings us to the most obvious source of conflict: the
antagonist
—in this case, Marco. But let’s not flatter him with too much attention, narcissist that he is, because we are much more interested in Rita. She is the sun in our universe, and everything revolves
around her. So when it comes to Marco, what we care about is how he will affect Rita.

Because Marco personifies the escalating obstacle that Rita needs to overcome, it’s important that he put up a really good fight. This is crucial, since the protagonist is only as strong as the antagonist forces her to be. Readers are sticklers when it comes to the “prove it” department; in this they’re a lot like the citizens of Missouri, the “Show Me” state. They have no intention of taking anyone’s word for how courageous the protagonist is. After all, anyone can say they’re brave. Or daring. Or worthy. Does that prove anything? Only that he’s a braggart, a bore, and, most likely, a coward. In fact, those who are truly brave tend to see themselves as not brave at all.

The point is, the antagonist must put the protagonist through her paces. This means Marco must do everything he can to rope Rita in, except, of course, actually become the man she hopes he is. Because what Rita needs far more than Marco is the ability to face her fear. Which means that by mercilessly leading her on, Marco is actually doing her a favor by forcing her to confront the thing that’s always held her back. And that is precisely what the reader will be rooting for.

Most of the time.

Because there’s that one last versus to contend with: The antagonist versus mercy (or the appearance thereof). No one is bad to the bone, psychopaths notwithstanding. And in the case of psychopaths, their defining trait is the ability to feign empathy without actually feeling a thing. Guys like serial killer Ted Bundy are utterly charming and appear capable of mercy, right up to the moment they break out the duct tape and the hacksaw. The key element in the “mercy” rule is the implied “maybe.”
Maybe
, against all odds, Marco will change. You want there to be a moment or two when the reader thinks,
Hey, seems like Marco isn’t so bad after all
. This moment will probably come just as Rita is in the midst of deciding never to see him again. So she relents. And for a minute it looks as if it’ll turn out okay after all. And then,
when he thinks no one is looking, Marco kicks one of Mabel’s cats really hard and we think,
Uh-oh.…

Why is this important? Because it’s difficult to maintain suspense in the face of a foregone conclusion. Even a smidgeon of “maybe” goes a very long way. If your force of opposition—whether a femme fatale, a cad, or a cyborg—is all bad, why bother having them show up? All they have to do is phone in the threat. And with caller ID, who’s going to answer, anyway? However, if the protagonist has a nasty case of the flu, and Ted Bundy shows up with a steaming bowl of homemade chicken soup, well, that’s another story. Maybe he’s had a change of heart. Or maybe the soup is laced with arsenic. The point is, we don’t know. Hello, suspense!