Wired for Story: The Writer's Guide to Using Brain Science to Hook Readers from the Very First Sentence (23 page)

The reason the various versus are so good at engendering suspense is that pitting two opposing desires, facts, or truths against each other inherently incites ongoing conflict. It gives the reader something to root for, another yardstick by which to measure the protagonist’s progress, and a clear view of where the conflict lies. And so it might come as a surprise that writers often work overtime, devising ingenious plot twists to keep that very suspense under wraps. Which means it’s time to “reveal” how one of the most popular methods writers employ to add suspense often produces the exact opposite effect.

First, what is a reveal? A reveal is a fact that, when it finally comes to light, changes (and in so doing, explains) something—often, that something is “everything.”

A major reveal is the surprise near the end that twists the meaning of everything that came before it. It’s Darth Vader booming, “I am your
father
, Luke”; it’s Evelyn Cross Mulwray admitting to Jake
Gittes, “She’s my sister
and
my daughter”; it’s Norman Bates in his dead mother’s dress.

These reveals are shocking, yet they are completely believable the second we hear them. Why? Because up to that moment, although the story made sense, we couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was more going on than met the eye—which we actively tried to make sense of throughout. This is something we were able to do because the writers gave us a specific pattern of hints all the way along. And so, although each story made sense up to that moment, in light of the reveal it makes even
more
sense.

But make no mistake, it is
only
because of the pattern of hints that the reveal, when it comes, is instantly accepted as truth. Otherwise, it’s one of the three dreaded Cs: a
convenience
, a
contrivance
, or a
coincidence
. It’s like reading a murder mystery in which we find out on the last page that the hero, about to go to the gallows for a murder he didn’t commit, has a guilty evil twin who no one (including, one suspects, the writer) knew existed up to that moment.

The problem with such books is that because the author has kept so much crucial information secret, we have
no
idea what is really going on, nor do we have a way of figuring it out. Or worse, we don’t even know that there
is
anything going on beyond what’s on the page. For instance, I once read a five-hundred-page manuscript about Fred, an unscrupulous automotive executive who staked his company’s fortune on a car that, on the eve of its unveiling, he discovered had a potentially fatal design defect. Squelching the information, Fred put it on the market anyway, with the expected tragic results. The novel was about how Fred was then brought to justice. The manuscript contained no surprises until page four hundred and fifty. That’s when it was revealed that Fred had been the subject of an ongoing undercover FBI investigation from the start. In fact, several of his close personal associates, including Sally, his mistress, had been spying on him from the get-go. There wasn’t a whiff of this in the manuscript, mind you, not even the slightest teeny tiny hint. When I asked the author about it, he smiled
and said he’d done it on
purpose
, because he was saving it for a big reveal at the end.

The trouble was, no one would ever have read that far. Why? Because by working mightily to keep the reader in the dark, he had robbed the story of what would have been its primary source of tension and suspense. Talk about irony! The truth, which is completely obvious in hindsight, is simply this:

Because while readers relish looking back and reinterpreting specific events in light of new information that now twists their meaning, there are two ironclad conditions that must be met first:

What readers won’t do is go back and insert entire subplots. It’s like saying, “Hey, I know watching Fred for four hundred and fifty pages was dull, but now go back and reimagine the whole thing knowing that the FBI was always just outside his door, listening. And all those people who claimed to be his friends? They were secretly wired. And Sally, his mistress? She never even liked him.”

To make matters worse, in light of this reveal, everything Fred’s friends did back then no longer rings true. Because
had
they been wired, they would have been nervous and it would have shown, if only in their body language. There would have been something in Sally’s behavior that intimated she was up to more than an afternoon’s
delight. Sure, the kindest among us might think,
Well, I guess since Sally was actually working for the feds, she’s a pro, so there’s no way she’d have done anything that would tip Fred off
. Trouble is, that
still
won’t make the scene in which she was hiding her true feelings any more compelling or believable, given what we know about the infallibility of body language and our propensity for making inadvertent mistakes.

Not that we have to know (or even suspect) what Sally is
really
up to. But we do have to know that something about Sally’s behavior is “off,” thus alerting us to the fact that there’s more going on than meets the eye. You
want
us to try to figure out what that might be. To that end, you
can
mislead (as opposed to lie to) us along the way. Take Hitchcock’s
Vertigo
, in which retired police detective “Scottie” Ferguson is led to believe that a beautiful young woman named Madeleine is the troubled wife of his old friend Gavin Elster, who has hired Scottie to make sure she doesn’t kill herself. As Scottie then falls in love with the enigmatic Madeleine, we sense both her attraction to him and her reluctance to surrender to it—giving these scenes tension and suspense. We chalk this up to the very believable fact that since she’s not only married, but to a good friend of his, she feels doubly guilty—still, she doesn’t quite seem as crazy as Elster intimated. So when we find out what was
really
going on—she
is
in love with Scottie, but
isn’t
married to Elster, who hired her to set Scottie up—on reflection her behavior makes even
more
sense, totally validating the reveal.

Contrast that with the ballad of auto exec Fred and undercover agent Sally. Because the author steadfastly kept any hint of conflict out of their trysts, we had no idea there was more to it than what was on the page, so it was pretty dull. But not to the author, who knew Sally was hiding the truth from Fred, which no doubt made it very exciting indeed—to him. Why deny the reader that same pleasure?

When done properly, reveals can be extremely effective. But they’re woefully overused and almost always to ill effect—perhaps because writers rarely seem to ask themselves this crucial question:

What does holding back this information
gain
me, story-wise? How does it make the story
better
?

I believe the misuse of reveals often stems from a fundamental misunderstanding, so let’s begin there. Some writers, knowing it’s crucial that the reader feel an instant sense of urgency that makes her want to know what happens next, believe that keeping something “secret” will do the trick. Then surely she’ll read on to find out what the secret is, right? These writers tend to forget that first we have to
want
to know the secret (not to mention know that there
is
one). Therefore, the way to lure the reader in is definitely
not
by either

Or, even more common

The trouble with both methods is they presuppose that we’re already engaged enough to care what happens to the characters. Ironically, more often than not it’s the very information the writer’s withholding that would make us care. That’s because the reveal usually requires couching the most interesting information in vague generalities, and as we saw in
chapter 5
, little good ever comes of that. So while we know the protagonist, Bob, has a “problem” that got him fired, the writer decides to withhold
both what that problem is and what kind of work Bob does, the better to wow us later with the fact that Bob is
actually
a toy poodle who lost his job at Sea World because he found hopping across the stage on his hind legs demeaning, so he chased a squirrel instead. Now, that’s sort of interesting. But because there are
so
many details the writer has to keep hidden or risk spoiling the reveal, for the first hundred pages or so we are allowed to think Bob is just an unusually hairy guy who’s down on his luck, which is why he lives in a crate under the freeway. Thus the only thing we
are
clear about is that we don’t really know what’s going on.

The trouble with keeping both the situation and the characters generic—since anything else would “give it away”—is that it not only straitjackets the story but also tends to strip the characters of their credibility as well. Why? Because once the writer decides to keep the protagonist’s big secret under wraps, the protagonist can’t so much as
think
about it—even though, of course, it’s exactly what he would be thinking about. Even more damaging, he can’t react to anything the way he would, given what really happened, because that, too, would give it away. So when the reveal finally comes, nothing he’s done up to that point is in any way consistent with what a person in that situation would have done. Thus the reveal becomes a groaner.

The good news is, there is another way.

What if you lay your cards on the table face up? What difference does it make in terms of suspense? Let’s try a little test.

First, a description of a scene with the cards held close to the vest: Val is looking for her roommate Enid, who’s hours late. After canvassing the neighborhood, she reluctantly knocks on the door of her new neighbor, Homer, shows him a photo of Enid, and asks if he’s seen her. He says no, but seeing how worried Val is, he invites her in for a soothing cup of herbal tea. Realizing she probably
is
blowing the whole thing
out of proportion, and that Homer’s really cute, she accepts. Over two steaming mugs, Homer reassures Val, suggesting that Enid probably just decided to visit a friend, nothing to worry about. Half an hour later Val leaves, feeling relieved and wondering whether Homer is single.

Now, imagine the exact same scene, except we’ve known the whole time that Homer has Enid locked in the basement, where she can hear the conversation upstairs and is trying desperately to get out. This time, we’re riveted, rooting for Enid, and praying Homer hasn’t slipped a roofie into Val’s Sleepytime Tea.

But does that mean that you have to lay
all
your cards on the table? Can’t you keep a few of them up your sleeve, for use later? Absolutely; there’s nothing readers love more than to be fooled—as long as, once the truth is revealed, everything still makes complete sense, both in the moment it happens and in hindsight after the “real truth” is revealed.

So let’s return to the saga of Val and Homer, with Enid handily duct-taped to a chair in the basement. This time, let’s imagine that as Homer and Val talk upstairs, Enid manages to free herself, climb out the basement window, and run home. Now we’re just dying for Val to get the hell out before Homer ties her up too. So when she finally leaves, we breathe a huge sigh of relief.

But as Homer’s closing the door, his phone rings. It’s his boss at the FBI. Reinforcements are on their way; she can’t believe he captured the notorious hacksaw killer Enid Dinsmore a mere week after going undercover, especially given that they just received intelligence that Enid plans to kill again, tonight. Something about a roommate named Val.

Again, the tension is palpable, isn’t it? Because conflict, as it turns out, isn’t ephemeral at all. It’s visceral. It’s the space you leave for the reader, allowing her to leap into the fray and imagine the possibilities. Never forget that story unfolds in the space between two opposing forces. If you make sure the reader’s always aware of the conflicting realities the protagonist finds herself trapped between, you’ll be off to the races—together.