Copyright 2009 by Gary L. Pullman
Dean Koontz’s villains (who are almost always male) represent fictionalized versions of his abusive, self-destructive, violent, alcoholic father, just as his heroines are imaginary embodiments of his loving, longsuffering, and abused mother. The initial villain, Carl Brockman, and the heroine, Amy Redwing, of one of the prolific Koontz’s latest novels, The Darkest Evening of the Year, are no exceptions to these archetypes, which, like his formulaic approach to fiction, derive from his childhood exposure to good and evil as they were embodied by his mother and his father, respectively.
Once Sarah Michelle Gellar asked Joss Whedon why it was necessary for her character, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, to cry in yet another installment in the series’ episodes. Whedon’s reply was that it was necessary to make Buffy suffer (and Gellar to cry) in order to sustain his audience’s interest in the character and the show.
Apparently, Koontz is on the same page as Whedon in this regard, for virtually all of Koontz’s heroines are cursed with past trauma that affects their present-day lives, usually in relation to men, whom they often fear and distrust. They are also usually damsels in distress, for whom the appearance of a knight in shining armor rescues them not only from the looming catastrophe of the moment but also from the pain and suffering they endured in the past and continue to experience in the present.
Giving a heroine (or a child) a traumatic past is a splendid way of creating a sympathetic character and of making him or (usually) her more likeable as well, and, since he is especially adept at doing so, Koontz is worth studying along these lines, and, since it is a recent (and therefore, well-rehearsed) example of the techniques that Koontz uses to intimate a heroine’s past trauma, The Darkest Evening of the Year is as good a text as any to consult for this purpose.
We can deduce a few principles for suggesting a traumatic past for a sympathetic character, based upon Koontz’s practice in doing so. The first rule is to indicate past suffering early in the initial chapter, at the very outset, if possible.
After naming his protagonist and briefly describing the general setting, Koontz transitions to paragraphs four through eight of his first chapter, in which he suggests that Amy’s past includes a good deal of suffering. As a consequence, much of the intimation of Amy’s past trauma appears on the very first page of the novel. (Koontz writes newspaper-short paragraphs in a style that also seems to imitate that of the contemporary journalist.)
Amy Redwing did not know her origins. Abandoned at the age of two, she had no memory of her mother and father.Amy’s history remained incomplete, but the lack of roots did not set her free. She was chained to some ringbolt set in the stone of a distant year (3 - 4).
She had been left in a church, her name pinned to her shirt. A nun had found her sleeping on a pew.
Most likely, her surname had been invented to mislead. The police had failed to trace it to anyone.
Redwing suggested a Native American heritage. Raven hair and dark eyes argued Cherokee, but her ancestors might as likely have come from Armenia or Sicily, or Spain.
Using humorous dialogue between Amy and her friend, architect Brian McCarthy, as Amy drives to a house to rescue a golden retriever (and, as it happens, a mother and her two children) from drunken and abusive Carl, Koontz maintains interest in his protagonist’s current behavior. The contest of wills between Amy and Carl and the potential for additional explosive violence from Carl, whether directed toward his wife Janet, their daughter Theresa (“Reesa”), their son Jimmy, or at Amy and Brian themselves, sustain interest as Amy offers to buy the dog, Nicky, for as much as two thousand dollars. Koontz’s use of humor also contrasts sharply with the violence that follows, thereby heightening the cruelty and brutality when they do occur. While Amy dickers with the sullen, abusive “wife-beater,” Carl, Koontz takes the opportunity to remind the reader of Amy’s past in a short exchange of dialogue between the two characters:
Under his brow, Carl’s eyes were deep wells with foul water glistening darkly at the bottom. “Don’t mock me.”Perhaps afraid that his readers will be put off by the apparent hopelessness of Amy’s life, which is mirrored by the desperate situation in which Janet and her children (and their dog) find themselves, Koontz hastens, at the end of his first chapter, to reassure his readers, in a vague and general way, that things will be all right in the end:
“I wouldn’t, sir. I can’t. I was pretty much raised by nuns. . . ” (13).
At the core of every ordered system, whether a family or a factory, is chaos. But in the whirl of every chaos lies a strange order, waiting to be found (18).At the end of chapter two, having managed to rescue Janet, her children, and their dog (not bad for an evening’s work), Amy drives away, the rescued in her Ford Expedition, and Koontz, once again, now that a lull in the action has been reached, intimates that Amy has herself experienced trauma in her past, about which, readers may be sure, they will hear more in the upcoming pages of Amy’s story:
Amy remembered a winter night with blood upon the snow and a turbulence of sea gulls thrashing into flight from the eaves of the high catwalk, white wings briefly dazzling as they oared [sic] skyward through the sweeping beam of the lighthouse, like an honor guard of angels escorting home a sinless soul (25).Thereafter, until the moment comes to reveal the nature of the past trauma in detail, usually during a flashback that is related to, or inspired by, the story’s present action, an occasional reminder as to the protagonist’s traumatic past is all that is needed, and these reminders can be tucked into the narrative where it is appropriate and effective to do so. For example, in enquiring of Janet whether Reesa has any paranormal or supernatural powers beyond her ability to speak and sing in other languages, such as Celtic, which Reesa has merely heard without having learned, Janet asks what Amy means, which prompts this expository information from the novel’s omniscient, third-person narrator, at the end of chapter six:
To explain, Amy would have to open door after door into herself, into places in the heart that she did not want to visit. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I meant by that” (44).What, exactly, is the trauma that Amy experienced in her past that continues to haunt her in her present-day life and to motivate and to otherwise affect her current behavior?
Her secrets won’t be revealed here; one will have to buy or borrow Koontz’s novel to learn the dirt concerning the protagonist. However, no doubt, the desire to know all the juicy details is there; in fact, it may seem as overwhelming as a need (in which case, another copy of Koontz’s novel will surely be sold or checked out at one’s local library).
And that’s just the point, of course. By intimating that his story’s main character has experienced a traumatic past that continues to haunt her today, Koontz makes his readers want to learn more about Amy. She has become interesting and sympathetic, someone whom readers want to get to know better, someone with whom, readers feel, they could be friends. By suggesting that Amy has a pain-filled past that continues to affect her behavior today, Koontz has made his readers care about her, thereby transforming her, as it were, from a simple cardboard character into a flesh-and-blood person, as it were, about whom readers can wonder and contemplate and for whom they can feel compassion and empathy and affection.
Koontz has also related past to present, making the former the prelude to the latter, imparting order and unity and coherence to his novel’s plot, and he has motivated his readers to continue to read, that they might, in the process, satisfy their curiosity concerning Amy’s past, see how and why her past affects her now, in the present, and get to know her better as a likeable and sympathetic character.
Another King novel, Desperation puts its protagonist, twelve-year-old David Carver, through his paces, as indicated by this diagram. As a younger child, David had promised God that he would serve him, no matter what God required of him, if God would heal David’s friend, who was dying. God honored David’s prayer, and, now, years later, God has a mission for David: save the captives of the demon Tak, who, having escaped burial in an abandoned mine, possesses the bodies of various residents of Desperation, Nevada. David manages to do so, at the cost of his little sister’s and his mother’s deaths and his father’s near-loss of his sanity. David concludes that “God is cruel.” However, another character, John Edward Marinville, something of a stand-in for King himself, it seems, advises David that God is beyond human understanding and that, although his actions may seem “cruel” to human beings, God possesses many attributes, including, especially, love.
During the course of the seven-year-long series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, protagonist Buffy Summers suffers many a conflict, not only with demons, but with inner demons as well, as the diagram representing her struggles suggests. It is her lot in life to have been “called” as the “chosen one” by The Powers That Be, to protect the world from vampires, demons, and other monsters that slither, creep, or crawl out of the Hellmouth (located beneath her high school’s library) each week. Instead, Buffy longs to live a “normal life” in which, as a teen, she can moon over boys and whine about homework. Over the years, she is unlucky in love (to put it mildly), and a number of people she loves, including her parents (her father through divorce, her mother through death) are taken from her. She herself dies not once but twice along the way.
Willow, Buffy’s confidante, is a witch whose powers develop over the span of the Buffy series until, in the fifth season, she has become a force with which to be reckoned. A shy, retiring, somewhat naive wallflower early in the series, she has a crush on Xander (who has a yen for Buffy, who likes Angel). Later, she discovers that she prefers her own sex and has a relationship with Tara Maclay that ends when Tara is killed by Buffy’s enemies. Thereafter, Willow has a relationship with a “potential slayer,” Kennedy. Between lesbian lovers, Willow has a relationship with Oz, a guitarist in a local band, Dingoes Ate My Baby, who becomes a werewolf when his infant werewolf cousin, Jordy, bites him. Unable to control his transformation, and fearing for Willow’s safety, Oz leaves Sunnydale to seek a cure for his condition. In his absence, Willow, now enrolled in college, meets Tara, discovering her lesbian proclivities. Willow, a sweet personality, is also a rich, complex character and, because of her witchcraft, could have been successful as a protagonist of her own series, were Charmed, a series about young adult witches not already on the air.
Even Buffy’s mentor, the Watcher Rupert Giles, is (or was, at one time) to receive a series of his own, possibly to be called Ripper. (The status of the show is unclear at the moment.) Dressed in button-down shirts, subdued neckties, and three-piece tweed suits, complete with handkerchief, wearing glasses, and taking tea in his office, the Sunnydale High School librarian (formerly of the British Museum), Giles is the stereotypical stoic, stiff-upper-lip, repressed Englishman--or so, at first, he appears. However, like most of the characters in Buffy, he has a complex back story that adds shades and nuances to his inner self. As a defiant and rebellious youth, Giles resisted his calling to become a member of the Watchers’ Council, which identifies, trains, counsels, and otherwise mentors slayers. As a university student, Giles became a warlock, joining a group of sorcerers (much as Willow, in college, joined a coven). They performed a ritual to summons a demon, which appeared, and has been stalking them, individually, ever since, killing them one by one. Giles blames himself for the deaths. It was partly as a result of the guilt he feels that he accepted his responsibilities as a Watcher, becoming Buffy’s mentor. After the Buffy series ended, its creator, Joss Whedon, spoke with the actor, Anthony Stewart Head, who played Giles, about reprising his role, but as a Watcher, but one who is now semi-retired, living again in England, and investigates paranormal and supernatural incidents. The series’ theme, Whedon said, would be loneliness, exploring how a man alone copes with life on his own. At present, the projected story is said to be still a possibility, although as a motion picture, rather than as a television series, to be aired on the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC).
In “The Witch” (episode 3 of season 1), Buffy defeats a witch who has used a magic spell to swap bodies with her daughter so that she, the mother, can relive her glory days as a former cheerleader in a more-than-merely-vicarious way. When the witch seeks, literally, to cast a spell at Buffy, the slayer uses a mirror to deflect the witch’s hex, and, as a result, the witch ends up trapped inside the miniature figure of a cheerleader inside the school’s hallway trophy case, the only part of her that can now move being her eyes. In a later episode, Oz notices that there seems to be something odd about the cheerleading trophy--”its eyes seem to follow you”--but no more is made of the witch’s odd prison. The trophy could be the basis for another plot, though. The witch could escape. Maybe the trophy topples from its shelf when custodians move the case and it breaks, releasing the imprisoned witch. Alternatively, the trophies could be shipped to a new location (for example, a new high school is built after Buffy and her friends blow up the old school) and, in the process, is stolen by someone who uses it Ali Baba fashion, as a genie’s lamp, releasing the witch--or, as before, it could simply get broken in transit, becoming a threat to new characters in a different time and place. Possibly the daughter, missing her mother, despite her abusive ways, steals the trophy and takes it home, using magic to release her.
Based upon this plot seed, several storylines could be developed. Again, were one to take up this leftover plot, he or she would have to change it substantially. For example, the origin of the trophy would have to be different, since, otherwise, the plot that ensues would be a rip-off of “The Witch” episode’s plot. Therefore, one would have to come up with another reason for the trophy’s being inhabited, as it were, by a human soul, whether the soul is to remain that of a witch or to become that of another character. Inspiration’s wanted, not plagiarism or copyright infringement. Maybe the cheerleader was just a cheerleader, but she put so much of herself into her practice and performance that, upon winning a cheerleading contest, she really and truly (and permanently) bonded with the token of her success, becoming the trophy. Absurd? Perhaps, but believable within the parameters that you would establish at the outset of your story, given people’s willingness to suspend disbelief for the sake of enjoying a fantastic tale. For example, in a world of witchcraft and magic, anything’s possible as long as the incidents make sense dramatically and emotionally. In fantastic fiction, which obviously includes horror and, often, science fiction, the cause-effect relationships among the incidents of the story’s action are motivational, dramatic, and emotional, not necessary physical (in the scientific sense of the word) or natural.
“Teacher’s Pet” (episode 4, season 1) also ends on an unresolved note that could be the basis of a plot for another story. In this episode, Xander, attracted to the beautiful teacher, Miss French, who substitutes for his regular biology instructor, goes to her house, ostensibly to help her create a model of prating mantis egg sacks for the upcoming science fair. Soon after he arrives, however, Xander finds out that Miss French is herself a preying mantis in human guise, and she (or it) has lured Xander--and another boy, Blayne--to her lair to mate with her, after which she, good praying mantis that she is, would devour them alive. Buffy rescues the dudes in distress and all ends on a positive note--until the camera shows the audience the storage closet in the biology classroom, in which a praying mantis egg sack waits to hatch. Silly? Of course, but, again, in fantastic fiction, which obviously includes horror and, often, science fiction, pretty much anything is possible, since the cause-effect relationships among the incidents of the story’s action are motivational, dramatic, and emotional, not necessary physical (in the scientific sense of the word) or natural.
The leftover plot--the egg sack--provides the opportunity for a sequel, but the series ignored this possibility, except to pose it as something of a teaser. The egg, like the seed, is a natural point of origin that can be used to introduce a monster. Presumably, some monsters at least, are born (or hatched), just like people--well, maybe not just like people--and, if a seed can produce a natural plant, why shouldn’t a deformed, radiated, or extraterrestrial seed produce an unnatural or otherworldly plant? In fact, another Buffy episode, “Bad Eggs” (episode 24, season 2), uses this same motif as eggs that Buffy, Xander, Willow, and the other members of their health class are given as surrogate babies upon which to practice future parental responsibilities hatch into monsters, attacking, possessing, and threatening students and townspeople alike.
Likewise, natural forces--volcanoes, earthquakes, icebergs, shifting tectonic plates--effect change; if they do so in nature, they can do so in fiction as well, although, in fantastic fiction, the changes thus effected may not be those that normally would result from the same causes. The leftover egg can become the springboard to new plot that uses an egg, a seed, an earthquake, a melting glacier, a volcanic eruption, an earthbound meteor, or anything else that can change the natural order or create something new and, of course, in horror fiction, something hideous and horrible. A story idea, including those that derive from the manipulation of leftover plots or plot-seeds, can be developed in as many ways as one has the capacity to imagine.
In “Never Kill a Boy on the First Date,” Buffy accepts a date from Owen, a boy in love with what he believes, based on his reading of Emily Dickinson’s poetry, is the romance of death. When he follows her to a funeral home, where she must go to dispatch vampires and save her mentor, the Watcher Rupert Giles, Owen thinks he’s found his soul mate. Buffy breaks up with him, not wanting to endanger him, and that’s the end of their relationship. But what if it weren’t? What if Owen refused to take no for an answer? What is he continued to follow Buffy around and to get in her way, posing a danger to himself, to Buffy, and to others? Here is a potential plot for one or more stories--the pesky devotee whose naiveté, incompetence, or foolishness causes dangerous situations and potentially lethal consequences. Such a character need not associate with a vampire slayer and her friends. He or she could hang out with any character or characters who routinely perform dangerous tasks. The use of such a character, therefore, can (and should be) original.
Xander and some school bullies are transformed into a pack of hyenas when they visit the local zoo. At the end of the episode (“The Pack,” episode 6, season 1), Buffy again saves the day, and Xander and the other students revert to themselves. The zookeeper, who is behind the enchantment, is killed when Xander, to save Willow, tosses him to the hyenas. However, the mystic circle inside of which the students had stepped, triggering their transformations, remains. Could it be used as a catalyst in a future story, to bring about the same or a similar transformation? The circle is an artifact--a physical object that introduces change. There are many others--rings, amulets, charms, potions, garments, even spaceships. As such, it makes an excellent inciting moment. (An inciting moment is the incident near the outset of the story’s action that sets everything that follows in motion--the narrative spark, so to speak, that ignites the rest of the story’s action. It is the one moment in the action of the story without which there would be no story. If Xander and the other students hadn‘t stepped inside the mystic circle, they wouldn‘t have been transformed; if Dorothy Gale hadn‘t run away from home, she wouldn‘t have been caught in the tornado that carried her off to Oz; if Huckleberry Finn’s father, Pap, hadn’t returned to take custody of his son, Huck would never have run away from his foster home.) The mystic circle reminds us that virtually any physical object can be an inciting moment or a catalyst for change and that it can be used again and again to accomplish the same purpose (although too much repetition of the device will become boring).
What have we learned, so far, from considering “leftover plots” or plot-seeds or springboards or whatever we choose to call narrative motifs that suggest additional storylines?
Ideas cannot be copyrighted, so they are fair game as inspirations for plots.
The specific and unique ways in which ideas are developed can, and often are, copyrighted. Using the characters, settings, and other elements of such treatments could constitute plagiarism and/or copyright infringement.
Ideas must be given an original treatment in which characters, settings, and other elements are new, not derivative.
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