The Ending of the Tale

 Copyright 2021 by Michael Williams

In this post, Michael Williams concludes his remarks about writing a well-plotted story along the lines laid out by Aristotle. Thank you, Michael, for your contributions to Chillers and Thrillers!

In his Poetics, Aristotle points out that the end of a story should be both logical—in other words, the cause-and-effect relationships that have existed among the incidents of the plot throughout the drama (or narrative) should be maintained—and emotionally satisfying. The end of the story, in other words, should “make sense,” both intellectually and emotionally. Otherwise, the audience (or readers) are apt to be disappointed. He used the example of the deus ex machina, or “god of the machine,” a device employed, in his opinion by inferior playwrights, for ending a play for no other reason than that the playwright wanted the story to end. An actor portraying a deity was suspended upon a rope, which was lowered by a stagehand situated out of sight, above the stage, to descend onto the boards and, by dint of divine fiat, bring the drama to its conclusion. Often, the conclusion had little or nothing to do with the performance prior to the descent of the god of the machine. The expression deus ex machina has come to mean, therefore, a “tacked-on ending.”

 

Unfortunately, in genre fiction, some authors, including Stephen King, have sometimes tacked on just such arbitrary and unsatisfying conclusions to their novels, an offense that is especially annoying in volumes of the length that King writes. The violation is all the more offensive when, on a previous page, the author has already provided several other, more plausible possible causes of the novel's many apparently otherworldly incidents, as King does in Under the Dome (a 1,074-page tome).

 

Bentley Little, once praised by King as “the horror poet laureate,” is notoriously lax about ending his novels well. When it comes to endings, he puts little or no effort into writing a conclusion that makes sense of the mysteries of his plot and in no way satisfies his readers, especially when his books are really rehashes of the same formula. How many times can readers stand another slight variation on a worn theme, especially when there is no meaningful (and, often, no intelligible) resolution to his books' conflicts, no meaningful motivations for their characters' actions, and no discernible theme?

To read such books is to understand not only the wisdom of Aristotle's demand for an intellectually and emotionally satisfying ending, but also to see what the lack of such an ending does to a book as a whole. Playwrights and novelists ignore Aristotle's advice at their own peril.

 

If the beginning of a book shows characters undergoing a quest, the end must show them fail or succeed in discovering the object or, perhaps the truth, they have sought (Dorothy discovers that happiness is in her own backyard).

 

If a novel sets forth a mystery to be solved, the end must solve the mystery—and the solution has to fit the facts and account for any apparent contradictions and red herrings (Paula Darnell's Amanda Trent always explains to the readers of her A Fine Art Mystery series not only who committed the novels' murders but also how and why the dastardly deeds were done).

If a tale showcases a series of bizarre incidents, these incidents must be explained through logic; through scientific knowledge, theory, principles, or verifiable empirical means; or through other pertinent and convincing evidence (after presenting us with an invisible creature in “The Damned Thing,” Ambrose Bierce is good enough to explain to us why the creature is invisible).

 

If beginning a story in media res avoids providing a context for incidents, the end of the story must establish this context (we may not know why characters are being attacked by supernatural creatures during the beginning of AWhole World Full of Hurt, but we learn the reason [and a whole lot more] by the novel's end).

Only when these tasks have been accomplished will readers be satisfied that they have read the full, complete story.

 

Michael Williams's Twisted Tales series, consisting, at present, of Tales with a Twist, Tales with a Twist II, and Tales with a Twist III, is available on Amazon. Not only are they entertaining, but they're also textbooks on how to write fantastic flash fiction!

 

In the Beginning

 Copyright 2021 by Michael Williams

 

Since 1976, Stephen King has been killing trees left and right. In both its paperback and hardcover incarnations, King's Desperation (1996) is 704 pages long; 'Salem's Lot (1975) is 672 pages (paperback) or 464 pages (hardcover); the length of his IT (1986) isn't measured by page count, but by the pound (2.1, paperback; 3.49, hardcover).

Buy 'em by the pound!

 

How does an author write such massive tomes, one after another, seemingly tirelessly, for 45 years? That was my original question, which mutated into, How does an author even begin such a massive volume? From there, my query branched, as thoughts—at least, my own—often do, becoming, What are some of the conventional ways by which authors start books?

Taking the Aristotelian approach, which is descriptive, rather than prescriptive, meaning that the philosopher didn't tell how something was to be done, offering rules and dictating procedures, but, instead actually attended plays and described what he saw playwrights actually do, I compiled a short list of techniques that writers of various genres have used successfully in beginning their own books in effective and engrossing ways. I am pleased to share my observations with you.

Gather characters. In epic-length (or even in not-so-epic-length stories), writers often have their characters undergo a quest of some sort, literal or figurative, which requires, of course, that the characters gather together to begin with. We see King use this technique in Desperation, as the demon-possessed Sheriff Collie Entragian arrests travelers bold enough to drive along U. S. Highway 50, “The Loneliest Road in America.” We see it in The Wizard of Oz (1939), when Dorothy Gale is joined by the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion, as she journey to the Emerald City of Oz in the screenplay, by Noel Langley, Florence Ryerson, and Edgar Allan Woolf, of L. Frank Baum's novel. This technique is also employed by many others, including Geoffrey Chaucer, whose Canterbury Tales (c. 1400) pilgrims entertain each other by telling tales as they journey to the shrine of St. Thomas Becket at the Canterbury Cathedral. Indeed, the gathering of characters is a time-honored (meaning really, really old) means of beginning a story in a manner that is likely to engage readers.

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   Convene a group. In the award-winning A Fine Art Mystery Series, Paula Darnell's protagonist Amanda Trent is a member of an artists' guild; in the 1998 movie Armageddon, Harry S. Stamper gathers a team (Chick, Rockhound, Max, Oscar, Bear, and Noonan) to help him stop an asteroid on a collision course with Earth; in the TV series Murder, She Wrote (1984-1996), Jessica Fletcher, who writes murder mysteries for a living and solves them as a sideline, lives in Cabot Cove, an idyllic coastal town in New England; in Gary Pullman's dark urban fantasy, A Whole World Full of Hurt (2016), the leader of a witches' coven gathers sacrificial victims, whose life-essences provide the spiritual energy she needs to conquer rival covens. The tactic of convening a group is frequently used in the 2014 TV police procedural series The Brokenwood Mysteries as well. The sereis is set in the New Zealand town of Brokenwood and involves murders among such groups as a traveling theatrical troupe (“To Die or Not to Die”), bicycle racers (“Tontine”), ghost train passengers (“Scared to Death”), steampunk festival participants (“The Power of Steam”), a hunting party (“Hunting the Stag”), Lord of the Rings tourists (“The Black Widower”), and a local historical village's staff (“Stone Cold Dead”).

    
   

   
   
   Show a series of bizarre events. Many novels and movies start by showing a series of bizarre events, which, because the explanation of them is withheld, appear mysterious, enhancing readers' or moviegoers' interest in them. The Taking (2010), by Dean Koontz, employs this technique, as do many of his other novels. An eerie scent lingers in the air. A strange rain falls; thick fog drifts through an isolated small town. Mysterious lights float among trees. Reports of bizarre weather are broadcast. As the residents of the community band together, they come under attack, but they don't know who—or what—their predators are. Pullman's urban fantasy also begins with a series of strange incidents: a college student is attacked when he collects for a subscriber on his little brother's paper route; a bride is assaulted from within,  during her wedding; a cemetery caretaker meets his end as he rests from his labors; gargoyles atop the Washington National Cathedral eerily come to life; a young woman vanishes while taking a bath. What is behind these bizarre incidents? Audiences will continue to watch as the film progresses; readers' curiosity will keep them turning the pages.

    

   
   

   Begin in media res. Writers also frequently start a story in media res, or in “the middle of things.” The audience or readers have no idea what led up to the current events in which the character (often the protagonist) finds him- or herself, which is one reason for their absorption in the story's initial action. In the process, the writer might involve the character in a problem; then, the audience or the readers have another reason to continue to watch or read; the suspense—and the moviegoers' or readers' curiosity—is doubled: they are curious about how the character got into his or her present situation and about how or whether he or she will get out of it, and the audience or readers are also curious as to whether the character's related problem will be solved and, if so, how or, if not, why not. Falling Down (1993) starts with the protagonist, William Foster, stuck in traffic; he is shown as frustrated, easily angered, at the breaking point. He solves his immediate problem by abandoning his car on the jammed freeway, but the greater question of whether he will solve his ability to cope in a society that he believes is “falling down” around him remains unresolved, so the suspense continues. By combining an in media res beginning with an enduring problem for the protagonist, storytellers hook their readers twice.

These are only a few of the many ways, of course, that novelists and screenwriters create and maintain suspense while establishing their stories' settings, characters, conflict, and tone. Maybe, in future posts, we can look at some of the techniques writers use to encourage audiences and readers to continue the story through its middle and how writers conclude their tales in an emotionally satisfying manner.

Note: Michael Williams is the author of the Twisted Tales series, which presently consists of three volume of suspenseful flash fiction, mostly in the fantasy genre, Tales with a Twist, Tales with a Twist II, and Tales with a Twist III.

Playing with Words

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

Cozy mystery titles are BIG on wordplay. Paula Darnell's DIY Diva Series is a case in point. The first book of the series, Death By Association, takes place in a guard-gated community governed by a homeowners association.

 The next volume in the series, Death ByDesign, features protagonist Laurel McMillan's Perfect Pillows class—and a not-quite perfect murder.

 

The third novel in the series, Death By Proxy features mistaken identity. Her forthcoming series, A Fine Art Mystery, explores an art cooperative in Arizona; the books' titles are also based on, or reflective of, plays on words. The first is Artistic License to Kill.

Using wordplay can also be an effective way of triggering ideas for plot horror ideas for novels.

Hostel Takeover, for example, suggests a setting and a motive for horror. Settings, of course, often, in turn, suggests characters. A hostel would be the temporary home of young travelers (typically ages 16 to 34).

By researching hostels, additional plot ideas can be obtained. For example, in some such establishments, sleeping quarters are segregated by sex; in others, bedrooms are open to guests of both sex. Some hostels offer more amenities than others, and hostels, in general, offer benefits, but also have disadvantages, when compared to hotels or motels. Many are independent, but some are units in a chain or are affiliates of larger organizations (Zostel and Hosteling International, for example).

 Before writing a horror novel based on a hostel as a setting, it's a good idea to check out movies or other novels that have used hostels as their settings, such as Hostel and Hostel: Part II. There's no need to tread familiar ground.

The second part of the title, Takeover, is important, too; in fact, it may well be the key that distinguishes your own story from other horror stories that feature hostels as their settings. The idea of a hostel (and of a hostile) takeover suggests the acquisition of a hostel, against the will of the current owner, by a bidder or through a proxy fight.

In a horror story, of course, the owner is apt to resist the takeover by more than legal means, and much of the horror could stem from his or her resistance. It's not difficult to imagine possible twists: maybe the owner loses the takeover and kills off the hostel's guests to create such a bad impression of the place that its future is doomed.

Perhaps the focus is on the owner's efforts to fend off the takeover by any means necessary, including murdering the management, stockholders, or bidder. Another possibility is to adopt the bidder's point of view and concentrate on other means of takeover than financial expedients after the initial offer is refused. From either point of view, the scenes practically write themselves: collapsing bunk beds, exploding ovens, blood showers, bizarre “guests,” murderous interlopers, ghosts of the dead . . . .

The takeover could, indeed, be hostile, with guests and employees meeting grisly fates and prospective guests being killed even before they arrive at the establishment. A combination of approaches is also a possibility.

Quite a lot can be suggested by simply wordplay.

The Things We Fear

Copyright 2019 by Gary L. Pullman

They're big. They're repulsive. Shaped like sperm, they slither (as the title of the movie they advertise suggests), but they're red and meaty, too, visceral in appearance, and they remind one of parasites (or feces) as much as anything else.

They squirm their way up the exterior of a bathtub occupied by an oblivious damsel in distress. Her vulnerability is enhanced by her apparent nakedness and by her relaxed posture: she reclines inside the tub, only part of her calf and thigh showing.

Centered above the poster's imagery is the blood-splattered title, Slither, in black (the color of death). Despite the image of ablution, cleanliness does not deliver us from death, the poster suggests, not before or after sex, for, as Jim Morrison, late of the Doors, among others, has warned, “Sex is death.”

Her eyes, lost in deep shadows, look like sockets. Her lips are gone, showing her teeth, as her jaws gape in a silent scream.

Before her face, half of flesh, half of skull, a glass pane shatters. Shards fly off, in all directions, the missing piece at the lower right taking with it her cheek.

Perhaps, we think, the glass is not in front of her, after all; maybe she's on the glass or in it.

The poster's caption, “Rest in Pieces,” underscores our frailty, our vulnerability, our temporality as human beings. When death results from a horrific experience, we do not rest in peace, the poster suggests, but in pieces.

In any case, our destruction, our demise, is unavoidable, inevitable: it is, the movie's title assures us, our Final Destination.

We are fragile, our emotions, like our flesh itself, susceptible to trauma, to breakage. Abandonment is traumatic; it leaves us broken, shattered. The doll featured on the poster for Abandoned is a stand-in for innocence, for the faith of the young.

Its face is cracked. What should be laugh lines are fissures, wrought not by glee, but by a misery so deep and full of anguish that it produces tears of blood.

But death, who favors none, treating all the same, whether they are rich or poor, prince or pauper, male or female, young or old, awaits our coming, with a guarantee that, whatever one's fate has been in life, death is faithful; death will not abandon anyone; death embraces all.

The author of horror must be aware of the situations, events, and circumstances that frighten men and women, boys and girls. He or she should keep abreast of surveys and polls and current and historical events which identify or describe humanity's deepest, darkest fears, for disgust, horror, and terror, as Stephen King has pointed out, are the horror writer's stock in trade.

Such lists of fears come from a variety of sources, some of which may surprise us. One of the latest lists I've added to my continuing roster was supplied by Cornelia Dean, author of Making Sense of Science: Separating Substance from Spin. Her list, concerning the items of which she provides a few details, includes:

• the uncontrollable
• things imbued with dread
• catastrophe
• things imposed on us
• things with delayed effects
• new risks
• a hazard with identifiable victims
• things that affect future generations
• things we cannot see
• things that are artificial, synthetic, or otherwise human-made (32).

Moreover, she points out, “If we don't trust the person or agency telling us about the risk, we are more afraid” (32).

A story that focuses on one of these fears is apt to resonate with readers.