Plot–the core of your story. The events that take you from beginning to end. Often a novel-sized story involves a rather complicated bundle of events that doesn’t so much resemble a beautiful tapestry, but more a ball of yarn that a hundred demonic kittens have strewn across a tar pit.
How then do we untangle this mess of events, characters and plot knots? In essence, the writing of a story is an attempt by the characters (and therefore, by the author) to solve an ever-increasingly difficult series of threats, crisis, and otherwise nasty situations that have been dropped on their heads–by you, of course. You fiend.
Here’s a couple of ways you shouldn’t go about doing it.
Deus ex Machina: Say you’ve got a space opera going on. Your characters are going through much emotional turmoil while flying around with some scientifically plausible hyperdrive, fighting in a war, or perhaps dealing with subterfuge, unspeakable alien horrors, etc. Every so often a few hints are dropped in about, oh, maybe an ancient civilization, or some ultimate weapon lost to all time. No efforts are made to make contact with this old, wise civilization, nor to uncover said weapon. Yet right as the characters converge and people start dying in spectacular ways, and the reader holds themselves breathless to see how they’ll extricate themselves from their dire circumstances–voila! Megalith spaceships appear out of nowhere and blast the baddies into spacedust. It’s the ancient civilization, come to rescue the heroes by virtue of their…um…hero-ness. A deus ex machina is something shoved into the story simply to provide a way out. It has little or nothing that actually affects the story or characters, and only serves as a weak excuse for an actual well-thought-out solution that is derived from a character’s skill, cleverness, foresight, and so on.
Babble: “Holy moley, captain! We’re dead in space and the evil Shinkickers are warming up their blasto-ray!” Says the captain, “Fear not, expendable crewman. Let’s revert the halucingraphimagickator, give it a swirly, do a foxtrot on the gyroscope, and, above all else, reverse the friggin’ polarity.” And thus the ship is saved for the sequel. And thus the readers go away either feeling incredibly stupid or used. Or both.
The Computer Game: Behold, mine apprentice. Thereupon sits the Grim Lord Foul Smoggy, who happens to have one known weakness (which has been passed down these many generations through my family line alone, of which I am the last, and therefore have earned the right to act annoyingly aloof and mysterious and never answer any of your questions straight). And since you are prophesied to bring about the death of the Grim Lord (known by some as Smoggle) I shall tell you how to exploit this one weakness. First, you must uncover the Quill Pen of All-knowing, with a +5 wittiness booster. Then you must forage through the woods of Evergloomy Weeping Willows and find the Root of Common Sense. Then you must hike the highest peak of Mount Wayuphigh. Nothing to do there, really. Just take in the view and get in some senseless fights for some action scenes. Oh, and then, don’t forget to do a dungeon crawl and scour up several blue keys, powerups, extra lives, magic spells, and some health and mana potions to help you in your climactic fight against Smoggle. Don’t forget to save your progress along the way in case the system crashes and you have to restart. Do you really want to end up at the pig farm all over again?
These are all ways to solve a story that I strive to avoid in crafting a plot. These three especially are endings that, when I discover one in a book I’m reading, really shove flaming toothpicks under my toenails. Got any other presto-cheapo story gimmicks that irk you? Lemme hear ’em.
I see that smile.