Not so happily ever after

From ghostmothwords

So I finished reading An Untamed State by Roxane Gay--and yep, you guessed it, this post will contain spoilers!!! In an earlier post, I talked about how Gay talks about her writing process for this novel as a fairy tale that dissolves into a not-so-happily-ever-after place. That got me thinking about how novels teach you what kind of ending to expect as you read them: (a) happy, (b) tragic, or (c) somewhere in between. I opted for C on this one--partly because I cheated (I read some of the author's commentary beforehand), and partly because that's how it read. The "signs" I honed in on were:

1. If your protagonist (Mireille) is kidnapped from her family and betrayed by her father from the start, there are no happy endings, period.
2. Mireille's narration refers to both the "before" and "after" the kidnapping. It's clear she will come out alive, if not completely whole. Death is (arguably) the ultimate tragedy, so there's still room for rebirth.
3. Mireille's strength of character--her toughness and resilience read like someone can endure and perhaps even overcome.
4. Support characters--Mireille's husband, Michael, is loyal, loving, and strong--he makes mistakes but, overall, he represents a future worth living for, as does Mireille's young son.

The trajectory of the novel and how it ends seems to bear all these out. 

Here's what happens next: 

From Scriptmag.com

Mireille's kidnappers do, in fact, release her, once her father finally decides to pay the ransom (after 13 days!). The second half of the novel ("Part II: Once Upon a Time") deals with the emotional aftermath of Mireille's ordeal and her struggle to reorient herself to the former "fairy tale" of her life. During her captivity, she has learned to think of herself as a disembodied no one and now has difficulty reconciling this no one to her previous identity as daughter, wife, mother. In the aftermath, she is unable to talk about what happened to her and is both physically and emotionally unable to hold her son. This leads to numerous conflicts with her husband, as Mireille literally flees their home once they return to Miami, driving across the country in her car. Michael initially fails to provide the support she needs, but his mother, Lorraine, steps in and gives Mireille the space, time, and understanding required to begin the healing process. Eventually, Mireille is able to tell her story to Lorraine and to Michael, and is fully reunited with her husband and son. She resumes her life, has another child (via a surrogate), and, eventually, grants her father forgiveness. In a word, then, there is a sort of rebirth--albeit at the cost of the death of a former self.

So what's it all about? 

I've been thinking about how the whole idea of tragedy vs happy vs bittersweet ending not only give the reader something to hold on to and to anticipate, but also informs our understanding of what a story (and life) is all about. What's the point? Well, if Mireille's story had turned out to be a happy one, it would have been a great example of overcoming terrible circumstances, but it wouldn't be quite true to Mireille's point of view. Much of her story seems to be about how "surviving" violence can be a deathless death, and that captivity may continue long after the prisoner is released from his or her cage. 

And if Mireille's story had turned out to be an utterly tragic one, it might also have mis-delivered on another provocative aspect of this story--the way in which Mireille resists her aggressors at every turn--both physically and verbally; likewise, she resists her family's attempts to minimize the impact of this violence. She demands to be heard, and ultimately she is, by her mother-in-law, her husband, and, to some extent, her father.

Persephone, from becauseilovesand

The final mix of tragedy and rebirth seems to represent the experience of the book as a whole--that violence is cyclical, both in time (Mireille returns to Haiti in the violent, albeit natural, aftermath of the 2010 Haiti earthquake), and in the psyche (Mireille continues to feel like two people--her "before" and "after" selves).  In fact, in the novel's final chapter, Mireille encapsulates her experience in a way that could apply to the "mixed" ending as well, through the tale of Hades and Persephone: Hades (god of the underworld) steals Persephone to be his wife, but Persephone's mother Demeter forbids the earth to bear fruit in retaliation. The compromise: Hades releases Persephone, but only after he forces her to eat the seeds of a pomegranate, which doom her to return to the underworld for six months each year. Persephone is ransomed to a complicated future--both free and not free--just like Mireille.

Great expectations: happily or tragically ever after?

I'm currently reading the novel, An Untamed State, by Roxane Gay. Before this, I read an essay collection, Bad Feminist, by the same author. In an essay entitled, "The Smooth Surfaces of Idyll," she talks about her interpretation of Untamed (which came out the same year as the essay collection) as a kind of fairy tale:

"My novel...is in its own way about fairy tales. The story follows a woman who was living a fairy tale and then she is kidnapped and her fairy tale ends.... In the novel, Mireille Duval's  [the protagonist's] happy ending comes all the way apart and then I had to figure out how to put the pieces back together, how to get my characters back to something resembling happiness."

--p122 (Kindle edition). In: Roxane Gay. Bad Feminist. New York, NY: HarperCollins; 2014.

In fact, Part I of the novel is called "Happily Ever After." That got me thinking about happy endings and...well...not-so-happy endings, and how the reader sort of gets a sense from the beginning whether the book will end (a) with some kind of redemption or rebirth, (b) a major tragedy, or (c) a little of both.

My prediction so far (slightly less than halfway through the book): option C
Okay, this is sort of a cheat because the quote above alludes to "something resembling happiness," but I think it will be interesting to write down my experience-to-date as a reader in the middle of the book, and then check back in to talk about how the ending unfolds--tragically, happily, or somewhere in between. Here's where I am so far in gauging this in plot, setting, and character:

1. Plot/conflict
The basic premise of the novel is this: Mireille (a Haitian-American woman from Miami) is taken from her husband Michael and son Christophe and held for ransom while vacationing at her parents' estate in Port-au-Prince. So from the start, we've got tragedy--the best outcome for Mireille is to be returned after suffering brutal abuses, and the worst is to be killed--either way, Mireille's fairy-tale life with her husband and son is shattered. It tells us upfront that there will be no neat endings.

Further, Mireille's battle is not only with her kidnappers, but also with her father, Sebastien, a proud, hard-working businessman who refuses to pay the million-dollar ransom because (a) it means losing the wealth that represents his conquest over a lifetime of poverty and injustice, and (b) he genuinely believes that showing weakness makes him and his family more vulnerable. In phone negotiations with the kidnappers, he tells his daughter to "Stay strong" rather than promising to negotiate her release at any cost. Because family is the central theme of this novel--from the history of her own parents' romance to Mireille's courtship with Michael--this represents, in some ways, the ultimate betrayal. Again, these tragic events point to no good--the best outcome here is a troubled, if not destroyed, father-daughter relationship.

2. Time/setting/structure
However, with that being said, it's made clear that Mireille will survive--physically, at least. First, the author establishes upfront that kidnappings are commonplace in Haiti and that Mireille knows many relatives and acquaintances who have survived the experience and been returned to their families. Generally, it seems that perpetrators are more concerned with getting their money than killing their victims. More directly, Mireille herself indicates an end to the ordeal as she narrates, mentioning her "thirteen days of captivity" and structures her story by referring to "the before" and "the after" of this trauma, as in: "In the before I took the sanctity of my body for granted. In the after my body was nothing."

3. Character/relationships
The rest of the indicators come more from character. Make no mistake--Mireille is strong. Although she isn't able to escape or hurt her tormentors in any physical way, she resists them from the beginning. When she refuses to relieve herself in the presence of a guard, the man tells her she should be more thankful, and she responds, "I'm not going to thank you for a damn thing let alone taking a piss." When her kidnapper orders her to beg Sebastien, via the phone, to save her life, she says only, "I am fine and being treated as well as can be expected..." Her resistance continues, both directly and indirectly, despite being repeatedly assaulted, raped, and tortured, and despite the humiliation of her father's "indifference."

Also woven into Mireille's narrative are her memories of her romance with her husband Michael. She remembers the many challenges to their coming together--some have to do with his being very different from her (raised on a farm, wears "Republican" clothing, oozes Mid-western charm and innocence), but most have to do with the obstacles Mireille overcomes to let Michael into her life--"I do not love easy," she says--obstacles that go to the very core of her identity and body. These include a disastrous trip to Michael's childhood farm (where Mireille plainly does not fit), an equally disastrous, earlier trip to Haiti (Mireille takes Michael's ambivalence to the country as a rejection of her culture), and an earlier miscarriage (which Mireille chooses never to tell Michael about). Through each episode, Michael eventually responds--to Mireille's surprise--with love and acceptance. The resulting portrait of the marriage is of a profound and hard-earned partnership. If this book is about the ways in which love is tested and the way love tests one's personal narratives, then Mireille's inner strength and the strength of her marriage seem capable of achieving some kind of rebirth.

And finally...
Another reason why I feel that the ending will include rebirth and/or redemption is that the novel's antagonists (primarily the kidnappers, and secondarily, Sebastien) are not without their humanity. Mireille gives a complex portrait of her father and, to some extent, of her captors. These are men desperately clawing for the last shreds of dignity, manhood, and salvation they can reach. Mireille's situation--and her body--are literally and figuratively dominated by these men, but in some ways, they are living in a far more illusory fairy-tale than she, especially her father. The redemption of the novel may be at the cost of destroying these harmful fantasies--and the relationships that hang on them--but perhaps sparing Mireille and the life she has built with her husband.

This is my thought process at this stage of the novel--this may turn out to have been a horrible idea, where I end up looking stupid--but I guess we shall see. Stay tuned for spoiler alerts! and whether I was on the right track or not.

Bazinga! More learning to write by watching TV

Happened to be flipping through last week's edition of New York magazine and there was a great article on the TV sitcom, The Big Bang Theory, and why it's so popular. One of the reasons given was--Bazinga!--the central character, the emotionally stunted but brilliant physicist, Sheldon Cooper. Here was the explanation:

"There's a character in so many classic sitcoms that's just a big monster. He takes up a lot of room, and everybody has to deal with him," says [Phoef] Sutton, [producer and writer on Cheers]. "Roseanne, Jackie Gleason, Sgt. Bilko"--and Big Bang's Sheldon. "Many times, the best characters are the worst people on the planet. Sheldon is constantly insulting the people that he loves and we just accept it gleefully, because he doesn't understand. He's an innocent," says Evan Smith, professor of television, radio, and film at Syracuse University.

Jim Parsons, aka Sheldon,
in May 5 New York Magazine

We could probably add a million more examples from TV to this list: Archie Bunker, Al Bundy, Alf--and those are just the A's. In fact, when you think about it, most TV comedy centers around the know-it-all, the wise-ass big mouth, or the bungling overachiever. Actually, if you draw that out to drama, some of our favorite characters are the almost-monsters, too, or sometimes even the complete monsters, a la Breaking Bad. The key ingredient seems to be a character who will easily fall into trouble over and over again, whether it's because of a fatal flaw or an Asberger's syndrome-like ability to alienate. All of it is good drama--and even better entertainment.

Games People Play

My husband and I never saw the series Lost so we've been watching it via Netflix this past few weeks. There's an episode in season 1 (Ep. 16 Outlaws) that made me think about "games" as a device in plot. Sometimes a good opportunity for plot development is to throw two characters into a situation where they're "stuck" and forced to engage each other out of desperation, boredom, or both. In movies--especially teen flicks or rom coms--this tends to be the game Truth or Dare. But there are other interesting possibilities.

First, here's the example from Lost that inspired this post. Relax--if you're planning to binge watch the show, no spoilers here. All you need to know is that the two characters in this scene--Kate and Sawyer--are stranded on an island after a plane crash, among with 40-odd other people. Sawyer has separated off from the group to hunt a wild boar that recently destroyed his tent and possessions. Kate follows him and offers her tracking skills in return for "carte blanche"--ie, 24/7 access to Sawyer's fiercely guarded stash of supplies. Both are "outsider" characters who don't play well with the others on the island. The game they play is "I Never"--a drinking game in which each player tells something they've never done. If the other player has never done that thing, they do nothing, but if they have, they take a drink. Watch how it plays out:

This scene works really well in a visual medium because as much as said in the pauses when the drinking takes place as in the dialogue. The scene progresses from adversarial sarcasm to playful banter to the final revelations in which the characters acknowledge a dark truth they share. The relationship between the two changes dramatically from the beginning to the end of the scene because the game compresses a lot of information and tension into a short space.

A more subtle example of this plot device is in a short story called "A Temporary Matter" (in the collection, Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri). In a nutshell, it's about a husband (Shukumar) who has slowly been growing apart from his wife (Shoba) following the stillbirth of their only child. It just so happens that, in order to repair a broken power line, the electric company shuts off service to the couple's neighborhood every evening for one hour. That first evening in the dark, Shoba recalls how, when she was a girl in India, her grandmother made each member of the family tell a story, joke, or fact during power outages, to help the time go more quickly. The couple decides to tell each other one thing each night that they never told before.

In this situation, the game device works really well because it is the only way this couple has to communicate. Like the downed power line that forms the backdrop, all other attempts to share their grief have failed, and the game prompts an interaction that is able to cover the full range of emotions the couple has been avoiding. At first, Shukumar is terrified that the interaction will reveal the worst--an affair or other disrespect--and then, even more terrifying, the dread that he is all too familiar to his wife and that nothing may be revealed. This soon passes, however, and the couple begins to realize that the small disappointments and hurts they've visited on each other have been the most impactful. The revelations lead them to new intimacy and then, finally, to a place where they are able to grieve for their child together. It's not a happy ending, by any means, but again, the relationship between husband and wife is dramatically altered over the course of a very short space. Sorry not to excerpt the story here, but because Lahiri writes heavily in summary (vs scene), it's difficult to pick apart out of context.

I'll try to keep looking for more examples of this type of device--I find it an interesting one, and one that never fails to be exciting to the reader/viewer. If you come across any in your readings, let me know--I'd love to add to the collection.

My spidey senses are tingling

Still from Big Ass Spider

One of my favorite things as a reader is when I start getting vibes from the writer that all is not well, and my spidey senses turn on, waiting for the fly in the ointment to be revealed—if the writer’s good, this happens almost unconsciously. I came across a good example this morning, in this scene from Jennifer Weiner’s novel, The Next Best Thing (I was intrigued by a New Yorker article about Weiner, which I posted here.)

Vibe #1: Trouble in paradise? My spidey senses started tingling as soon as I read these first ~150 words—all you need to know is that the main character, Ruth, has had her TV pilot script picked up for production, and that she’s heading with her boyfriend to a celebration dinner thrown by the network that bought it:

“’So tell me the timeline,’ my boyfriend, Gary, said.... I reached for his hand and was pleased and a little relieved when he let me take it and gave me a reassuring squeeze. When we stopped at the light, I looked at him, marveling, as I often did, that he was actually interested in me, that we were actually a couple. Gary had pale skin, dark hair and dark eyes, and a cleft in his chin... He’d gotten dressed up—or at least his version of dressed up—for the occasion, wearing a belt with his jeans, black leather shoes instead of sneakers, and a sportscoat instead of a fleece. True, there was an ink stain on his cuff, but he was here and he was trying, and I felt lucky, loved and lucky...”

As soon as I read this, I knew (well, subconsciously, anyway) that something's fishy with Gary. Here are some of the reasons why, I think. First, there’s a good use of imbalance (tension)—Ruth feels “lucky” that Gary’s interested in her, while he barely puts any effort into dressing up for her big event. Okay, maybe he’s just a schlub—some boyfriends are—but Ruth also shows surprise at his “reassuring squeeze,” which makes Gary seem less than supportive. 

Vibe #2: Literal (and figurative) out-of-stepness. Reading on:

'The timeline for tonight or the timeline for the show?’ I asked. The light turned green. Gary dropped my hand and started walking, so that I had to half run to catch up.

‘Show,’ he said.

‘Okay. Well, let’s see.... We start pre-production next week, and for the next eight weeks I’ll be working on the pilot. I’ll have to cast it, of course, and hire a director, and a DP—a director of photography—and a line producer...” I paused, waiting for him to ask what a line producer did... but Gary didn’t ask. My voice was high and chirpy, slightly breathless from hurrying, as I kept talking....

‘How long will all that take?’ he asked as we walked across Beverly.

Now the plot thickens. Not only is Gary a schlub, but it’s clear he’s not really with Ruth on her journey—in fact, he’s literally leaving her in the dust (a nice touch of irony, because later Ruth notes that she's already surpassing him in material success). Nor, apparently, is he interested in her party—jerk. Again, there’s great tension in Ruth’s hurried speech and Gary’s selective inattention (he’s not interested in the process of the TV show, only the timeline, indicating impatience and doubt about the outcome).

Vibe #3: Is that all there is? Ruth gives Gary a lengthy explanation of next steps, ending with—if all goes well—the eventual premiere of the show. Gary answers with:

'That’s it?” His voice was flat, his tone uninterested, his expression impossible to read in the darkness as he walked with his hands jammed in his pockets and his head down. He looked like a guy being led to the guillotine instead of to a party.

‘That’s it. Then you have to wait to see if you get good reviews, and if you find an audience, and if you get renewed.’

‘It’s a lot of waiting,’ Gary observed.

‘It’s not so bad,’ I said, trying not to sound disappointed.

My Kindle edition!

Vibe #4: Sweet, sweet vindication! Okay, now I feel totally justified for thinking that something was off—Gary is no longer even pretending to try. And now for the payoff—commiseration with Ruth in real-time as his jerkiness sinks in (“All I wanted was for Gary to be happy for me . . .  [but] all he’d done was ask picky questions, pointing out the problems, prodding at the soft spots. . .”) And there’s nothing like a good boy gone bad for either fiction or pillow talk with your favorite character!

(Sorry, I don't have a page number for quoting here—I usually like to give that, but I've been using my Kindle edition. The excerpt comes from Chapter 4.)

Dr. Crane, your Glockenspiel has sprung to life! (Thoughts on Frasier, Part Deux)

So in my last post, I said I had more to say on Frasier, and I’m sure everyone dreaded that—but here it is, anyway!

I think one thing that makes Frasier classic are the plot devices, which are in themselves classic—this includes all those zany identity mix-ups, misunderstood conversations, disastrous double entendres, etc. And I think the reason all those oldies-but-goodies work so well is that they mess around so deliciously with two essential things: status and expectation.

Improv comics know all about status—I first read about the concept in this also-classic from the the UK’s Keith Johnstone, Impro (the Brit word for improv). Basically, status is power, and every character has less power or more power, and expectations related to that power. A scene then, in theory, is about pulling power back and forth like a tug-of-war. This tug-of-war is heartily improved by both self-important characters (which describes Frasier and Niles to a tee) and by compromising situations/intentions that are known to the audience but not (all) the protagonists. Hence, why the implied double entendre from my last post, Dr. Crane, your Glockenspiel has sprung to life!, is so funny and effective—because Daphne doesn’t know that Niles intends to seduce her, but we do, and furthermore, we know in this moment that his original expectations have been thwarted. His status is lowered, while Daphne’s is raised—and the upset is highly entertaining.

Of course there are way better examples of this in the show—that one was just handy. Practically every episode starts Fraiser (or Niles) off with a high status, then takes them down notch by pompous notch. Once you start to notice it, it’s fun to follow the ups and downs.

Last but not least—Frasier often messes with audience expectations via the reversal. With the Glockenspiel plot, Niles starts off by desiring Daphne, then switches over to trying to win his own wife back. But when the opportunity arises (using a typical bodice-ripper plot device—trapping the couple together on a stormy night), Niles tries to seduce Daphne, only to find out that he truly loves Maris. The flip-flopping of character wants via plot devices keeps the audience hopping, and it usually ends up messing with character status as well—something, which in the end, can help deepen the character, as in this case, where Niles discovers his truer (and nobler) feelings.

Anyways, that in short, is why I like to think that Frasier is a good diet for a writer’s brain—also a really great excuse to watch TV besides. Hand me that remote!

Pssst… You can learn plot by watching Frasier re-runs!

I know it sounds too good to be true, but it’s not!

Even if it’s for the boob tube, television writing is still writing, and in the case of Frasier it’s smart, funny, and GREAT for learning plot. Why? Because the episodes are pretty classic in terms of using time-honored plot and story devices that have been cracking audiences up since Shakespeare’s comedies and probably before (like identity mix-ups, overheard/misunderstood conversations, downfall-producing character flaws, tempting the fates, and accidental double entendres that lead to scandalous consequences). More on that another day, maybe.

But for now, what I love about Frasier is just how well they do plot—nothing ever goes to waste, and each action has a cause and effect that lead to hilarious endings. In fact, over the course of a 20-minute episode, you can sit down with a pad of paper and draft up something like the following to describe the whole plot as a cause and effect sequence—sort of like a math equations. I just randomly picked episode 17 from Season 1, called A Midwinter Night’s Dream (P.S. Right now, all Frasier seasons happen to be available via instant streaming on Netflix).

I ended up breaking it down into 5 progressions, although you can do it in a lot of different ways—the main point is just to pay attention to how plot works. The basic breakdown I use was inspired by the book Make a Scene (see more info below). Anyways, each progression begins with a “want” (ie, the cause or related to the cause), followed by a “but” (that’s your conflict), followed by a “results in” (voila, the effect!). The “results in” leads very craftily to the next “want”, and on and on you go, like a daisy chain, until the problem is resolved and the episode ends. It’s kind of fun—here’s my stab at it:

FYI, for below, D is Daphne; E=Eric (Daphne’s boyfriend for this episode); F is Frasier; M is Maris; and N is Niles.

1. N wants E to stop hitting on D (because he really wants D) BUT F challenges N by questioning his happiness with M AND RESULTS IN N wants to spice up his marriage to M

2. N tries a pirate-themed romantic role play (see swash-buckler photo!) BUT it fails and M leaves him to go on a trip AND RESULTS IN N wants to win M back

3. N accepts D’s offer to help him make a nice dinner for M’s return at N’s house BUT a storm prevents M from arriving and keeps D trapped with N at N’s house AND RESULTS IN N wants to avoid the temptation to make a move on D

4. N tries to call F at home for help BUT F is out (he’s found out about N and D’s tryst, and is on his way to them) AND RESULTS IN N wants to make a move on D

5. N makes a move on D BUT N is forcefully reminded of his love for M by his gift to her, a chiming Glockenspiel that goes off as N is making his move (yielding the triumphant comic moment from D: “Dr. Crane, your Glockenspiel has sprung to life!”--see photo) AND RESULTS IN N wants M and resolves to go back to her

I’m sure you could disagree or argue how I’ve laid this out—it is a little difficult to separate between cause and effect and want and result, and all that, because they’re often very related. But the point is that doing this can help you start getting an idea of how they relate! You’ll love getting to watch TV while you “study” writing. (P.S. Sorry if you don’t happen to be a Frasier fan for this blog post, but if you’re not, get cracking and watch it—you’ll kick yourself for missing all 11 blissful seasons.)

The book I mentioned above: Rosenfeld, Jordan E. Make a Scene: Crafting a Powerful Story One Scene at a Time. Writer’s Digest Books: Cincinatti, Ohio; 2008. Chapter 3 (Powerful Scene Middles) has a great way to do scene-by-scene breakdown by identifying scene intention, complication, and result.