Author Archives: Karen Kittrell

Chutes and Ladders—Plotting for ages 3-100

Games teach the mechanics of plot. A player begins Chutes and Ladders on a path with some ladders up and some chutes down. The sequence of action and consequence is plot, pure and simple.

Same Game Different Century

The Milton Bradley game comes from an ancient Indian game called Snakes and Ladders. In Moksha Patam, the game follows Hindu philosophy and morality lessons with few ladders for virtues and many snakes for vices. Salman Rushdie wrote in Midnight’s Children about the game as “the eternal truth that for every ladder you hope to climb, a snake is waiting just around the corner, and for every snake a ladder will compensate.”

Mastering the Game

Snakes are consequences for vices such as disobedience, vanity, vulgarity, theft, lying, drunkenness, debt, murder rage, greed, pride and lust. These plot elements sound like the playbook for Netflix’s House of Cards. In the television series, plot twists are the norm, and consequences rarely weigh on the characters’ decision to act. Character development and flaw emerge as the driving force for plot (see Plotting for the Flaw). In House of Cards, each character’s manipulation, deception and corruption goes without consequence, until the proverbial house of cards tumbles to the ground.

The Parallel Plot Game

Beyond the character contributions to plot, the game board offers second attempts and alternate possibilities—both forms of parallel plots. For example, every child playing this game, has counted the spaces to the next ladder and hoped to roll that exact number. Often, the die indicates a number short of the goal, and the outcome of the game changes. When I missed a ladder, or even worse when I landed on the long slide back to the beginning, I thought what if . . . what if . . . I had rolled one space more.

The What If Game

The movie, Sliding Doors, is the one space more plot. The film shows two alternate realities based on either catching a train or missing it. Children’s books, such as Goosebumps by R. L. Stine, try this format with choosing different outcomes by flipping a coin, but the choice is one or the other. Sliding Doors shows both outcomes at the same time, jumping between each version in a confusing medley of scenes from the beginning of the film until the ending. As with other parallel plots, the emotional highs and lows are braided and mirrored with the two plot lines (see Paula Picked a Plighted Path . . .). With characters in common, the two plot lines—although parallel and in alternate realities—occasionally trip over each other in theme and traipse into the same settings at even the same times. While this film’s structure rates high for creativity, the challenge is how to bring two stories spiraling in different directions back together at the end. In this film, the solution is a similar event in the same setting with alternate outcomes—life or death. Another example of alternate realities is Maybe in Another Life by Taylor Jenkins Reid which shows alternating chapters of the protagonist’s choices.

The “Back to Square One” Game

In the “back to square one” scenario, a player is trapped and stuck in a repetitive loop of one ladder and one chute. What happens the second time around? The same events? Different? In the movie Groundhog Day, this different perspective occurs and reoccurs as a form of parallel plots. The protagonist tests the limits of his actions (vices) in a seemingly endless cycle of romantic comedy consequences of the “boy loses girl” variety. Eventually, the character decides to use his recycled groundhog days to improve his behavior (virtues), and the character arc takes him to the romantic comedy conclusion of “boy gets girl.”

The Next Generation’s Game

My basement is fertile ground for role playing games such as Grand Theft Auto. In GTA IV, the gamer chooses one of three characters, one of three parallel plots. Video games intensify the game playing experience of previous generations. Readers from this generation will expect parallel plots and creative structures beyond the basics of story.

“She Wants to Dance Like Uma Thurman” Fallout Boy

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Thank you Fallout Boy for reminding me of another plot structure. Consecutive stories in parallel narratives are one of the special ingredients in Pulp Fiction directed by Quentin Tarantino. Granted, there is plenty to love or hate about the film. Before I first watched Pulp Fiction, I knew people who had left mid-show because of the graphic scenes. I also knew cinematography buffs, who quoted the film verbatim. For this post, I ask you to consider only the story structure and to forget about Uma Thurman dancing, the drugs, the language and the violence.

Deceiving and confusing for a majority of the movie, Pulp Fiction keeps the audience off-balance with a scrambled time sequence. The first two scenes escalate to a moment of high tension and then abruptly end. In the opening diner scene, Tarantino pauses the action at a point where guns are drawn and a robbery is in progress. The film leaps to an unrelated scene with Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield driving to Brett’s apartment. In the middle of the apartment scene, the film shifts ahead to follow Vincent Vega, the main character of the first of three consecutive stories.

After the third story concludes, the diner scene comes into perspective as a book-end, both a prologue and an epilogue to the three plots in Pulp Fiction. On her website, Linda Aronson describes this structure as a portmanteau or bag structure, one story that contains the other stories.

Titles in the movie provide a swift transition from one story to the next. The first story is Vincent Vega and Marsellus Wallace’s Wife. The Gold Watch is Butch Collidge’s object story; a flashback shows the receipt of his father’s important watch. The Bonnie Situation is Jules Winnfield’s revelation story. The order is not chronological because Pulp Fiction employs a fractured frame portmanteau, one story split to bookend the other stories within a shifted time frame. I confess to mapping the time sequence on a notepad only after erasing half a dozens times and marking shifts with arrows, numbers and letters. Consider the scenes below. The number bullets show the films order. The alphabet bullets reveal the true chronological order. Not every scene is on my list—only the scenes with time shifts.

Film Order (1-9) / Chronological Order (A-J)

1D) DINER SCENE Honey Bunny and Pumpkin

——-Vincent Vega and Marsellus Wallace’s Wife——

2B) VINCENT and Jules in Brett’s APARTMENT SCENE

3F) Marsellus tells BUTCH to lose the fight and VINCENT to escort wife

——The Gold Watch——

4A) BUTCH receives watch FLASHBACK

5G) BUTCH returns for watch / shoots Vincent

——The Bonnie Situation——

6C) JULES miracle in Brett’s APARTMENT SCENE with Vincent

7E) DINER SCENE JULES, Vincent and Pumpkin

The intersection of the plots gives the viewer only a few hints to order the scenes. The initial scene with Honey Bunny and Pumpkin’s robbery-in-action hooks the viewer at the beginning of the film, but chronologically, this scene is in the middle of the movie. “The Bonnie Situation” occurs before the diner scene but is shown at the end of the film. In the Gold Watch, Butch Coolidge shoots Vincent. The movie, however, leapfrogs backward in time to show Vincent alive with Jules in “The Bonnie Situation.” Jules’ words foreshadow Vincent’s fate. The viewer knows of Vincent’s coming death because it has already played in the out-of-order time continuum. Sound confusing? It is.

This film’s fractured frame provides a building of the plot’s violent intensity. After Bret’s apartment, the film departs to lighter topics before coming back to the most graphic scene in “The Bonnie Situation.” Perhaps my word choice of lighter topics sounds absurd for scenes containing a drug overdose, a brawl to near death and sexual bondage. In this film, however, greater incidents of violence lead to greater examples of hope—resurrection from death, rescue of an enemy, and repentance—in Tarantino’s portrayal of darkness or nihilism. Both the cause and consequences are plot.

Paula Picked a Plighted Path of Parallel Plots

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Several chapters into Paula Hawkins’ best seller The Girl on the Train, I note the thriller’s structure of three character point of view with parallel plots. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, by David Shafer, which I also read in the fall, follows the same three character parallel plot. Although the point of view and plot structure are similar, these two books are vastly different.

Shafer begins his novel in Mandalay, Myanmar which I recently toured via tablet, the safest way to sightsee an exotic setting with movie backdrop potential. Location organizes the three equally-weighted plots and is shown at the beginning of each chapter. After round one of each of the points of view, the reader knows which location indicates which character. Portland is Leo. Mandalay begins Leila’s story. New York is Mark’s departure point.

Ansen Dibell, author of Plot, identifies this structure as a braided plot where the “pace, tone and color” of each plot blends and adds to a deeper and richer whole. Shafer’s novel is also a tandem narrative according to Linda Aronson because each of the stories presents a linear progression in time. Although the plots begin separately, a convergence occurs three times: Mark and Leila meeting at Heathrow Airport, Leila escorting Leo from Whispering Pines Rehab, and Leila and Leo rescuing Mark from a motivational speaking gig gone bad. Elizabeth Sims appropriately calls this a swallowtail plot because the convergence and interaction of the characters continues for a significant portion of the story.

The characters in Shafer’s novel are unique and humorous. A Goodreads review describes my favorite character Leo as the “unhinged trustafarian.” He’s a trust fund baby and Harvard graduate who works at a daycare. The problem with having a favorite is I don’t want to read the other plots in this dark comedy, such as Mark, the “phony self betterment guru.” And yawn, I skim the chapters on the too serious, Leila, “disillusioned non-profit worker.” The balance of each characters lows and highs keeps the overall novel’s pace clicking along with plot and subplot.

For something completely different, Hawkins’ The Girl on the Train shows Dibell’s mirrored pattern of plots. The three women are connected as opposites, and at other times, as complements in emotion, life stages, themes and imagery. Each chapter in the story begins with a character’s name, day of the week, date and time of day. In the first chapter, the main protagonist, Rachel, travels morning and evening for five days on the train. The story’s motion feels like commuting, stopping, starting and sharing an awkward space with the same faces going the same way at the same time each day. The reader learns of Rachel’s alcoholic behaviors, cheers her sobriety and dreads what will come of her next drinking binge and her calls to ex-husband, Tom.

As for Rachel, her plot and Megan’s are true parallels in a geometric sense and never intersect. These two plots and points of view alternate for the first third of the book before Anna’s point of view presents. Anna intersects with Rachel and with Megan but at different time periods–one in the present and one in the past. Hawkin’s story illustrates what Aronson calls a fractured tandem, current time for Rachel and Anna but a past time frame for Megan. Aronson identifies this parallel plot structure as good for “unexpected, often tragic connections between disparate people.” That sentence pretty much sums up the book for me.

The technique of parallel plots is a time tested convention. Contemporary writers borrow from 16th century Shakespeare who copied from first century Greek philosopher, Plutarch. In “King Lear,” Shakespeare mirrors plot and subplot to intensify the drama. Both The Girl on the Train and Whiskey Tango Foxtrot benefit from the intricate weaving of plots and mirroring of characters.

Tags: parallel plots, writers craft, The Girl on the Train, Paula Hawkins, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, David Shafer, Linda Aronson, Ansen Dibell, Elizabeth Sims, Shakespeare, “King Lear”

Got Plot? Or Not

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Like the stepping stones in the serene Japanese Garden at the Chicago Botanic Garden, storytellers recount tales moving through a series of classic plot points. The concept of plot stretches back to the earliest recorded histories: cave drawings, tribal tattoos, epic poems, plays and theatre. Plot is the weave of our history, ancestry, immigration and patriotism.

Some stepping stones, however, are not for walking. In the Japanese garden, only mental journeys travel from one side of this path to the other. The meticulously raked gravel rests undisturbed and in perfect harmony with the stones. No haphazard or careless footprints occur. There is no plot, only contemplation.

Somewhere, someone will accomplish great things. Books will capture the details, and schoolchildren will memorize the facts. Movies will be made. Who will be the hero of these next quests? You? Me? Unfortunately, the only quest in my future is surviving the commute, managing my “to do” lists and shuttling the offspring to cross country meets and back to college. Hence, for most, modern existence is one plotless mess.

Is that bad? In 1939, James Thurber captured the desire for greatness and the restlessness of our ego in “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.” In the original short story, Mrs. Mitty instructs Walter to run two errands while she visits the hairdresser. Several fantastic dream sequences distract Walter, but he gets his overshoes and puppy biscuits. Walter is a sympathetic character, and the story is one hundred percent relatable. It’s “plotless us” in a six page story.

For fun, let’s forget everything we know about story structure and embrace the plotless story. Our story is big on character and less so on action. The story demonstrates a goal and a global theme. Plotless fiction progresses by conveying meaning, relationship, or an interpretation of memory. Unlike a story with continued rising action, this story structure waffles along the time horizon with possibly, if we’re lucky, some aspect of emotional change or growth. While fiction debates the power of the prose verses the strength of the story, film balances less plot, narrative, with more imagery and character.

For example, the film, Beasts of the Southern Wild, is essentially plotless, but excels in imagery, unique characters and powerful acting. The independent five year old protagonist, Hushpuppy, fails to achieve, accomplish, deliver or find anything. Instead, the film is a storytelling of her unique talents of listening to heartbeats, her strength to persevere and her disconnect between reality and her fictional southern Louisiana bayou called “The Bathtub.” The film begins with a folk tale about the Aurochs, feared and legendary for eating cave babies. In a perfect example of storytelling, the teacher points to her arm bearing a tattooed image of the beast. Conflict ensues with nature (storm), man (Wink, people behind the levee and the authorities) and self (the Aurochs). Yet, the film does not have a climax. It is more a “day in the life of Hushpuppy.” In those memorable days, a storm ruins her home, and her father, Wink, faces the ultimate life battle.

Popular culture perpetuates plotless story arcs. For example, the Moth Radio Hour on National Public Radio encourages storytellers to find a story where they have a stake. No stake means no story. These five minute true stories make the audiences laugh, cry and sigh. Many of the stories are meandering slices of life. For example, let’s examine these two moth stories: (Shakoor, 2012; Lane, 2014).

Satori Shakoor (“Point of No Return”) explores inner conflict in her desperate job search. I’ve listened to this story many times and never tire of the humor and fantastic delivery, but the story arc is plotless. She has a problem. The problem is not resolved.

As a native Texan, I would like to adopt Faye Lane and her adorable drawl into my family. When Faye tells of her mother’s beauty shop, I wonder if it could be the neighborhood beauty shop that operated across the street from my grandmother’s house in Temple, Texas. Faye Lane (“Fireworks From Above”) has strong thematic material in her mission to be kind and a goal, to bring individuals together through an emotional experience. Her flight attendant experiences, which individualize the group, are an emotional jackpot but not a plot.

Moth storytellers extract the emotional core of a story. Emotion is a highly volatile element on the storytelling periodic table. It cannot be sustained for long periods, which is why, plotlessness is successful on a small scale. A short story, a live storytelling and even an artsy film are great outlets for the plotless.

Diary of a Binge Reader

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Donna Tartt’s, The Goldfinch, hijacked my social life for the past two weeks. And consequently, my life as a binge reader emerged once again.

For months, I can exist perfectly content on my diet of short stories. Then, the unwieldy novel finds me unsatisfied in my 5000 word count stories, lures me to a world of plots with multiple characters and offers a new captivating world to enjoy and forget the everyday mundane. The process begins innocently enough — an evening hour in a big chair with my feet up, a chapter instead of dinner, an alarm set earlier to read before breakfast, and eventually the pages of a 784 page tome reluctantly parted across my sleeping self — until in the middle of the night, the book falls, thudding loudly against the floor, startling the dog who barks and wakes the household and next door neighbors.

How does this happen to me? I confess a predilection for Donna Tartt’s brand of storytelling. Is Tartt’s magic the plot or the theme? A diagram from the NY Book Editors shows themes of prize winning novels in 2014. The Goldfinch won the 2014 Pulitzer Prize and contains many of the plot lines of prize-winning novels: unlikely friendships, betrayal, terrorism, death, theft, school days, running away, criminal gangs, love and suicide. Other winning plots include less appealing topics: cannibalism, East London, homicidal cowboy brothers, an escaped tiger, horniness, jazz, nanny trust issues, a mysterious letter, Totalitarian Bucharest, and war. As to plot, Tartt chose well except I am intrigued by the cowboy idea.

The NY Book Editors post also includes speculation on what makes an interesting story. The answer is a good story arc. Larry Brooks’ Story Engineering also covers these topics along with a bevy of books about story structure. In “Writing Fiction Like a Pro” by Steve Alcorn, the classic three act structure includes nine dramatic elements. For the elements, I included a sketch by fellow writer and classmate, Mame Zirro.

Act 1 introduces the characters, the setting and the story. Through The Goldfinch’s adolescent narrator, Theo, the reader meets his mother and learns the critical backstory. The trigger is the plot point that propels the protagonist into Act 2. It is also called the inciting incident or the door that the character passes through that cannot be undone. Theo’s plot point occurs after the museum explosion. Surrounded by debris, Theo meets Welty and follows his advice. With his mother missing and his theft of a famous masterpiece, he cannot go back to his former life.

Act 2 is the middle of the story. Our boy, Theo, is in crisis – dead mother, abandoned by his father, nowhere to go, no one to turn to, stolen painting, and dead man’s ring. Imagine a horizontal graph of time. After the beginning first act, the middle second act extends for the bulk of the novel. In the case of The Goldfinch, Act 2 is 400-500 pages of Theo’s escalating struggles with his friend’s family, his father’s return, his misadventures in Las Vegas and his betrayal of father-figure Hobart.

Act 2 ends with another plot point. This time the story veers in an unexpected direction. Act 3 is the shortest in duration and the highest point of tension. While Act 2 concentrated on the emotional story and struggles of the protagonist, Act 3 is all plot. Theo is older and burdened by his theft and loss of the famous Fabritius painting of The Goldfinch. His epiphany guides him to a new course of action, a solution for the greater good and his final plan to save the painting, actually several plans, since nothing in a Tartt novel will work the first time. The climax ends where the story began in Amsterdam. I will leave the ending untold for future readers to enjoy. Suffice it to say, Act 3 resolves Theo’s many problems.

The three act structure probably has as many critics as Donna Tartt. Some argue for more than three acts and others for less, such as the simplicity of creating a problem and resolving a problem. The internet displays diagrams of pinch points and new takes on structure with grids, circles and even circus tents. As for Donna Tartt, even the literary crowd disagrees on whether this is a fabulous adult novel or a Harry Potter-esque children’s book. Reviews on Goodreads offer accounts of unfinished readings (no doubt from quitters, wimps and lightweights) in contrast to exhilarating comments about the plot and characters.

For this novel with a massive three act structure, my vote is yes. Read it. But don’t drop it on your foot. Don’t try to fit it in your backpack or purse. And don’t drop it in the middle of the night unless you want to risk a call to 911 from the neighbors.

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