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I’m a sucker for a good romantic storyline. In books, movies, tv shows, songs . . . whatever. But what makes a romance plot thread a good one? I mean, I know it when I see it, but I’ve been letting this question percolate for a while to try to articulate the answer a little. And two things that have crossed my path in the last few weeks have helped to clarify it for me a little.
The first: Entanglement Theory. If you wikipedia that, you’ll come across a pretty dry definition. But I was clued into it by the To the Best of Our Knowledge podcast from January 23, “The Wonder of Physics.” At the end of the episode a writer explained it as the quantum physics theory that when two subatomic particles are spend a significant amount of time in each other’s orbits, they shadow each other . . . even after they are separated. If one spins a certain way, the other will, even if it’s moved far, far away. It gives me little goosebumps when I think about applying it to us, too, and the people we let enter our orbits–whether romantic, platonic, or family.
The second: the poem that Molly posted yesterday, “Those Who Love” by Sara Teasdale.
Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinevere,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile inconsequent things.
And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.
But without further ado, here’s what I’ve come up with as some keys to a good romance. I’m sure there are things I’ve missed, or exceptions to the rule. Feel free to point those out in the comments!
1. The main story–the orbit–has to be about something other than the romance itself. Love stories are best when they’re subplots. The characters need an orbit to be in with each other, after all.
2. The two characters have some sort of immediate connection. Not necessarily a good one, but something that fascinates, intrigues, or challenges.
3. Their interaction is neither neat nor easy. There are complications, heartbreaks, arguments. The two of them don’t necessarily even know that they are in love, or that it’s going to work out. (Are you thinking Darcy & Elizabeth Bennet with these last two? I sure am. And West Wing‘s Josh & Donna, and MWT’s Eugenides & Attolia, and Graceling‘s Katsa & Po, and DWJ’s Howl & Sophie, and Sarah Dessen’s Wes & Macy, and . . . see, I told you I’m a sucker for romance.)
4. Most of the romance is not directly talked about. It’s there in gestures, actions, reactions, and feelings, but rather than telling the reader how the characters feel, the writing makes us feel it along with them. As the poem points out, do the strongest loves need words? Are there even any words that could contain it right, anyway? Of course, that’s not to say there aren’t any direct declarations. There have to be one or two scenes when one of the characters holds a stereo over his head, or tells the other “how ardently he admires and loves her.” It’s payoff for all the signals and longing–and we do need to know that the characters realize what they feel for each other.
5. Along the same lines, a lot of the romance occurs in small, subtle details. It’s the build up of those everyday moments that make the grand gestures mean something. (I know I for one always think about the moment at the end of Lioness Rampant when George is there to catch Alanna before she even knows her knees are going to give out.)
6. There’s build up, yearning, tension as the characters circle each other, sometimes coming closer, sometimes further apart.
7. The ending isn’t a “happily ever after” that’s all sunshine and marshmallow fluff. Rather, it’s a hopeful choice that both characters are making together. They are a team by the end, a team that will take on whatever comes next, which is bound to be imperfect, but good because they can count on one another.
So, what do you think? Is this list a good start?
Ever since my morning in the Magic Kingdom last month, I’ve been thinking a lot about world-building. Walking around by myself made the experience very much one of observing, rather than goofing around, as I expect would have happened had I been with a group of friends.
Part of me–my inner child–was delighted by the whole place. The way every last detail has been planned out, that you never see a “mistake” or false move–it’s so complete. That’s so impressive, and it’s such a total experience.
And yet…
Maybe it’s because I’m a grown-up, maybe it’s because I’ve lived in NYC for nearly eight years now, but the other part of me was wondering things like, “But where’s all the trash?” “How do they stay so perky all the time?” “What happens behind the Cast Member Only doors?”
The last is the most intriguing. Because I bet that’s where the real story is. Where the “cast members” gripe and complain and trade funny stories and, well, live. Everything else is a facade. An expertly detailed one, but one that only stands because of all the inner workings, and what happens behind the closed doors.
Author Cynthea Liu is auctioning off critiques and gift packages from editors, agents, and authors in celebration of her forthcoming book. The money raised will go to Tulakes Elementary School in Oklahoma.
My listing is here. And you can go to Cynthea’s website for many, many more, including Greenwillow authors Kelly Milner Halls (a nonfiction critique) and Chris Crutcher (a Crutcher prize pack).
Ever since I went to see Frost/Nixon a few weeks ago, I’ve been thinking about adversarial relationships. (In fiction, of course.) The movie is brilliant all around, and of course, the focus is on a series of confrontations between David Frost and Richard Nixon. Each is trying to get the best of the other, each trying to come out on top. But only one of them can win. They are two very different people, yet also similar in ways, too. They both want to be in the spotlight of their circle. They both crave “ratings” of a sort. They’re both able to captivate other people; they’re both charismatic. And though it seems like Nixon should be able to easily win in this confrontation, Frost, in the end, has equal strength.
That’s what makes for a worthy opponent–someone who is equally strong, or witty, or what-have-you–and I think that often lies in the similarities between two adversaries rather than their differences. Some amount of sympathy for the other is necessary, too. In Frost/Nixon, we can see that Frost does feel for Nixon by the end, and even that Nixon sympathizes with Frost. We couldn’t have had James Reston opposite Nixon because Reston didn’t see Nixon as human; to him, Nixon was purely bad. And we couldn’t have had Frost opposite Jack Brennan because Brennan saw Frost as a joke.
It works the same way in any story, I think. There has to be equal strength, wit, intelligence, and each has to be able to see the other as a person–at least a little bit. Vulnerabilities and flaws in counterpoint to strengths and attributes make characters more interesting and complex, whether they are protagonists or antagonists. The Dark Knight also sparked this thought last summer, during that scene when the Joker outlines how he and Batman aren’t so different deep down. (Which is an admittedly chilling thought.)
Anyone else have great examples of worthy adversaries in books? Harry and Voldemort, obviously. And I’d say the king and queen of Attolia have one that’s breathtaking (and romantic, too!). Blair and Serena in Gossip Girl? Who else?
I heart almost all Christmas movies, but far and away the best is The Muppet Christmas Carol. A few weeks ago, when my sister came over for a day of cookie-baking and movies, she asked me, “Why do you like the muppets so much?” My flip response was “I don’t understand why you even have to ask that.”
But then I kept thinking about it. What is it that so appeals to me?
Well, just like with any truly great children’s book, the Muppets work on multiple levels. There’s the humor of these funny-looking puppets. The humor of juxtaposing fuzzy, funny puppets saying very dry or serious things. The humor of them saying the obviously funny joke. They’re both silly and smart. They don’t take themselves seriously but they also don’t dumb themselves down.
They teach things without being “Educational.” Think about how much information you learn about Dickens by what Gonzo and Rizzo talk about. Yet it never feels like a lesson. There are rewards for people who already know about Dickens, too–like in the opening song when one of the mice says, “Please, sir, I want some cheese.”
And there’s the lovely Christmas message, of course, to the Muppet Christmas Carol–that life is about the people you share with. Our friends and family are what give everything we do meaning. And on that note, I’m off to join my family in eating as many cookies as possible before sugar shock sets in.
I saw The Dark Knight a couple of weeks ago, and have been a little haunted by it ever since. It’s disturbing and amazing and as interior as it is exterior, which I think is pretty incredible for a superhero/comic book/action movie.
One of the reviews–I think the NYTimes one, but I’m not sure–had a line that stuck with me as I watched. Superhero movies find both their key and their downfall in the ultimate conflict between the hero and the villain. We all know that’s where it’s going, in any movie of this sort. It’s barreling toward the final showdown. That’s what hooks us, and sometimes it’s what disappoints us. So I had that in mind while watching Dark Knight, and was fascinated by how tense I was through the whole thing, regardless. Even though I knew what the climax was going to be, and even though I knew that somehow Batman had to come out on top, I felt the suspense winding me tighter and tighter, and keeping me on the edge of my seat. (Or, maybe more like curled in a ball in my seat.)
This got me to thinking about building tension and keeping your reader in suspense as far as books go, too. As the old saying goes, there’s only a certain number of stories in the world, and we all know what those stories are. In children’s and YA, maybe even more so than adult, we can often make a good guess as to where any given story is going. Voice and playing within the story make each new one fresh and compelling to readers, but how do they maintain the tension?
I’m not sure I have an answer to that question yet, but my idea is that it has to do with that interior/exterior balance. If we can predict what the exterior climax is going to be, then we need to be surprised by the interior one. Maybe it works the other way around, too. It’s all about the layers, and how they work each on their own and together as a whole. There has to be both friction and connection to keep interest. If we have an idea of how one could go, we need to be surprised by the other. And perhaps this is something that can switch back and forth even within the same work. As the Joker and Batman raced toward their final conflict, the balance of power shifted between them constantly. As the Joker told Batman in their last scene, they need each other to survive; they’re the two sides of human nature, and each needs its foil. Because it goes so psychological, we never really know which one we can trust–extremes in either way can be harmful and wreak havoc. This aspect–the way two sides can push and pull at each other, and the way exterior and interior conflicts do the same–is certainly something to keep in mind for stories that need the suspense to work in the best possible way.
Hunger Games is one that I’ve read recently that does the same thing so well–the whole premise tells us where we’re going as far as final conflict, but Katniss is in such opposition to it, that we are wound tightly through the whole experience as her internal battle intersects with the outside plot events. And it doesn’t turn out perfectly–just as Dark Knight didn’t turn out entirely great for Batman. Hm…maybe this is one of the reasons Breaking Dawn didn’t so much succeed. But that is a whole different blog post.
