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?

And this bit from the very end hits poignantly on the sentiment that makes me feel sure that, however much publishing and books may change with the advances of technology, they’ll always be needed.

“We who make stories know that we tell lies for a living. But they are good lies that say true things, and we owe it to our readers to build them as best we can. Because somewhere out there is someone who needs that story. Someone who will grow up with a different landscape, who without that story will be a different person. And who with that story may have hope, or wisdom, or kindness, or comfort.
And that is why we write.”

In one of my (long ago) college critical theory classes, we talked about the idea of all authors having an antenna that is always on, always picking up signals from the wider world. This has always stuck with me. Authors have finely tuned observational powers, which always astonish me, and sometimes they are able to observe more than what they can see/hear/smell/taste/touch. Sometimes their observations stretch into that cloud. That’s how some elements and themes can end up in a work even when the author may not consciously intend it. And how there are certain themes that a number of different authors end up writing about at the same time. The most noticed recent example is probably the Kristin Cashore and Suzanne Collins books. Graceling and The Hunger Games both had characters with similar names (Katsa and Katniss), who had to confront killing other characters in the course of their stories. And now, the companion/sequel to each has the word “fire” in it. It’s odd coincidences like these that make me believe in the cloud. I see it often in submissions, too. It’s always interesting to get a number of submissions from different kinds of writers, who are all in different parts of the countries and writing about different characters and plots, that somehow have intersecting elements.

To me, that’s the magical part of writing. Somewhere out there, invisible to the rest of us, all of these stories exist, all of these ideas, emotions, and people whom we readers need to help us make sense of the world, of life, even when we might not know exactly what we needed. And authors are tapping into that cloud, giving those stories to us, maybe sometimes without even being aware of it themselves. It’s a pretty amazing gift, if you ask me.

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.

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).

I own every season of West Wing (except season 5, which is dead to me). I think it’s probably my all-time favorite show. I also own all three seasons of Veronica Mars and of Arrested Development. And multiple seasons of Gilmore Girls and Grey’s Anatomy.

All ensemble shows. Each has a focal character, but much of the strength lies in the support system surrounding those characters. One of my favorite episodes of West Wing is in season one, when Josh is offered the card that means in the event of attack, he can go to the bunker. But none of the other staffers get it, besides the Chief of Staff. At the end, after a conversation with the President and Leo about the strength and remarkableness of the women of the staff, Josh gives back the card, saying, “I want to be a comfort to my friends in tragedy, and I want to be able to celebrate with them in triumph, and for all the times in between, I just want to be able to look them in the eye. . . . I want to be with my friends, my family, and these women.” The most touching moments in all of these shows are when the characters rally to support and be there for each other, and some of the funniest come from them knowing each other so well. Which is the case, certainly, in Arrested Development. The show got funnier and funnier as the series went on because we know all of the characters so well, and can pick up even on the subtlest joke.

Snappy writing. I have a hard time watching tv or movies that aren’t well written. Maybe it’s part of why I can’t watch reality tv–there’s no pleasure in language. But all of the shows I’ve mentioned here are so smart. They’re full of relevant cultural references of all kinds–not just current events or just pop culture or just music or film or what-have-you, but blend of all of those. The dialogue moves swiftly and doesn’t explain itself. The writing expects the viewer to keep up. And the characters say the honest things everyone thinks, and say them eloquently. A little bit of snark is always nice, too, when it’s balanced with sincerity and silliness.

Inherent drama. Each of these shows has a setting and situation that lends itself to the dramatic. The West Wing . . . well, is set in the West Wing. Grey’s Anatomy is set in a teaching hospital. Veronica Mars–high school, with a girl who’s both a social outcast and a p.i. investigating her best friend’s murder. Gilmore Girls–private high school with a single parent household and overbearing grandparents. Arrested Development–an eccentric family that’s “lost everything” as the intro says.

All except Arrested Development are hour-long shows. And I’ve never been a huge short story reader, I think for the same reason I don’t usually get hooked by half-hour shows. When I love characters, I want to spend time with them. Half an hour, or twenty-odd pages, just never seems like enough time.

And now that I’ve thought about how well-done all of these shows were and how much I like them, I’m sad that only one is still on the air. Why do all my favorite shows go away? And what will be the next that catches me up the way these have? It’s been a few years since I’ve had a new favorite. Although . . . Mad Men is pretty amazing.

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?

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.

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.

It started off with an amazing visual image of fireflies in Thailand that end up blinking together rather than randomly. Besides “firefly” being one of my favorite words, it also reminded me of the end of Criss Cross, which always warms my heart and makes me feel better about the world.

Someone opened the jar. The lightning bugs knew what to do. They flew out into the night air, every last one. Blinking, “Here I am.”

But besides that, the idea of emergence struck me as one that applied to revising. They talked about how you can’t take one ant out of the ant society and have it work, or how you can’t take one neuron out of the brain and have it contain a whole thought. It’s all in how every ant or every neuron works together. A manuscript is made of individual sentences, but they can’t function alone. A really great revision won’t simply pull out a problem in an individual sentence and fix that, but will see how that sentence fits into the whole, how all of it comes together to form a complex and working story.