It’s easy to define plot after a story is finished. Titanic is a drama about the sinking of a ship that was thought to be unsinkable. The Firm is a thriller about a young lawyer whose life is in danger when he tries to escape a high-class gangster-style law firm.
It’s much more difficult to define plot while the story is being written. But one thing is sure, “plot” is definitely a verb. Action has to occur. Significant events have to take place and they have to have important consequences.
Walking in the rain isn’t a plot, unless something – a murder perhaps- happens every time a certain character walks in it. Opening a car door isn’t a plot, it’s an event, an incident, that could be part of a plot which might include kidnapping a child, a spouse leaving home to be with a lover, or a teenager running away.
Events make up scenes and scenes make up a plot.
Yes, I said “scenes” because words are the writer’s movie camera.
Just about every writer, published or unpublished, has heard an editor say “show don’t tell.” But what does this mean and how does it relate to plot?
For readers to care about a story, there has to be something at stake, whether it’s which pumpkin wins a contest for a third-grade audience, or an adult thriller with two or three subplots including a forbidden love and a sex scene between an abuse victim and a married cop.
It’s the way you make up the scenes that counts. “Show don’t tell” isn’t the same as “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Here is one example. Let’s call it, “Here’s Johnny!” that will explain it.
Rejected Version: “Here’s Johnny!”
Johnny was so in love with Margaret he thought his heart would break but he knew he didn’t dare tell her. He was too shy and he feared rejection.
There’s nothing really wrong with that paragraph. It relays a lot of information. It tells us that Johnny is in love with Margaret, but he can’t tell her because he fears rejection. But how much empathy do we have for Johnny? I know I want to tell him to stop the pity party and get on with things. So how can we convey this same information in a manner to gain empathy for Johnny? Can we make the reader cry? (An editor actually asked me to do that when I wrote for True Romance and True Confessions.) At least let’s give Johnny’s plight some emotion by using words like a director would use a movie camera.
Accepted Version: “Here’s Johnny!”
Johnny lay face down on the bed. I never knew red dye tasted like this, he thought. He’d cried so long the cheap bedspread was soaked under his face and some of the dye had rubbed off on his lips. “Margaret! Margaret,” he whispered again and again, holding the torn photograph close to his chest. “I love you so.”
He swallowed hard and felt the lump in his throat descend to his chest. His hands shook. His lips trembled.
I can’t tell her. I can’t risk opening my heart to her and having her grind it on the ground with her heel like all the others. Like Jenna, and Marie, and Mother. Oh God, not even Mother returned my love!
This time, we didn’t say “Johnny was brokenhearted” or “feared rejection.” We showed it in a creative scene like a moving picture would. Create the emotion from your own experience. If your character is in love, remember being in love. If he’s experiencing grief, remember the saddest thing you have ever felt. Or maybe she’s just been accepted to medical school. The medical school of her choice! Don’t just have her say “Oh goody, I’ve been accepted.” Have her jumping in the air, clapping her hands and singing while she twirls around the room, knocking ashtrays and magazines off tables with her skirt.
“Doing” the scene instead of “telling about it” works. Characters make or break a scene, and one scene after another makes (or breaks) a plot.