A Reader’s Manifesto: 12 Hardwired Expectations Every Reader Has
By Lisa Cron | October 9, 2014 |
As I gear up for the Writer Unboxed Un-Conference next month (woo hoo!), I thought it might be helpful to revisit some of the basic story tenets that I’ve been writing about here for the past two years (sheesh, time doesn’t fly, it vaporizes!) Often these tenets don’t come from the writing world, but rather, they’re set by what your reader’s brain expects. Writers sometimes balk at this – after all some of it flies in the face of what is taught in the writing world. Besides, it’s easy to believe that story doesn’t need to be learned. After all, no one ever had to tell you what a story is when you’re reading one. But you have to admit, when it comes to writing a story, suddenly it isn’t quite so clear. Why is that?
[pullquote]We’re hardwired to come to every story tacitly asking one question: what am I going to learn that will help me make it through the night?[/pullquote]
One of the main reasons is because what actually hooks a reader is very different from what we’ve been led to believe. It’s even very different from what seems logical, clear and obvious – which is that readers are hooked by the beautiful writing, the clever plot, the fresh voice, and so on and so forth. All those things are great, no denying it, but they’re not what readers come for. Those elements simply give voice to it – they’re the surface, the conduit. Readers come for what goes on beneath the surface. We’re hardwired to come to every story tacitly asking one question: what am I going to learn that will help me make it through the night? We’re looking for useful intel on how to navigate situations we haven’t yet been in, and new ways of looking at those we have. As a result, there’s a set of specific expectations by which we unconsciously evaluate every story — expectations that have nothing to do with being able to “write well.”
But articulating what, exactly, we’re responding to when we read a story isn’t easy, because it’s not something we had to learn, the same way we didn’t have to learn how to enjoy chocolate or how to feel pain when we skin our knee. Being enthralled by a story just happens. It’s not something we think about, because it’s part of our standard operating package – we roll out of the factory with this wiring already in place.
The good news is that we can decode what we’re wired to respond to in every story we hear. We can learn what triggers the surge of dopamine that biologically pushes the pause button on real life, letting us get lost in the world of the story. And once we do that, we can create a story that lures a reader in as surely as a trail of crumbs in the woods.
Here, then, is a reader’s manifesto – twelve hardwired expectations that every reader has for every story they hear, whether they are consciously aware of it or not. Meet these expectations, and readers won’t be able to put your novel down.
- The reader expects that the story will start making a point, beginning on page one.
The brain is wired to begin making sense of things instantly. We are constantly on the search for meaning — not in a metaphysical way, but in a how-will-this-affect-me way. When it comes to novels, the affect we’re hoping for is to be swept up into the world of the story. Which is why our first questions tend to be: What’s going on here? Why should I care? What’s at stake, exactly? In other words, we’re looking for a reason to be curious about what will happen. If we have no idea of what’s going on, or what the point might be, we have nothing to be curious about. While sure, we may be able to see the “what,” we have no clue as to the “why,” and so nothing really adds up. And when things don’t make sense, instead of the rewarding surge of dopamine that an effective story always triggers, we get a rush of cortisol. Think: stress. That’s when we put the book down and decide to see what’s on TV.
This is not to say that you have to spell the point out on the first page, but readers need enough of a sense of it –- enough context -– to do three things: grab their attention, make them care, and make them curious about what might happen next.
- The reader expects that the story will revolve around a single clear, escalating problem that the protagonist has no choice but to deal with.
[pullquote]But here’s the secret: This external problem is what the plot is about. But it’s not what the story is about.[/pullquote]
Once we have the context, we’re ready to read on – and what we expect is that the established context will hold. That is, we expect a story to be about one, single overarching problem that then complicates throughout the story. We expect that problem to escalate, but what throws us is when that problem is suddenly back-burnered, or it splits into two separate-but-equal problems, or the problem ends and another begins, or the author keeps throwing random problems at the protagonist, you know, to keep things exciting.
Remember, a story is about how we solve a problem we can’t avoid, and how we change in the process. This escalating problem is the external context within which the story unfolds. But here’s the secret: while it sure sounds like this problem is what the story is about, it’s not. This external problem is what the plot is about. But it’s not what the story is about. The plot is the external manifestation, the thing that forces the protagonist to take action. The real problem they’ve got is internal – that is, how they react to what happens in the plot – and that is what the story is actually about.
- The reader expects that the protagonist will enter the story already wanting something, which is what gives true meaning to her goal.
Have you ever woken up in the morning with no idea who you were, what you believe, why you believe it, or what you want to (or have to) do that day? Okay, okay, maybe once or twice, in college. But I’m betting that it came back to you with unforgiving clarity soon thereafter, along with a splitting headache and a vow never ever to drink that much again. Now, imagine that happened to you every day – not the drinking part, but the “who am I and what’s my agenda?” part. There’s no worse feeling than having amnesia, and staring at a new day with absolutely no idea of, well, anything. It’s something S.J. Watson captures brilliantly in his novel, Before I Go To Sleep, about a woman coping with amnesia. Here’s what that might feel like:
[pullquote]It’s the protagonist’s memories that have taught her what things mean, and that shapes her agenda and drives her ambition.[/pullquote]
I realized I have no ambition. I cannot. All I want is to feel normal. To live like everybody else, with experience building on experience, each day shaping the next. I want to grow, to learn things, and from things. . . I cannot imagine how I will cope when I discover my life is behind me, has already happened, and I have nothing to show for it. No treasure house of recollection, no wealth of experience, no accumulated wisdom to pass on. What are we, if not an accumulation of our memories?
Indeed. And yet, writers begin writing novels without a clue as to their protagonist’s accumulation of specific memories. Forgetting that it’s those memories that have taught the protagonist what things mean, and that shape their agenda and drive their ambition. Which is why at the beginning of a story that is exactly what every protagonist must have: a specific agenda, which is to say, something they already want very badly.
- The reader expects the protagonist will already have a deep-seated fear, misbelief or wound – i.e. an inner issue — that keeps him from easily achieving that goal.
Just as we all have an agenda, we all have things that hold us back from carrying it out. Not simply external reasons, like, “I’d love to climb Mt. Everest, but I’d probably have to get into shape to do it.” But internal reasons – like why I resist getting into shape (oh wait, did I say that out loud?). Point being, this is what your story is actually about – an internal change. If it was simply external, even a stranger could take me aside and say, “Hey, then begin exercising, and you’ll be in shape in no time,” and I’d slap my forehead and go, “Why didn’t I think of that? Problem solved!” As if, right?
[pullquote]We come to story for inside intel, the real reason we do things, not the surface reason. We don’t come for insight into what people do, we come to find out why they do it.[/pullquote]
This is what we come to story for: the inside intel, the real reason we do things, not the surface reason. We don’t come for insight into what people do, we come to find out why they do it. That’s what your story is actually about. So not only does your protagonist need to come in wanting something, but they also need a deep-seated misbelief that keeps them from having a shot at getting it. After all, if getting what they want was easy, there’d be no problem and therefore no story.
- The reader expects the things that happen in the plot to force the protagonist to confront and overcome her inner issue, something she’s probably spent her whole life avoiding.
Ahhh, now we come to why you can’t start with just a “plot.” The answer is simple: we’re not wired to care about what happens, per se – even if we’re talking war, peace or a midnight visit by cuddly aliens. We’re wired to care about how those things will affect us, given our agenda (what we want, and what we’re afraid of). In a story, the reader evaluates everything that happens based on one thing: how it affects the protagonist, given her agenda. That’s what gives everything in the plot its meaning and emotional weight – nothing has meaning in and of itself. So when you’re writing a novel (and if you hear a familiar drumbeat here, you’re right) you have to know a whole lot of specific story-related things about your protagonist’s past before you can write word one – or even begin to build the plot.
[pullquote]In a story, the reader evaluates everything that happens based on one thing: how it affects the protagonist, given her agenda.[/pullquote]
Note that this does not mean that you need to write a “character bible” that catalogs exactly what your protagonist wears on Saturdays and eats for a snack after soccer practice. What you actually need to do is write fleshed out scenes about the origin of their desire and their misbelief – scenes that will help you figure out what your story is about and where it starts and where it ends. And, most important, these scenes will then create the lens through which your protagonist sees, and evaluates, the world you’ll plunk her into. Many of these scenes will end up in the book itself, as you’ll soon see. Worrieth not, none of it will go to waste.
- The reader expects there will be something crucial at stake, continually forcing the protagonist’s hand.
What keeps us reading is dopamine-fueled curiosity. What triggers it? Wanting to know what will happen next when something is at stake. It’s not about wondering whether Jane’s husband will make spaghetti or stir fry for dinner. Because, really, who cares? Nor can the “something at stake” be random – it needs to be something that will affect your protagonist in pursuit of her goal. In other words, will this get her closer to what she wants, or further away?
[pullquote]What keeps us reading is dopamine-fueled curiosity. What triggers it? Wanting to know what will happen next when something is at stake.[/pullquote]
But wait, there’s more! A big mistake that writers often make is that they think it means that something is at stake externally. And while yes, there must be something at stake externally, the real question is: given what’s happening externally, what’s at stake for your protagonist internally.
- The reader expects a clear and present force of opposition, with a loudly ticking clock.
We’re wired to keep a vigilant eye on anything we perceive as danger, and to begin planning escape routes the second something squirrelly catches our eye. But if what seemed to be a ticking clock suddenly stops, so does our interest in it. A common mistake writers make is that while they do indeed create a force of opposition – be it an actual villain or a conceptual societal restraint – the specific danger remains vague, general, so we can’t really envision what might happen, or anything specific that the protagonist needs to be wary of. Under those circumstances, by definition, the story can’t escalate.
[pullquote]The whole point of the plot is to force the character to take action, and without a rapidly approaching deadline – well, good luck with that.[/pullquote]
And not only must something specific be at stake, there must be a deadline with a very clear consequence – so that your protagonist can’t put off dealing with the problem until she’s feeling rested, or when Mercury finally comes out of retrograde, or tomorrow. We all know where tomorrow falls on the calendar: A week from Never. The whole point of the plot is to force the character to take action, and without a rapidly approaching deadline – well, good luck with that.
- The reader expects the protagonist to try to make sense of everything that the plot puts her through, in the moment, on the page, as she struggles with what to do.
This is where the true story lies. Everything else is there to serve this one master. This is the very specific inside intel we’re wired to hunt for: What is this character really thinking? What would that really feel like? Not thinking in general, mind you. Not long, rambling, stream of consciousness musings about this and that. But how she makes sense of what’s happening to her right now, based on her specific agenda.
[pullquote]The past is the yardstick by which we measure the meaning of the present. This is one of the many reasons why it’s so crucial that you know certain specific events in the protagonist’s backstory before you begin writing.[/pullquote]
This is where that backstory we were talking about comes in, whether in full scene flashbacks, or in snippets as he tries to parse out the real meaning of what’s happening, and gauge the possible consequences of what he might do about it. The past is the yardstick by which we measure the meaning of the present. This is one of the many reasons why it’s so crucial that you know certain specific events in the protagonist’s backstory before you begin writing. Otherwise, how will you know what anything means to them at all? The answer is simple: you won’t.
And yes, this applies to scenes in which the protagonist is not present. Sure, we’ll feel a lot of things, but the ultimate filter through which we’ll evaluate everything will be: how will this impact on the protagonist when she finds out?
- The reader expects that everything in the story is there strictly on a need-to-know basis, even the weather.
[pullquote]As readers, we tacitly take for granted that if we don’t need to know it, the writer won’t waste our time telling us.[/pullquote]
As readers, we tacitly take for granted that if we don’t need to know it, the writer won’t waste our time telling us. It’s so logical, isn’t it? But surprisingly, this logic doesn’t seem to stop writers from throwing in all sorts of things that don’t really have anything to do with the story at hand. But the poor reader doesn’t know that. The reader thinks that whatever you wrote has story significance, and so they dutifully ascribe meaning to it, and that meaning is, by definition, going to be wrong. The trouble is, soon they’re reading a different story than the one you’re writing — a story that shortly stops making sense.
- The reader expects that the protagonist will be flawed and vulnerable
We’re wired to use ourselves, and what our experience has taught us, as the barometer of what is believable and what isn’t. And if there’s one thing we all know, it’s that we’re vulnerable, and, gosh this is hard to admit — flawed. Meaning, there are times when we don’t know what to do, when we’re insecure, when we feel like we sound really stupid, and when we don’t really want to say what we’re thinking out loud. So when we come across a character who seems perfect – who’s always kind, considerate, smart, and well groomed — rather than swooning, we’re kind of skeptical.
[pullquote]It’s our flaws, our differences, that make us interesting, and our vulnerability that allows us to connect. Likeable doesn’t mean perfect or unable to offend anyone, ever. It means relatable.[/pullquote]
Trouble is, writers often feel that their protagonist has to be likeable, which they take to mean perfect – and by society’s standards, no less. And so the protagonist never makes mistakes or has any real flaws that might offend or embarrass. Which actually means that they’re not perfect — they’re boring. And, probably, hiding something. Am I right?
It’s our flaws, our differences, that make us interesting, and our vulnerability that allows us to connect. The point is, likeable doesn’t mean perfect or unable to offend anyone, ever. It means relatable. Even if we don’t particularly like the protagonist, she has to be someone we can relate to, if only a little bit.
Besides, what can we learn from someone who’s already perfect? What problem could they possibly have? In other words, your protagonist has to have something they need to learn, which implies that, um, there was something they didn’t know to begin with. Something they got wrong. Otherwise, what do they have to struggle with?
- The reader expects that as the protagonist tries to solve the story question, he will only make things worse, until he has no choice but to face his inner issue.
Biologically, we’re hardwired to start out by taking the least amount of action in order to solve a problem. We’re also wired to want to get the most by giving up the least. This is not a moral judgment: these are biological truths that for eons have helped us – and every other living organism — survive. It doesn’t make us weak, it’s just the nature of the beast. We want to have our cake and eat it too. Who wouldn’t? As readers, we’re aware of this tendency, and so we expect the protagonist to try to take the easy way out. But as experience has taught us (read: the hard way), chances are that’s probably going to make it worse. This is how a story builds, tension mounts, and stakes rise, until the protagonist is forced to confront the thing that’s been holding her back.
That is why you can kick external story-structure manuals to the curb – which misleadingly only focus on the plot, and the “things that happen” externally, rather than the internal story from which the plot springs. As I’ve said before, story structure is a byproduct of a story well told, not something you can create from the outside in. By allowing your protagonist’s inner struggle to give meaning to and thus drive the external events (aka the plot) your story will organically escalate.
- The reader expects that at the end of the story the protagonist will emerge changed — seeing the world through new eyes — and that we, the readers, will emerge changed, as well.
Remember where we started?
[pullquote]Our unspoken assumption is that when we finish the book we’ll be a little smarter, a little more savvy in the ways of the world, and a little more able to make it safely through the night.[/pullquote]
Story is hardwired into the architecture of the brain; it’s how we make sense of everything. And when it comes to envisioning the future, to imagining what might happen, a story is a simulation: it allows us to vicariously experience things we haven’t yet gone through, the better to gather inside intel for the future. We began telling stories at the dawn of time, and by the time novels came around (like five minutes ago, in the grand scheme of things), our wiring was in place. To wit: our unspoken assumption is that when we finish the book we’ll be a little smarter, a little more savvy in the ways of the world, and a little more able to make it safely through the night. Which is why what we’re tracking when we read isn’t an external how-to, but an internal “why to.” In other words, story is not about the plot, it’s about the internal change the plot causes in the protagonist.
And here’s the kicker: when the protagonist changes, so does the reader. All stories are a call to action. The reader expects no less.
Thoughts? The floor is yours.
Lisa Cron is the author of Wired for Story: The Writer’s Guide to Using Brain Science to Hook Readers From the Very First Sentence and Story Genius: How To Use Brain Science to Go Beyond Outlining and Write a Riveting Novel (Before You Waste 3 Years Writing 327 Pages That Go Nowhere). Her video tutorial, Writing Fundamentals: The Craft of Story, can be found at Lynda.com. Her TEDx talk, Wired for Story, opened Furman University’s 2014 TEDx conference, Stories: The Common Thread of Our Humanity. A frequent speaker at writers conferences, schools and universities, Lisa’s passion has always been story. She currently works as a story coach helping writers, nonprofits, educators and journalists wrangle the story they’re telling onto the page; contact her here.
I did what I’m sure most writers who read this comprehensive post will do: I compared the WIP against each one of your benchmarks.
I won’t tell you how I came out – that’s a task for readers – but I will tell you that the process of becoming a writer started for me, as a child, asking all those questions.
The books which last, the ones we remember and re-read, answer each in a way which helps us learn about the world.
Those of us who spent our lives with our noses in a book have this ingrained in our psyches: this is how it’s done. When we start to write, we instinctively head for attempting to produce the same. Far more than 10,000 hours go into the task of learning to read for meaning.
It’s a good thing it settles in our brains early – can you imagine, as a grownup, suddenly deciding that you are going to go out and teach the world about ‘meaning’? The hubris!
But it feels so natural to tell a story.
Beautifully said Alicia!
Lisa–
As always, you’ve given WU readers a great deal to think about. I have a rudimentary understanding of the neuroscience basis for your reliance on “hard-wired” as a descriptor. Experts like George Lakoff and Stephen Pinker have educated me on this.
What I would really like you to address is the obvious appeal for so many readers of protagonists who don’t have much to do with your inner-outer struggle. They are pure, unalloyed fantasy. I am talking about the James Bonds and Jack Reachers of the fictional world (let’s throw in Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry for good measure). These are characters who, without penalty, violate all standards of normal behavior or limits.
For this very reason they take us away. The reader is limited and bound by ordinary reality, by inner conflicts and tensions that must be resolved if she is to deal with the external world of her life’s story. She fits the pattern of reader you describe, and what such readers seek in a novel.
But: Jack Reacher is not limited by these forces. He is essentially flawless before adversity, always quick to act, never seriously encumbered by inner struggles or moral ambiguity. Same with James Bond and so many other protagonists male and female. Experience doesn’t change them. They have everything they need to “win,” so why would they change?
So: can you apply your twelve-step plan to such wish-fulfillment stories? I myself don’t write fantasy. I prefer to make my characters struggle with both personal demons and external adversity, in a world based on the one we occupy. But so much highly successful fiction does not follow this path. Could you please comment?
Oh Barry, this is a great, great question, I’m so glad you asked. It is something I think about a lot, and have wanted to write about – thanks for the nudge! First, you’re absolutely right, Reacher and Bond and, my favorite, Philip Marlow, don’t change much. In fact, mysteries (my lifelong favorite genre) do follow a different pattern. But, at the end of the day, what we’re wired to expect holds – the difference in mysteries and thrillers is that the overarching “why” we come for is often “why would a person do that?” Often that person is the killer. There is much more to it than I have time or space to go into now – thanks to this question, this is what I’ll be writing about in my December post (November is going to be for insights gleaned from the UnCon next month. Can’t wait!)
But until then, the point is that “how we make sense of something” is what we come to story for. How Bond makes sense of what he sees, how he figures it out, how he comes up with the clever way he’ll thwart the villain. Even more so in mysteries. What is a mystery if not Marlow or Dalgliesh or Wexford or Millhone struggling to figure out what made the villain tick, the better to catch him or her? Hope that helps, let me know!
Lisa–
Thanks so much for your reply.
One way of seeing novels is in terms of the distinction we are making: those books readers read in their search for answers to real-life problems, and those books readers turn to for relief or escape from daily life.
I happen to think books that successfully present characters grappling with real-world problems are especially deserving of respect. But the operative word is “successfully.” All too many “serious” literary novels are hopelessly unreadable, and self-indulgent on the writer’s part. That’s why most intelligent readers will opt for a great escapist read over a dull literary novel any day of the week. When the two are wedded–oh boy, the reader has hit the jackpot.
Needless to say, I very much look forward to your December post.
–Uh, correction. No jackpot would be hit by a reader who read a book that wedded a “dull literary novel” with “a great escapist read.” My bad.
Barry Knister,
I’ve never read a James Bond novel but I watched a couple of the movies when I was younger. I wanted James Bond to get married, and I thought the action scenes were boring.
The character seems like a super-hero and a lot of people do not want them to change. It’s like Batman turning dark or brooding, what a controversy!
Also, Barry, I don’t think the authors of “serious” literary novels care about “hooking” the reader or consider meeting the reader’s expectations.
Tina–
About “serious” novelists not caring about hooking the reader: I’m not sure I agree with you. What they want to hook the reader with is often different: style, wit, arresting insights, unusual use of language.
A lot of the discussion about popular fiction vs “serious” fiction (or classics) neglects to talk about what readers bring to their reading. When the reader has been taught college-level reading of fiction, that person will approach what’s on the page differently from the way other readers approach their reading. Or so I think.
Thanks Barry. You made some good points.
‘All stories are a call to action. The reader expects no less’.That last line is a kicker. Writing for the reader seems like an no-brainer. And yet, the first time I heard it, it came as a revelation to me. Attempting to do it has re-wired my gray matter (a work still in progress). It really changes everything. I had a difficult day yesterday (family stuff), and when I came upstairs, my husband was watching Austin City Limits. I told him I needed to watch something with a story. I needed to see someone grapple with a problem bigger than mine so I could feel like there was a way to get past things. So, Amen.
Thanks so much Susan! I sure know how you feel at the end of the day — maybe that’s why I just got totally mesmerized by Broadchurch. Talk about watching people grapple with problems way more harrowing than mine. Even so, there were insights in show that are already helping me navigate my life — hopefully for the best ;-).
Loved it, Lisa. Your guiding points are tres useful with the key issue of overcoming the inner limiters the locus and your differentation of ‘story’ and ‘plot’ beautifully rendered. Words to live, er, write by. Much appreciated.
Thanks, Alex!
I don’t disagree with any of your points in theory, but how do you explain the success of crap like Jack Reacher? It has no point, no moral, not thematic importance. Jack’s mission is to get the bad guy, and he never changes through the course of the story
You’re absolutely right, Jim. I talked about this a bit in my reply to Barry. And, as for the moral, here’s the thing — it’s not a moral we come for – rather, we come for how what the character experiences shapes, and changes, how they see the world. It’s the difference between how we think we might react in a situation we haven’t yet been in, and how the actual experience tends to, um, correct that perception. And as for Reacher, I read The Killing Floor, and as I recall he did think about his past, his brother, and it did give us insight into who he is, and why he does what he does, even if he doesn’t change. Biggest point: it’s not the “what” (what a character does) it’s the “why” (why he or she does it).
Hello Lisa,
Every Writer Unboxed posting teaches me something valuable, and usually exactly what I need at that moment. This time, your checklist sparked an idea for what’s missing in my final chap. I’ve been circling it, and now I can dive back in. Thank you!
Lisa, this is a monumental post. It took me three sittings to absorb because you had me thinking about my story in every step. Youve inspired me to make a few small changes, but only a few: being a regular at WU for the last four months has given me such wonderful perspectives and tools that this time the story’s working (Thanks Vaughn for recommending Wired for Story – a must read for all serious storytellers). Looking forward to seeing my writing unfold over the next several months, and to these continued excellent articles.
What I love about WU is all the unique angles its many contributors bring. We have eyes that see in every direction so that writers who regularly come here to WU are optimized against blind spots. I love your unique angle, Lisa, connecting storytelling and psychology and taking meaning beyond just a plot to what that plots means to the character we connect to and ultimately to our readers who seek to be changed by the pages of our stories.
My pleasure on the recommendation, John. I was the same with this post. It’s my third time back. It takes time to digest such a writerly feast, doesn’t it?
Running though it against this WIP does show me there’s progress, versus how I felt with another finished manuscript when I first read Wired for Story. It’s easy to get caught up in what might be lacking, but it’s also important to celebrate progress, right?
Thanks, Lisa! Looking forward to meeting you in person in Salem!
Another stellar post. I can’t thank you enough for sharing your endless wealth of knowledge on this topic. Writers everywhere should know you.
And thanks to Writer Unboxed for providing this valuable information — for free!
Lisa, this is a brilliant post. As often happens when I read your work, I have several insights about my WIP. Thank you so much.
The second last ‘graph before the bold — where you’re point out that “why” trumps “how — struck a note of familiarity so I followed my hunch to Goodreads. Have you read Viktor Frankl’s “Man’s Search for Meaning”? Here are two quotes from it.
“Those who have a ‘why’ to live, can bear with almost any ‘how’.”
“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”
Isn’t the correlation with your thoughts fascinating? I’m not sure if he’d have had any idea about dopamine versus cortisol versus serotonin at the time he wrote his book, but a man with keen insight about human nature would seem to agree with you about story. Funny how what’s true shows up in many a venue.
This is great, insightful information. I’ve always felt that we, as writers, are not merely telling our readers a story. We’re transporting them to a new world, a place where they can leave this reality and inhabit the mind and body of a character who does things differently. Their heroes, whether realistic or superhuman, react in ways they themselves wish they could.
We, in our stories, allow an overweight middle-aged office worker to transform into a six-foot tall 200-lb muscular Special Forces veteran whose chest doesn’t hurt when he runs up the block. We give a timid high school kid the power to scare away, or beat away, the bullies that lurk in the shadows. The lonely housewife finds romance with a the man of her dreams. The tired business woman finds a way to win every contract and defeat those who’ve held her back.
Heroes. Escapes. Power. Wisdom. Love.
Writer’s make reality something different. We are not mere story tellers. We are world makers.
You’re brilliant, Lisa! Every single one of these makes sense to the reader half of my brain. Now to apply… ;-)
BTW, the post got a slot in my favorites and cut and pasted into my Writing Aids file. I’ll be referring to it for a long time. Thanks!
Whoa! Wow! I am stunned. You have given every aspiring writer the key to success, rather served it in a silver platter. As I was trying to (trust me it will take another few reads to completely absorb it) understand it I was able to relate and recollect every possible book I have read till date and I was able to relate it to the core.
So a big thanks
This is a brilliant, thought-provoking article you’ve given us to chew over…thank you. I love it.
Lots to think about — It seems the more I read, the more I need to revisit my manuscript. Thankfully I am only 1/3 of the way through. Appreciate your insights!
Lisa Cron,
It is difficult to get that loudly ticking time bomb in the story. That part is stumping me right now.
Thank you for this list.
(I avoided putting exclamation marks in this reply, just for you.)
Would you say A Tree Falls in Brooklyn measures up to the 12 reader expectations? If so, in what ways? If not, what makes it succeed anyway–assuming you would consider it a success?
Thanks
More about Jack Reacher…Reacher may not go through a lot of personal changes, but I’d submit that Atticus Finch doesn’t, either; he, too (at least as I recall the novel) does what he does because of who he is.
Each Reacher novel takes place in a rigidly moral universe; that’s where its meaning comes from. And that’s at least part of my satisfaction with them, because it posits an intrinsically moral universe with absolutes of right and wrong.
You wrote,”What am I going to learn that will help me make it through the night?” I think it’s Lee Childs’s answer to that question–yes, Virginia, there is a right and a wrong–that makes him so satisfying. Add the backstory about how Reacher became Reacher (betrayed by a military he’d believed in) and you have another level of meaning. Reacher makes me think of Huck Finn–Reacher is forever lighting out for the territories. That seems to me to be some sort of resonating archetype, too.
I think something similar happens in most mysteries, too. The reader gets an affirmation that the universe makes sense: the death had meaning, the wrongdoer gets punished, justice is satisfied.
My two cents …
Oh Mary, that’s so well said, and yes, I totally agree. And all of it — the affirmation of a just universe (or not, in some darker mysteries) hinges on the “why” rather than simply the “what.” It’s the internal revelations that rivet us. And, I’d wager, if Finch and Reacher don’t change, we’re also seeing the cost of that “standing fast.” More so with Finch than Reacher, granted.
I always appreciate your posts, Lisa, and this one is no exception. Such great insight into reader and the reason we read and write at all. I’ll be bookmarking this to come back to again and again. Thanks.