Month: July 2024

Believable Co-incidents in Fiction

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This post is from an article by Steven James on the Writers Digest website dated September 7, 2018. The focus of his article is making co-incidents believable.

“We’ve all read stories in which the cavalry arrives just in time to save the day, or the hero just happens to find the time machine/ray gun/escape hatch/shark repellent right when he needs it in order to survive the climax. Although coincidences may happen in real life, they can kill believability if they appear at the wrong time or aren’t handled the right way in a story.

Coincidence is necessary to get a story started, but is often deadly at the end. However, too many authors use it backward: They work hard to get readers to buy into the plausibility of the beginning, but then bring in chance or convenience at the climax—when readers’ coincidence tolerance is at its lowest.

For handling coincidence deftly, follow these seven strategies to unlock its power.

7 Clever Strategies for Harnessing Coincidences in Fiction

Strategy 1: Capitalize on the coincidence that initiates your story

We don’t typically think of it this way, but really all stories start with a coincidence.

Stories begin when the author dips into the stream of cause and effect and pulls out a moment that initiates all that will follow. Readers accept this without consciously identifying the event as coincidental:

  • The young couple serendipitously meets in a tiny Parisian cafe.
  • The suicide bomber ends up killing the president’s niece in the airline attack.
  • The woman’s fiancé is diagnosed with terminal cancer the day he proposes marriage.

Readers don’t say, “Yeah right. The detective who ends up being the protagonist just happens to be assigned to the case that this book is about. I don’t buy it.”

Of course not. Readers know that a story must start somewhere and, whether they realize it or not, an event that doesn’t require much in the way of explanation typically gets things rolling.

Use the story’s opening sequence to justify incidents that would otherwise seem too convenient. This is where coincidences will fly under your readers’ radar.

For example, a cryptic phone call can set up a number of storylines:

“So, is the meeting still on for 7?”

“No. We’ve had to move it back an hour so Fayed can make it.”

“And we’re still on target for tomorrow at the raceway for—”

“It’s all set. Everything is set. Now, no more questions.”

If this type of conversation occurs early on in the book, readers won’t much care why it was Fayed couldn’t come at the originally scheduled time, and you don’t have to explain. However, if the conversation were to happen later in the story, readers may very well be wondering why Fayed was going to be late—and they’ll be expecting a good reason.

If your story requires the inclusion of an unlikely event, move it closer to the start—or even use it as the inciting incident—to capitalize on your readers’ willingness to suspend disbelief.

Strategy 2: Avoid justifying what readers readily accept

In contrast to what we’ve just established—that the earlier a coincidence occurs in the story, the less it needs to be justified in the minds of readers—many authors spend excessive time trying to explain why the opening should make sense.

Often, they’ll include an exciting hook, then drop into backstory to explain what instances led up to the hook occurring. This not only hurts the flow of the narrative, but also decreases escalation and hampers your readers’ engagement with the story.

Can lightning strike the person standing beside your protagonist during the first scene of the story? Yes, of course. Is that a coincidence? Absolutely. Will readers accept it? Sure, because that’s how the story begins.

Can lightning strike the bad guy at the climax right when it looks like he’s about to kill the hero? Well, technically anything can happen, but if it does, it’s likely to solicit eye rolls and book throwing—unless the main character somehow causes that to happen through a conscious choice and in a way that readers will readily believe but not anticipate.

Does your hero need to know karate late in the story? Show him sparring early. You don’t need to explain why or when he started sparring; you don’t need to give a history of all the karate tournaments he’s been in since high school. All of that information is unnecessary. He’s a black belt. Got it. Now move on.

Strategy 3: Leverage genre conventions

Coincidences are more acceptable in some genres than in others. For instance, fate tends to play a bigger role in romance, fantasy, and horror: The lovers are destined to be together (regardless of when in the story that destiny is revealed), the prophecy about the young wizard must come true, and readers might anticipate that the demon will somehow survive at the end to wreak havoc again.

In those cases, or when the thematic nature of a story revolves around fate, destiny, prophecy, or divine intervention, coincidences play a bigger role in the story’s progression.

However, most people believe that free will plays a more significant role in our destiny than fate does, so even in genres that are friendly to coincidences, consider searching for a way to have a freely made choice rather than simply destiny or an act of God resolve things at the climax.

Strategy 4: Point out coincidences in the middle

Every coincidence except the opening one requires a leap of faith. So, the further you move into a story, the more coincidences will undermine believability.

Certain forces press in upon a story to help shape it—believability, tension, escalation, characterization, and so on. Sometimes authors overlook the importance of causality, or the fact that each subsequent event in a story is causally linked. In other words, every event is caused by the one that precedes it.

At times, the flow of a story might require a break-in causality, a jump in logic, or the necessity for something inexplicable to happen. If that’s the case in your story, readers will often sense a gap in believability—unless you point it out to them.

You can do this by having a character note that what’s happening seems unbelievable:

“It just doesn’t seem like Judy to lose her patience like that.”

“I can’t believe he would say that.”

“I could tell something was up. She just wasn’t acting like herself.”

Readers will think, “Aha! Yes! I thought something weird was going on, too!” And, rather than be turned off by what seems too unbelievable or too convenient, they’ll be drawn deeper into the story. They’ll trust that there’s more going on than meets the eye and that, in the broader context of where the story is heading, this event will retrospectively make sense.

Strategy 5: Anticipate readers’ reactions

Be your own worst critic of seemingly arbitrary events in your story. Think through the reactions that readers will have to the events as they occur:

Oh, that’s convenient.

I don’t buy it.

Yeah, right.

This doesn’t make sense.

Why doesn’t he just …?

We often talk about silencing our inner critics when we write, but this is one time when you should listen to that voice. When it pipes up, find a way in your story to answer it.

Strategy 6: Look for what’s missing

Avoiding coincidence isn’t just about spotting what does occur that’s not the logical result of the preceding events, it’s also about recognizing what doesn’t occur that should, given the current circumstances.

For example, the woman is being chased by the knife-wielding killer. She runs out of the house and tries to fire up the car—it won’t start. (Oh, that’s convenient.)

So, she gets out of the car and runs to the cellar instead of toward the highway. (I don’t buy it.)

Where she rallies her strength and punches the killer in the face, knocking him out. (Yeah, right.)

In those three cases, the coincidence comes from the actions she takes. But such contrivances are equally ineffective when they come from what should happen but too conveniently does not:

She carefully and quietly steps over his unconscious body to get to the staircase again. (This doesn’t make sense. Why doesn’t she tie him up, finish him off, use that knife of his against him?)

Any time your readers would have one of those reactions, you’ve identified a coincidence that needs to be addressed in the service of the story’s believability.

Strategy 7: Foreshadow to remove coincidence from the climax

Of all the scenes in your story, the climax should contain the least amount of coincidence. Foreshadowing is a powerful tool that can serve to remove coincidence, and thus the climax should be foreshadowed more than any other scene.

I’ve already pointed out that in far too many stories, things are reversed. Why do so many authors use coincidence to resolve the climax? Well, because they’re trying to come up with an ending that readers won’t guess. As the author brainstorms ways to surprise them, he also runs out of believable ways for the protagonist to solve his own problem, or to make the defining choice of the story in a way that will satisfy readers. It’s much easier to just put the protagonist in a terrible fix, stick her in
a situation that looks impossible to escape from, and then have someone else show up in the nick of time to save her.

But that’s lazy writing, and it’s not giving readers what they want.

Conclusions depend on choices, not on chance, coincidence, or rescue. By definition the hero should do the rescuing rather than needing to be rescued. He makes a choice that depends not on coincidence but instead on causality, and that choice determines the ending of the story.

Think back to Strategy 2: If your character needs that Swiss Army Knife at the climax, foreshadow earlier that she has it with her. If he needs to be a rock climber, show him on the crag with his buddies in a previous scene. If she needs to be able to solve complex mathematic equations in her head, foreshadow that she’s a human calculator.

The location, the character, the asset (or liability) that comes into play at the climax—anything that ends up being significant to the outcome of the struggle—should have been introduced long ago, or it’ll seem too convenient that it arrives when the protagonist needs it most.

At its best, foreshadowing should make so much sense in that earlier scene that readers don’t notice that the scene is foreshadowing anything at all. Only later, when that special skill, ability, or asset shows up again, will readers think, Oh yeah! That’s right. He knows how to fly a helicopter. Excellent. I forgot about that.

Readers should never think that the story’s conclusion “came out of nowhere,” but rather that it logically followed all that preceded it, even if the story ends with a twist.”

Aging

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There is an essay on the Electric Literature website about how one writer confronted her aging process; it in titled ‘Mirrors Tell the Truth but Not the Whole Story’, and it’s written by Stephanie Gangi.

Stephanie Gangi is a poet, novelist, short story writer and essayist living and writing in New York City. Her debut novel, The Next, was published by St. Martin’s Press and her second, Carry the Dog, from Algonquin Books in November 2021 and has garnered early praise. Gangi’s work has appeared in, among others, Arts & Letters, Catapult, LitHub, Hippocrates Poetry Anthology, McSweeney’s, New Ohio Review, Next Tribe, and The Woolfer. She’s working on her third novel, The Good Provider.

Stephanie Gangi

“Years ago I wrote a poem, “Mirror Window.” The gist of it was that I kept mixing up the words, mirror and window; I said one when I meant the other. It was alarming, I was not yet forty, too young to lose language. My daughters noticed and teased me about being old, as daughters will, and I wrote about that, kind of a circle of life thing.

I’ve gone back and read the poem and it’s not bad, but like all my writing at the time and from years before, from my teens, I filed it away and distracted myself with being young: sex-and-drugs-and-rock-and-roll, i.e., men, and then marriage and a shiny, happy family in a house on a hill. I have conflicted feelings about this. On the one hand, I was distracted from writing by love, lucky me; on the other, love was conditional or finite, humans being human, especially me. The writing was a constant, but me as a writer was something—someone—I could not see. I thought of it as a hobby.

In my late 40s, I tried “Mirror Window” again. This time it took the form of an essay, which came about because I was in possession of a large, antique mirror that I didn’t like but couldn’t get rid of. Let me go back.

I got the mirror when my mother died a decade earlier, not just my mother but my father too, he in March and Ma in June, both suddenly, neither yet seventy or sick. I was thirty-seven years old, an only child, or an adult only child, and a mother myself, in a complicated marriage. I was left with a split level to sell in the dead middle of Long Island. The contents were all mine, down to the coffee cup in the sink with Cherries in the Snow lipstick left on its rim. Consequently, the objects and furnishings and jewelry held—hold— outsized sentimental value.

Time passed, the parameters shifted. Love was indeed finite. My marriage ended and my little family reconstituted itself. We moved, with the mirror, to where we fit better with one less of us. That’s when I decided to paint its frame, give it a new look for my new life. I laid it out on a tiny patch of city yard on a sunny day, and in the course of sanding it down, I was on my hands and knees hovering over my reflection, focused on the task, not noticing myself. And then I did, and I saw how I’d look if I were on top of someone. How I looked during sex was on my mind at the time—I was a divorcée, it was still called that—because I was having a lusty adventure with a man seventeen years my junior. I was on top regularly.

The vantage point over my reflection showed my hair hanging in lank curtains on either side of my face, red with exertion. Gravity plus the sanding effort yielded sagging and swaying. The word “jowls” made itself manifest. I’d never looked my age before, but kneeling over this mirror, I sure did.

The distracting fling with this guy had turned into foolish fantasies about a life together. Once during pillow-talk, we did that thing of revealing something each had never told anyone else. My dark secret: Botox. We both reveled in our age difference but the truth was, I’d been trying to hide it. His dark secret? He admitted that he would stay a relationship’s course until someone new came along to provide him with a reason to leave. I knew this was true. It was the case with us; I had recently been the new one. “Mirror Window” was an essay about heartbreak. Once again, I filed my work away.

It turned out there was more to it than heartbreak. It turned out that refinishing the mirror gave me a window into a future with him I could not countenance, in both senses of the word—countenance like face and countenance like support. The truth is even if I had not sagged over the mirror that day, I was already worried about being where I am now, here in my sixties with a younger man who’d all but warned me he’d be watching for the exit. People do tell you who they are, and you should believe them, and he did, and I did.

So I reframed. My longest, truest commitment, to writing, was never a hobby. It is what I do and who I am. First novel at 60, forthcoming novel at 65, third in the works. Now and then the hot chill of regret passes through me. I should have started sooner. I should have been less high, less young, less seductive and less seduced, less distracted. Well, wait. That’s not right. I was full of life and love, and sorrow, joy, and disappointment—the open heart. Regret is beside the point. I know there’s no grace in that.

Let me keep going.

I am still new at being me, the writer. I have so many ideas that I cast around too long before I settle on something. A writer friend advised, “Just write about what you always think about.” Mirrors and windows. It’s not a sophisticated metaphor, but it is simple, it is effective. In my work, my women think a lot about how to age gracefully even as they learn to recognize themselves in their new old faces. They stare into their bathroom mirrors and wonder what to do about the jowls even when they are nobody’s lover, let alone on top. They too are startled when they catch an unexpected reflection in a shop window.

Two crazy things happened recently on the same locked-down day. I went through my apartment in a pandemic-fueled mission to spruce things up. I decided to repaint the frame on my mother’s mirror again, it’d been a long time, and I wanted it to match a smaller mirror that I bought at a yard sale in Montauk thirty years ago, with an infant in my arms and a toddler hanging from my legs. I was inspecting this smaller mirror and I was surprised. Oh. It’s a window frame. A window frame, fitted with mirrored squares instead of clear glass. I’d had it for so long I didn’t register it anymore, even though I passed it several times a day. I actually own a mirror window.

Not an hour later, I picked up a package containing the manuscript of my new novel—about distorted memory, accepting who you once were, and recognizing who you are now—from my editor. I poured some red wine and sat down, thrilled and grateful to see his old-school, handwritten edits on manuscript pages. On page 178, there was a strong delete mark through the word “window,” and his caret and note indicating it should be replaced with the word “mirror.” I’d done it again.

Mirror window. It wasn’t a mix-up, I hadn’t lost language. I was telling myself something I couldn’t hear yet. I was showing myself something I didn’t see yet. It’s like the two words were saying, and kept saying, Look inside, look outside, write it down, make it your life.

My daughters are now old enough to tease each other about getting old; I’ve aged out of the joke but I’ve revised the old poem, newly titled “Last Laugh,” wherein I give myself the final word, a circle of life kind of thing. I revised the saggy-jowls essay, and this is how it’s ended up:  published, not filed away. I’m tunneling into the third novel, and in an opening scene my protagonist is holding a chaotic yard sale, everything must go, including her dead mother’s furniture, including a window frame fitted with mirrors for panes, just like mine.”

Review: Hostage to the Devil

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I mentioned having bought this book when I bought Glimpses of the Devil. The two books are quite different, not only in the authors’ styles, but also, Glimpses is a scientific report by an amateur exorcist. Hostage is a researched report on the experiences of six, third party exorcists. Glimpses is a psychiatrist’s report; Hostage is the report of a high-ranking priest in the Roman Catholic Church. Still, the two books come to the same conclusions about the reality of demonic possession and the methods of exorcism.

Wikipedia says that the author, “Malachi Brendan Martin (23 July 1921 – 27 July 1999), also known under the pseudonym of Michael Serafian, was an Irish-born American Traditionalist Catholic priest, biblical archaeologist, exorcist, palaeographer, professor and writer on the Catholic Church.

“Ordained as a Jesuit, Martin became Professor of Palaeography at the Pontifical Biblical Institute in Rome. From 1958, he served as secretary to Cardinal Augustin Bea during preparations for the Second Vatican Council. Disillusioned by the council, Martin asked to be released from certain aspects of his Jesuit vows in 1964 and moved to New York City.

“Martin’s 17 novels and non-fiction books were frequently critical of the Catholic hierarchy, who he believed had failed to act on what he called “the Third Profacy” revealed by the Virgin Mary at Fatima. His works included The Scribal Character of the Dead Sea Scrolls (1958) and Hostage to the Devil (1976), which dealt with Satanism, demonic possession, and exorcism. The Final Conclave (1978) was a warning against Soviet espionage in the Vatican.”

Father Malachi Martin

There are five exorcisms described in detail in Hostage. The first possessed is Marianne, a young single woman in New York City. The exorcist is Father Peter, and the demon is The Smiler. The exorcism involves violence and the demon recalling in grotty detail Peter’s sexual adventure with a girl friend before he was ordained. The exorcism was successful, but Peter died a year later, a psychologically damaged man.

Then there is Father Jonathan, a priest who is a possessed nature worshiper, and Father David, who as a natural scientist is nearly possessed by the same demonic spirit, Mister Natch, as Father Jonathan. The exorcism is stopped for a period of months while Father David recommits his own faith. Jonathan’s mother exerts her faith to save her son.

Next is Father Gerald, the exorcist, the Girl-Fixer, the demon, and Richard/Rita a transsexual who is possessed. Father Gerald is physically attacked and injured by Girl-Fixer during the exorcism. This exorcism was also adjourned for a period of weeks while Father Gerald recovers. The demon leaves Richard with threat to deal with Gerald after his death.

This is followed by Jamsie who is semi-possessed by Uncle Ponto, a lower level evil spirit who wants to make his abode in Jamsie and try to control him. This is termed ‘familiarization’ or possession by a familiar spirit. Father Mark expels Uncle Ponto, but he then discovers that there is a senior demon, Multus, wants to take possession of Jamie. Father Mark uses Jamsie’s will to complete the exorcism.

In the last case, Carl, a prominent parapsychologist, who can read minds, travel back in time, and who has learned he was a Roman in a prior life is possessed by the Tortoise, an evil spirit who was able to create Carl’s illusions for him. Father Hartney is the exorcist. During the exorcism, Carl is reluctant to let go of the privileges which the Tortoise has given him, but he finally decides he wants freedom of mind, body and spirit.

There is a sixth exorcism mentioned in the book, briefly. It is the only one for which Father Martin had no recording to rely on, and no witnesses, other than the priest to question. This sixth exorcism took place in China, and involved a Thomas Wu, who was possessed and who died in a fire before Father Michael Strong could complete the exorcism. Father Michael’s health was severely affected by the exorcism.

These brief summaries sound quite improbable, but the book is over 450 pages long, and if it has a fault it is that there is too much detail about what the various participants were feeling or thinking at critical moments. The five cases are laid out in excruciating detail. One can deny their accuracy, but this becomes a matter of personal choice and denial. For my part, they make sense, as they align with my Christian faith.

The book caused a sensation when it was first published in 1976.

Why I Love Dirty Children’s Books

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There is an article with this title by Daniel Donahoo on the Wired website. It’s dated 14 February 2013, but it is quite timely.

Daniel Donahoo is the Director of Project Synthesis, an ideas consultancy whose work is driven by play, technology and narrative.

Daniel is the author of children, family, media and technology “Idolising Children” and co-author of “Adproofing Your Kids”. He has supported a number of services across Australia with the planning and implementation of technology in play-based environments,  he has advised on national projects on incorporating play-based approaches into digital learning resources and reviews and writes about technology for Wired, Huffington Post and New Media Consortium.

He says: “BOOKS ARE ARTIFACTS. We hold them close, we sort them on shelves, we lend them out and wonder when they will return. In these digital times the value of the book as a treasured item is only increasing. Books have a scent, a feel and a connection that some place well above the stories they may read on their Kindle.

However, I’m teaching my kids that books are far more important than to be given the status of artifact. My favorite books are dirty children’s books.

While illustrated children’s book have long history of being even more special artifacts than most others, a children’s book in beautiful condition, with clean crisp pages in near-mint condition is a sad and troubling thing. Children’s books should belong to and be treasured by children, and if that is the case they should look like they have been handled and read and looked at by children.

Our house is currently littered with books. They can be found behind the cushions on the sofa, on the floor in the kitchen, under the washing machine and occasionally on bookshelves. Most of these belong to my 20-month-old son, and he loves to flick through the pages of any book and identify everything with wheels as a “brum.”

We read to him. His older brothers read to him. And he “reads” himself. Consequently, all of his books are dirty children’s books. They are frayed at the edges, some pages are ripped, others have splashes of breakfast cereal or smudges from butter and toast. These books have gorgeous pictures and wonderful stories, but what good would they be if we kept them all well ordered and alphabetized on a shelf, only to bring them out on the occasion of bedtime for a story before sleep?

Books are something we should treasure and care for. We should fold over the edges to keep our place, we should let them live in the bottom of our bags or in the dirt while we are on camping trips. Our books should reflect the lives we lead — messy and uncertain, but well lived and loved.

We should teach our children to love books in this way, and deal with the little bit of damage that comes with it. Books are not made of glass. You can dry pages with a hairdryer, and stick ripped pages back together. You can construct a new spine from cardboard and even write a new ending on some new paper and slot that in at the end if those pages have been lost.

I love dirty children’s books. Covered in dust and grime and the things you find on children’s fingers. I love the stories and the pictures the fact that every fingerprint is a page turned, a new word learned, a narrative pursued.

Keeping reading with your children. Always.”