More on backstory

Jessica Lee said...

I find myself struggling with how much 'past' to reveal. I think a lot of what a character does, their motivations, should be informed by their past and therefore...when being read by an audience, they should to a certain degree figure it out, too. But sometimes that's not always the case, right? I'm not sure how to go about being both informative and clever...and not 'tell' instead of show how the past affects characters.

Good question! Backstory is, as I said, the characters' past, and it's important to the reader as it's important to the characters. But we all know that it can be imparted clumsily or adeptly. As you said, it influences what they do and why they do it, so to some degree, it should show in their actions. But how much will the reader get just from the actions?

1. Hmm. Well, first, I think is the question of what backstory should be revealed. Yes, backstory that has influenced the character -- but we're affected presumably by about everything that has happened to us. And we don't want to tell everything.

Relevance, maybe? Coherence? Like the accountant hero might have been made more competitive by seeing his father (an NFL football player- sorry, watching the Bengals-Bills game, and you want to know what's really irrelevant? A Bengals-Bills game) drop the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. Would you have him think about that, or flash back to that, or talk about that? Would you reveal that? Would it matter what was going on in the book? (For example, what if the story involved football in some way, or his father?)

2. What's backstory and what's just information? I don't mind-- in fact, I crave-- the little bits of information (not necessarily backstory, but sometimes) that tell me what I need to know to understand this early scene-- how these people are related, say. I should be able to tell from their actions if they love each other or hate each other, sure, but are they brothers or cousins? I don't know why so many writers now are withholding something so simple as that-- "His brother Joe..." "Sandy had been her best friend since grade school." That sort of information is just part of the narrative. Just as you'd make clear that this is taking place in downtown Syracuse, you should let me know what Joe knows and Tom knows and everyone in the book knows, that Joe and Tom are brothers. Why make me guess, and more important, why make me wonder if there's some reason that requires them to keep quiet about their relationship? No, just put in "His brother Joe" and be done with it.

What signal do you want to send? Be careful not to send the message that "this is a big secret!" when in fact it's not a secret at all. That's frustrating and distracting for the reader. So what information do you impart? What if it's backstory (too), like "Danny had been her date to the senior prom."

I tend to put in little informative stuff early, but try not to be obnoxious. Hey, there's a rule! "Don't be obnoxious."

3. And when? I think when is important. Backstory revealed early in the book can be a real problem, I know from experience. I'm thinking that if you want to set up a question to be answered later (like "what happened at the senior prom that still traumatizes her so much she can't talk about it?"), you probably don't want to tell too much too early. So if she takes her car to Sullivan's Auto Repair, and as she's driving in, she sees Danny looking all manly and oilstained bending over a Corvette in the garage bay, how do you set up "question about senior prom"? Maybe she turns around and goes to the Midas down the street. That makes the reader ask, "Why did the sight of Danny make her change her plans?" But how much info do you need? That connects Danny to something that bothers her, but doesn't bring out the senior prom thing. What if she had a quick thought as she drove in-- there's Danny Miller. All manly and oilstained. He was her date for the senior prom. No, best not go here? There's a Midas down the street?

How would you handle that? Do you think the reader needs that "senior prom" mention?

Alicia

Withholding for suspense

I'm embarking on a Shirley Jackson read. I like her use of setting-- the sort of unspecified time ("before now") and place ("small town"). She's very specific about detail-- it's a time when they had grocery stores, but the grocer and his wife gathered up the items for you, and it's a place where the winters are hard and the springs cool and fruitful, and where mushrooms (the healthful and the poisonous) grow wild. (Actually, sound like northern Indiana or southern Michigan!). And I'm always up for a good yarn about the insularity and suspicion of a village. (She lived in Bennington, VT, and supposedly The Lottery's village with its geographical features is recognizable as Bennington.)

I'm reading We Have Always Lived in the Castle, and marvelling at the slow revelation of the central mystery (as in "The Lottery"). It's instructive for writers, I think, to analyze how she does this. I'm well into the book, and still not sure what terrible thing befell the Blackwood family, but I'm not irritated at the crypticness. I'm not inwardly demanding, "Just tell me already!" as I am wont to do with slow reveals. ("She knows what happened! Why hold it back from the reader??") So I'm wondering why this works, why I'm pleasurably gathering clues, why I (who usually early on reads the last page just to make sure that the right person gets punished) am assiduously avoiding spoilers as I gather info about Jackson. What's she doing right here in her withholding?

1. Well, first, she's withholding for a purpose other than withholding. Too many writers, I think, assiduously obey the edict, "Don't reveal backstory!" as if the edict itself is reason enough to withhold. But "tools, not rules!" The withholding of backstory is a tool to the purpose of creating suspense and reader interest, not an end in itself. I have entire confidence that the author here is withholding information because -- when the whole story is read-- it will be clear WHY the backstory is withheld, and it won't be "because I read in a book somewhere that I shouldn't tell backstory." That sort of confidence in the author's choices comes from trust, and the trust comes from recognizing that she knows what she's doing. Establishing that trust-- well, a post for a different day, perhaps.

2. The point of view allows for a lot of withholding. It's first-person, and the narrator is a young woman who is full of anger, resentment, and grudges. She is not an open person, and deception and secrecy are part of her way of interacting. In fact, she does a lot of deliberate if subtle taunting of the villagers, and her alienation makes it plausible that she would be oblivious to what might be consuming the reader-- curiosity. And she is shown irritably fending off the curious if guarded questions of the villagers (who are kind of reader-standins), so fending off the reader's curiosity is another "in-POV" aspect of her narrative.
And first-person, however candid it seems, allows for considerably more secret-keeping and downright lying than third-person, because the "I" narrator presumably has a reason for telling the story, and presumably has a reason for NOT telling it all perfectly straight. "Tell the truth, but tell it slant," as Dickinson put it, and in first-person, the narrator determines just how "slant" you can get before it stops being "the truth".

3. The story starts firmly in the "ordinary world" of the narrator, and it's set up as very ordinary-- a girl living in a small family, in a pretty house surrounded by a pretty garden, going grocery shopping twice a week and withdrawing books from the local library. That ordinariness is lulling, but could verge into boring... so the reader is a bit pleased when a few anomalies early crop up (the library books are five months overdue, the narrator's sister cooks but won't go into the village to shop for food). The ordinary world is established, but so is the mystery.

4. The narrator seems to be perfectly frank (and in a way, she is)-- starting off with an announcement of her name and the admission that she wishes she were a werewolf and is quite acquainted with the Latin name of a poisonous mushroom. "I like my sister Constance, and Richard Plantagenet, and Amonites phalloides, the death-cap mushroom. Everyone else in my family is dead." (Now she REALLY knows how to end the first paragraph, doesn't she?) She has no problem sharing all sorts of negative things, like she wishes she could "walk on the dead bodies" of the children who make fun of her, and that she has gotten angry and smashed her mother's favorite milk jug. She reveals a lot about herself, so her withholding one big thing (the secret) actually centralizes it, makes it seem more important and dramatic.

5. Jackson makes it clear that this is an IMPORTANT secret, and it really is. That is, I never had that impatient sense that this was going to end up some stunt or trick, that the big secret was that Constance had not gotten into the college of her choice and that's why she was hiding in the house. Again, the author needs to inspire trust in the reader that she wouldn't go to such lengths to hide something trivial, that the mystery is worth the anticipation. That's a tough thing to pull off, yes, but it helps that the author knew all along that in truth what she was withholding was indeed worth the wait (and also the sort of thing that is withheld in real life).

Let me explain what I mean by "trivial withholds". I was once reading an opening where the heroine was going to meet a man for dinner. She was in a sorority, and as she got dressed and got ready, her sorority sisters kept dropping by to say, "I hear you're going to dinner with Tom! Give him my regards!" and "Say hi to Tom for me!" So her friends knew who Tom was-- no big secret to them. But the author (and narrator) assiduously avoided giving any identifying detail about Tom that would let the reader know who he was. But clearly it was being set up that we were to think that he was a date, a boyfriend, an ex maybe.

In fact, "Tom" was her brother. He knew that, she knew that, the sorority knew that. They all knew he wasn't a romantic partner, and so, in real life, none of them would have given that impression. They wouldn't deliberately avoid using the word "brother," for example, because they wouldn't be trying to give the impression that he was anything else. (Because there's nothing wrong with being her brother, obviously-- if he were her biology professor, her MARRIED biology professor, maybe there'd be a reason for everyone to be cagey. But he's just her brother.) I was annoyed then when -- finally, a chapter later-- it's revealed that, shazaam, Tom was her brother. I don't mind misdirection (I like it), but I do mind useless misdirection, where the only purpose is apparently to misdirect me. Misdirection for the sake of misdirection does not inspire that sort of authorial trust that makes me settle back and enjoy the slow buildup to revelation.

6. There are all sorts of clues. Instead of constant misdirection and blocking and blind alleys, every here and there is a nugget of information, like the rubies scattered here and there in a video game. Mushrooms are mentioned three times in the first chapter. Hmm. Mushrooms, important. Merricat is always nervous about leaving the house, and she's right, as some of the villagers treat her cruelly (especially the children). But some treat her with elaborate casualness, and some treat her with a bit of obsequiousness (the Blackwoods appear to be the richest family in town). The children have a nursery rhyme they chant as she passes, "Oh, Merricat, Merricat, will you take tea? Oh, Constance, please don't poison me!" (Makes me think that this story is based at least in part on that famous true New England murder, you remember: "Lizzie Borden took an axe, gave her father forty whacks.") Uncle Julian is writing his memoir, and keeps asking questions-- "Did your father have a cigar out in the garden that morning?"
We never go very long without a ruby-- no time to get frustrated.

7. There are also hints that there's a deeper mystery. There's a real narrative deepening going on. A clue is revealed (the family has closed off a gate once used by the village) that might suggest another bit of info about the secret (which is something to do with poisoning! Hey, I'm not so dumb!). But then comes the deepening-- the gate was closed off not last year (the apparent time of the poisoning), but years ago, when her mother decided she didn't like people nearby. That is, we grab that ruby, and we might be disappointed to find it isn't a ruby at all (a clue to the poisoning secret), but then we realize it's not a lump of rock or something useless (as a meaningless misdirection might be), but an emerald! (I mean, a clue to some OTHER secret.) This deepens the mystery, because just as we start thinking we know what's going on (Poisoning. The parents.), we are faced with some other questions, like "were the parents crazy?"

8. I hesitate to bring this up, because it's probably not something you can control as a writer, but you might be aware of it. Everyone's probably read "The Lottery," another Jackson story about a small town, and in that, the woman is a victim of the close-minded conformity of the villagers. So of course that's in our heads as we read this other Jackson story about a young woman in a small town full of suspicious people. And that's a clue too, isn't it? Jackson often uses the small town setting to explore conformity, suspicion, narrow-mindedness.
However, what's fun here, is in Castle, I am feeling all kinds of sympathy for the woman who is ostracized and shunned by those mean villagers, just like in "The Lottery." However, something is telling me there's more here... that maybe the villagers, nasty as they are, are right this time. That's another way the mystery is deepened, through the "meta" overlay of reality (Lizzie Borden) and the author's other work.

9. There's action here-- concrete, vivid action. I don't mean guns going off and bodies discovered in the tulip bed, but just things happening. Merricat goes into town, and stops at the coffee shop, and someone sits next to her and says significant things. She leaves and walks past a group of children who sing the nasty nursery rhyme. She gets home and a couple ladies are there to visit. She is angry, and breaks the milk jug.
This is action as John Barnes defines it: Any irreversible event that changes the course of events of the story. The "change" is really important here. Jackson continually sets up that "ordinary world" and then shows how this event is a change from that. It's a fascinating technique, actually-- Mrs. Clark comes and visits them every week, so no big deal that she is visiting this week. But she brings Mrs. Wright with her! That's a change! (And it sets in motion more revelation.) Notice though that Jackson goes to pain to set up the "usual" (Mrs. Clark) so that the "unusual" takes on greater importance.

10. And there's emotion, but as the revelation reveals, the emotional mystery gets more complex. We learn it wasn't just their parents who were poisoned, but their little brother, and Uncle Julian's wife. And we learn that the father was a cruel and miserly, and that Uncle Julian feared him. And in the "now," we learn that Uncle Julian is writing a book about the poisoning, and is not in fact in denial at all. But his emotion complicates-- he is aware of the great crime, but still loving to his nieces. We are drawn deeper into the mystery of this large, loving, murderous family.

11. In that way, the withholding draws us into the story of this family-- it is the bait. But the prize isn't that revelation of what the secret is, rather the ever-deepening mystery of the family love and desperation. That is, there's a reward for letting the suspense build, for not reading that last page, for not seeking for an answer but rather letting it gather-- the reward is the scarier story within the suspense story. How threatening is love, how dangerous is the family.

Whatever, however you withhold, think of the why. And remember-- what you conceal, you reveal. This is too delicate a tool to use to no purpose. Use it to tantalize and taunt, but also conceal something even more important.

Alicia

Romance University Column Today

Today's substantive post is brought to you by the letters R and U.

Over at Romance University, we're talking about one method to avoid an info dump in the first chapter by focusing on conflict. Unless I'm mistaken, the question came from one of our edittorrent readers.

This RU thing is going to be a regular monthly column now. If you have a question you'd like me to tackle over there, they've set up an emailbox that routes to me. Naturally, I can't remember that address, but it's on the RU website somewhere.

Theresa

Backstory

Today's blog post is being brought to you by the letters R and U.

Head on over to Romance University. I'm the guest teacher today, and we're talking about backstory. They've filed me under "Chaos Theory." Hmm.

ETA: I just found out that another article went live today, too. Talking about the history of Red Sage and futuristic erotic romance with Heather from Galaxy Express. She asked me one question that really stumped me. :)

Theresa

Revelations and Flashbacks

Revelations and Flashbacks

This is not going to be a how-to or why-to about using flashbacks. I can't stand the things myself, though they have their place, and some authors can make them work in some kinds of books. When I see a flashback done well, I accept it and go with it.

However, I would like now to meditate a bit on why flashbacks can shortchange the story, and if you're considering a flashback, you might consider that the effect of the way you reveal information (on the story and on the reader) might be more complex than you imagined.

So anyway, here's my thought. And I am NOT trying to argue anyone out of using a flashback. You might be one of those who do it wisely and well. I'm just thinking out loud, and that is, after all, why you pay me the big bucks. I do think out loud very loudly. :)

Okay. I had this thought while reading Oedipus the King and some commentary by Arnold Weinstein. O the play is one of the most inventively plotted stories, intricately plotted stories in the canon, and bears re-reading every year or so. Every time I read it, I find something new to make me marvel. Anyway, it's a very plotty story, but it's also character-driven. Sophocles was like Shakespeare in that—he didn't think he had to choose either plotting like the DaVinci Code guy or deep characterization like Henry James. ("But nothing happens!" we told our Modern Novel professor after reading The Ambassadors. "Except in his mind," Professor Ellmann assured us, "and that's enough!" Well, not for us post-teens, it wasn't.) Oedipus the King is not just a tightly plotted story full of extreme action and danger and even grotesque violence, but also a complex character portrait of, perhaps, the first modern man. (I think Odysseus might be a rival for that title, but he and Oedipus were almost exact contemporaries— Homer has Odysseus meeting Jocasta in Hades, and it seems as if the events of the play Oedipus happened while Odysseus was at Troy. Anyway, they're both modern—rational, unimpressed with the gods, arrogant, scientific, problem-solving, cynical.)

This is a play with a lot of backstory, most of which would have been known by its first audiences, because it's based on a popular myth. You probably know it—Oedipus was fated to kill his father and marry his mother (interestingly, this fate is a way the gods punish his miscreant father—it has nothing really to do with Oedipus), so when he's born, his father Laius has his ankles pierced ("Oedipus" means "messed-up foot") and sends the baby off with a shepherd to be exposed (left to die) on a mountainside. The shepherd (as in Shakespeare, btw, the working class is portrayed as more compassionate and humane than the nobility) can't bring himself to do it, so gives the baby to another shepherd who works for a neighboring king, and the second shepherd brings the baby to King Polybus and Queen Merope, who raise him as their own son and love him far, far better than his natural parents did.

But that's just the beginning of the backstory. (Well, the real beginning is the story of the crime that got Laius cursed, and it's thematically fascinating, as it's again about the violation of a child.) Oedipus grows up assuming his adoptive parents are his biological parents, and when he's told by an oracle that he is fated to kill his father and marry his mother, the horror of his potential future sends him reeling away, determined never to endanger them by seeing them again. Of course, you know the rest. In his flight away from his fate, he runs right into it, killing his real father and marrying his real mother, and reigning over the kingdom that was stolen from him. All is well till the inciting event, a plague in Thebes, forces him to find out (this is also the first detective novel :) who killed the old king.

So lots of backstory, and the process of the plot is to unravel the knot of his own past as Oedipus solves the murder. That is, the plot action is the revelation of the past, leading to the solution of the murder, and the character journey for Oedipus is from unknowingness to knowledge, and Sophocles adroitly propels both with every event in the story. Let that be a lesson to all writers-- plot is character, and vice versa. Everything that changes the plot should change the character.

But that is not what I'm discussing today. I want to talk about how revelations are handled in this play. This is definitely an example of how limitations can liberate you. Sophocles was dealing with a very limited cast and rather restricted technology. He couldn't do flashbacks. (Ah, the great power of print… The Odyssey is about half flashback, but then, flashbacks take no technology or labor force in print!) I don't know that he'd have used flashbacks even if somehow he could have made them work on the Athenian stage. (Arthur Miller staged a flashback, I think, in Death of a Salesman. I saw one production where a video of the earlier event was flashed on a screen in the back of the stage, so it was quite literally a "flashback".)

Instead, Sophocles used revelation—nuggets of fact and truth dropped by actual characters. That is, the revelation happens not in the past, but right there on the stage as part of the present action of the play. Even the most distant past (like Jocasta recalling—deceptively—the loss of her baby) is brought forward to be part of the present. The story of how the baby got adopted is brought by a herald/former shepherd (who also brings word that Polybus has died so apparently Oedipus has another kingdom now), and the corresponding Theban story (how baby Oedipus ended up taken to that mountain) is revealed by another shepherd (who also fingers the shocked Oedipus as the killer of Laius).

Let's not fall into the sophomore's guffawing trap of "too much coincidence!"—that the shepherds both reappear serves the purpose of echoing the doubling of roles (Oedipus= husband AND son, etc.), not to mention was necessitated by the tiny casts allowed to Greek tragedies back then.

Okay, here's a link to a new translation of the play: http://www.users.bigpond.net.au/soloword/Oedipus.htm. The two translations used most these days, by the way, are by Fagles and Fitzgerald, but they aren't in the public domain. This one is copyrighted to George Theodoris, and apparently he's offering it for public use. Anyway, the Fagles translation is the one I've taught most, and that's definitely worth buying. (The Fitzgerald is quite beautiful, but done in a rather anachronistic meter.)

I want to concentrate on the effects of having the revelations happen in real-time, so that they are revelations not just to the audience (who actually probably knew the story) but also to Oedipus. (Some of it is not that big a revelation to Jocasta, and that itself becomes part of the story action, and propels Oedipus to his final extreme action. Later with that….)

At the very end of the first act, the herald arrives from Corinth, searching for Oedipus to tell him that Polybus has died of old age; that is, he was not murdered by Oedipus as (O thought) the oracle predicted. Jocasta seizes upon this as proof that gods and oracles cannot be trusted. Notice this—right away, the herald's first revelation starts to have character effects. Jocasta and Oedipus actually have a bit of an argument, with him insisting that he still cannot go home because he might end up marrying his mother, that he at least must still heed the oracle.

The herald, listening with interest to this quarrel, asks if that was why Oedipus "left us" so long ago. That struck me on this last reading-- the herald, a servant, after so long still feels the sorrow of the inexplicable disappearance of the young prince. Oedipus responds with a confession that he hated to leave— "I loved those two" (his parents)—but did it to protect them and the kingdom from the sacrilege of patricide and incest. That is, having someone who knew him back then, knew his parents, reveal the first bit of information engenders real emotion, and in real time. The interaction between the herald and the man he remembers as the young prince is a much more dynamic way to reveal the information than a flashback or a mere memory would have been.

The herald protests, saying that Polybus wasn't Oedipus's father:

Herald: He was as much your father as I was.

Oedipus: But how can a stranger be equal to a parent?

Herald: Because neither he nor I had anything to do with your birth.

Oedipus: Why then did he used to call me his child?

Herald: Learn this, my king. Old Polybus received you as a gift from my hands.

Oedipus: How then having received me from a stranger’s hand he loved me so much?

Now read back over that revelation, and see the immediate response from Oedipus: "How then having received me from a stranger’s hand he loved me so much?" That is, the revelation would seem to be (and is) important to the plot of the mystery solution. But as important is the effect on Oedipus—right there, right now. He says, "He called me his child!" and "He loved me so much!" The first thought Oedipus has is not of murder, not of fate, but of love—that his father could love so well someone who was not his birthchild.

In fact, this revelation being revealed in real-time, and by someone who clearly cares for the family and remembers the young Oedipus fondly, elicits a change. Oedipus to this moment has been alternately angry, driven, purposeful, and arrogant, a king yes, but not a son. Now this revelation brings out the loving son in him, the son who marvels at his father's ability to love.

(This becomes all the more important in the next act, when the other shepherd, the Theban one, tells of the unloving actions of the "real" parents.)

But Oedipus is not the only one emotionally affected by this revelation. Jocasta, listening in, is starting to understand… and immediately starts damage control. Oedipus wants to find the Theban shepherd -- the herald received the baby from a Theban shepherd-- and Jocasta dismisses this notion. Oedipus assumes that she is being a snob and doesn't want to learn that her husband was "third-generation slave" though that wouldn't matter to him at all. (See, I told you he was modern… what an un-Athenian notion!) But Jocasta, with dawning awareness of what might come of this, tries to halt the revelations, and that itself is a revelation. (What we conceal is what we reveal, remember.) Whatever the other shepherd might have to tell, she doesn't want it told. (The chorus intones, "I wonder if perhaps some new disaster will emerge from that silence of hers," implying that the silence itself will cause some disaster. Jocasta's need to conceal the truth will end up telling the truth—about her own part in Oedipus's fate.)

As Arnold Weinstein points out, this forces character action and reaction that simply could not happen if the revelation didn't happen in real time and onstage. It is not just the fact but the way it's revealed – publically, not in someone's head like a flashback might be—that causes change and elicits emotion that deepens the characters.

Then in the next act, Jocasta's worst fears come true. The Theban shepherd is brought to the palace, and his own story is going to be revealed. But notice how reluctant he is, compared to the Corinth herald, who is so happy to find his young prince alive and well and eager to alleviate his fears with his story. The Theban shepherd prevaricates and even lies on his way to telling the truth:

Oedipus: (Indicating the Herald) Look at this man here. Have you ever seen him before? Met him anywhere around there?

Shepherd: (Feigning ignorance) What? Which man?

Oedipus: This one here. Have you ever seen him before?

Shepherd: No. At least, not that I can remember him… immediately.

Herald: Well, then, tell me. Can you remember giving me a baby to raise as if it were mine?

Shepherd: (Angrily) What’s going on? Why are you asking me such things?

Herald: (Indicating Oedipus) Because, old man, this is that boy! This man here, my old friend, is that little boy! Look closely. It’s king Oedipus!

Shepherd: He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, my Lord. It’s all hot air! Hot head, hot air!

Oedipus: So far, my questions were put to you politely, shepherd, yet you have not answered one of them. Perhaps your own tears will make you talk.

Shepherd: By the Gods, my Lord, don’t hurt me!

Oedipus: Someone please tie his hands behind his back!

Shepherd: Damn my luck! What is it, my Lord? What is it you wish to know?

Oedipus: Did you give the child to this man?

Shepherd: Yes. I wish I had died that day.

Oedipus: You’ll die today if you don’t tell the truth.

Shepherd: It’ll be even worse for me if I do tell the truth!

Something else to learn from Sophocles-- never stage a scene twice. This is another "shepherd-revelation" scene, but see how differently it develops. The Corinth herald's revelations left Oedipus almost in tears, realizing something important about the past he has put away— not just that he was adopted, but that his adoptive parents loved him deeply. But this new revelation comes reluctantly, actually forced, compared to the herald's eager admissions. Oedipus becomes angry, compelled almost to thuggery. (This outburst helps us understand how he impulsively killed Laius years before. He's got anger-management issues!)

But there's a connection too, in the cliffhanger ending there. In the earlier scene, Jocasta tries to halt the truth-telling. Now it's the truth-teller himself, the shepherd, who has to be forced into revelation. Watch the reversal here, when we learn what Jocasta was concealing:

Shepherd: Damn this luck of mine! Here comes the worst of it!

Oedipus: For me, too, old man, but I need to hear it!

Shepherd: They said it was his own child but… your own wife would be able to tell you better about this.

Oedipus: So… was it she then who gave you the child?

Shepherd: Yes, my king.

Oedipus: And why did she do that?

Shepherd: To make it disappear.

Oedipus: Its very own mother asked you to do this?

The linkage between the two very different revelation scenes is in that "mother/wife" mention. In the earlier scene, the mother Oedipus didn't want as his wife was his beloved Meropi. Now the wife he doesn't want to be his mother is Jocasta.

But more than that is happening here, and again, this is a result of the revelation playing out in front of us on the stage and on the page. In the earlier scene, Jocasta clearly fears that some truth will come out. Well, here it is outed. It's not just that Oedipus is both himself and this child grown up, or even that the oracle was right (therefore, Oedipus must have committed the murder of Laius). Those are terrible enough. But it's the emotional revelation here that she has feared.

In the earlier scene, Oedipus learned something good along with the bad: That his parents not only loved him, but they loved him in a way that amazes him, given what they knew and he is just learning—that he is not their natural child.

Now he learns something bad along with the… um, bad. Not only is he the child given away—thrown away. But it was his very own mother (now his very own wife) who handed the child over. Jocasta chose to protect her husband by giving up her son to death. Now that son is her husband—but in this moment, he is the surrendered son.

In the herald's scene, Oedipus's preoccupying issue is shown by his continued questioning about his adoptive father's feelings. Now he asks three times about Jocasta's action. Neither of those are reactions the plot-information might elicit (that is, Oedipus is supposed to be trying to fit these pieces into the murder puzzle), so the diversions are revealing. What most concerns this very directed, very cynical man, at this very moment playing out before us, is parental love and its absence.

If the revelations didn't happen in real time, as plot action, Oedipus would never have revealed this—he might not have realized it himself until the revelations forced this on him.

(Of course this all affects the plot too. As he realizes that his wife/mother abandoned him as a baby, he becomes enraged enough to kill her. Another act of parricide—interrupted only because Jocasta has committed suicide. Oh, yeah, to complete the horror, Oedipus uses her brooches to poke out his own eyes.)

Positioning the two shepherds as the revealers becomes doubly important (everything is doubled in this story). Not only are they the ones with the essential information bits, they are the ones whose compassionate actions saved the baby targeted for murder by his own parents. So the revelations they bring also reveal one of the play's many themes—that love has nothing to do with blood. The child Oedipus is mostly kindly treated by strangers—the shepherds and his adoptive parents—and learns also that his blood relatives were quick to sacrifice him. (This skepticism about the "bond of blood" is amplified in the two other plays in the Oedipal cycle, when the elderly Oedipus gives himself over to the kindness of strangers, and his children are mistreated by his/their uncle Creon.)

So… what's this have to do with flashbacks, you ask?

Just that a flashback's appeal is that it presents the past in a scene, as if the action of the past is happening right in front of the reader. But consider that—it happens in front of the reader. It's not happening in front of the characters. It might happen in one character's mind (that is, be a flashback of a memory), but it's not happening in the real-time of the characters. So this can separate the reader's experience from that of the characters—the reader is experiencing something outside the true action of the plot. Even if it's one character's memory, it's not being experienced by the other characters.

So remembering the flashbacked memory might change that one character's understanding and even actions, and presumably he can then tell the other characters what he'd learned from experiencing the memory. But since the revelation, whatever it is, isn't the result of characters interacting, its effect probably won't be the sort of chain reaction that comes from the revelation occurring (as in Oedipus) as a result of plot action. It will be a static event in the plot rather than a dynamic one.

(Even more static, I think, is the orphaned flashback—a scene from the past just occurring, set within the narrative but not attached to the viewpoint of any character. The reader gets the information from the past, but how much effect can the revelation have if no character experiences it?)

Yes, flashbacks can explain some facet of the plot or character to the reader. By showing a flashback of the heroine's mother playing Fur Elise on the piano, you will alert the reader to the significance of that tune floating by in other scenes later. By showing a short scene of him as a child locked in a closet, you'll explain to the reader why Tom's got claustrophobia. But plot disclosure is not plot action, and character explication is not the same as character development. Action and development come from the dynamic of characters interacting with each other and with plot events, propelling them to change.

For example, if the hero has to tell his lover about the closet experiences, the revelation will have an impact on their relationship. She might understand now why he refuses to move to a small apartment in the city. Or she might insist he go to a therapist. Or maybe just telling her about this experience helps him to overcome the conflict.

That kind of propulsion requires a real event, one that happens right there in the story, in the interaction of character and plot. So if you're considering showing some backstory in a flashback, stop a bit and think of other ways this information could be introduced in the story, so that the revelation can lead to some character change, action, and reaction.

And read Oedipus again, and be humbled. What an amazing story, full of fascinating characters, interactions, and motifs… and it was written in the 5^th C BC!

Alicia

Redlines Ten: Backstory

Most writers occasionally find themselves battling backstory. This is a battle you can win. Let’s start by defining a few key terms.

What Is Backstory?

Remember the timelines that decorated your high school history text? If you were studying World War One, the timeline began with an assassination and ended with the Allied victory.

Your book can be mapped in a similar way. The first event in the book is the starting point of your timeline. The final resolution of the plot is the end point. Everything that happens in chronological book time between these two points constitutes your plot.

Here is the simplest definition of backstory: every relevant *event* that occurs before your book’s timeline begins is backstory. If the event can be plotted on your book’s chronological timeline (like the battles of World War One in the history text) then the event is plot. If the event precedes your book’s chronological timeline, it is backstory.

Confusion over backstory sometimes results from misunderstanding this definition and confusing bacsktory with narrative summary.

What Is Narrative Summary?

Narrative summary is a technique for compressing events within the book’s chronological timeline. We use it to avoid writing a scene that would focus on relatively minor details.

For example, let’s say your heroine’s car breaks down and prevents her from catching a plane to meet the hero. Perhaps writing a car repair scene with the heroine and a mechanic would slow down the pace of the romance. So we compress these events in narrative summary at the opening of the next scene:

Five hours later, Susan stashed her carry-on bag in the overhead compartment of the wrong flight. She had a new water pump in her car and was finally on her way, but her wallet was five hundred dollars lighter. Damn the mechanic for not letting her call Marco from his shop. She eyed the plane’s in-flight telephones, praying that she would soon be able to reach Marco.

This paragraph weaves details from the current scene on the airplane with the previous skipped breakdown events. The summarized details of the breakdown might have been dramatized in a scene--Susan begging for assistance, worrying about Marco and her flight. These events might even result in a dynamic scene, and would have fit within the plot.

Regardless, the narrative summary is not backstory, even though it contains event information that happen outside the current scene. The events themselves still take place on the chronological time line of the book’s plot. People sometimes use the term “backstory” to describe narrative summary, but that is merely shorthand. The two elements of the narrative remain separate creatures, no matter how they are described.

How To Fix It

Whether you are using narrative summary or backstory, the effect is the same. The forward momentum along the timeline is broken, and the reader is removed from straight narration in to exposition. But the editing fixes are slightly different.

Think again of our timeline analogy. Narrative summary does not interrupt this flow, but merely compresses events on the timeline. If your readers complain about narrative summary, the fix might be creating a new scene to dramatize the compressed events. Alternatively, you might be summarizing irrelevant events like showering and eating. These don’t require summation and can be cut.

If your readers complain about too much backstory, examine the backstory in relation to the current scene. Ask yourself how the *action* of the current scene would be different if the backstory did not exist. If the answer is, “not at all,” then cut the backstory. Backstory is only relevant if it qualifies the current event on the timeline.

If backstory is necessary to explain current plot events, then you cannot cut it. Instead, trim it as much as possible. Give the reader just enough to allow them to comprehend how the past event is linked to the current event. Use a minimal number of words, and return to the story timeline as quickly as possible. The story, after all, is what keeps the reader turning pages.

Special note for romance writers: Internal conflict in romance often has roots in the characters’ pasts, which can lead to misplaced emphasis on the past, even when the current scene provides ample conflict to drive the plot. The fix here requires re-balancing the scene to focus on what is most pressing at that moment on the plot’s timeline. Minimize or cut background information to achieve this balance.

Sequels (rather than scenes) are a more natural place to develop backstory because sequels tend to rely on interior monologue and exposition feels more natural when blended with interior monologue. The key, again, is to use a light touch. Let the character ponder the backstory, but balance the backstory against the current plot, much as you would balance background information.

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Redlines One (on paragraph logic faults) can be found here.
Redlines Two (on dialogue sequencing) can be found here.
Redlines Three (on using frames within scenes) can be found here.
Redlines Four (on avoiding the need for "sequel") can be found here.
Redlines Five (on description) can be found here.
Redlines Six (on passive voice) can be found here.
Redlines Seven (on strong verbs) can be found here.
Redlines Eight (on tension statements) can be found here.
We'll skip Redlines Nine because its topic has already been covered in other posts.

Theresa

Avoiding info dump

Alicia says--

There's an art to introducing information into the narrative without being too obvious.

Let me give you a bad example first. In this kind of case, the "info dump" always feels like an intrusion. It's usually a break in POV, and sounds clumsy besides, drawing attention to the impartation of information as if it's coming from outside the story-- reminding the reader that this is a story, that is, Not True. So here is ... bad example, which is actually based on something I read recently:

Sandy was their sister-in-law, as she was married to Tom's brother. She had been educated at Harvard and knew the silver market better than anyone in Providence, the largest city in the state, where she had lived since taking a job with Beckett-Turner, the largest fund manager in Rhode Island.

This sort of "info dump" breaks the continuity of the narrative and takes the viewpoint away from the characters and gives it to... I don't know. Some outsider, the author maybe. But let's say we need to know some of this information. After all, if all we have is, "Sandy walked in, and Tom said, "There you are," well, the reader is going to wonder who Sandy is-- more important, the reader will wonder, "Did I miss something? Was Sandy identified earlier?"

So how to impart this info subtly, without taking the emphasis away from the action and the characters?

First, I'd suggest deciding which of those factoids are necessary. Yes, that she's married to their brother (but if you have that, her being their sister-in-law is redundant). No, that Providence is the largest city in the state. (That is, don't bother to insert little bits that declare, "I did some research!" but have no other relevance to this story.) When you revise, decide what the reader actually needs to know, and note those down.

Then try writing the action of the scene, the dialogue, the introspection, without putting in any of the info bits. That way you'll get the important scene stuff in, and on this, you can hang the info on framework you've established.

Now about the info-hanging. No matter how essential that information is, keep in mind that it is LESS important than the action of the scene. So the way to introduce information subtly is to imbed it in existing sentences. The main clause of the sentence should usually carry the main action in the sentence, whether that is actual action, or dialogue, or character emotion or thought. Other elements-- intro phrases, dependent clauses, relative clauses-- are good places to imbed information, as they are, by definition, subordinate, and the reader will read them that way.

For example:

Tom shoved the secret file under his blotter as his sister-in-law Sandy strode into the office.

The reader will register who Sandy is, but know what is most important is that "secret file" revelation.

Now I'm sure you're thinking, "That's not deep POV! Tom knows who Sandy is! So he wouldn't think about her as his sister-in-law!"

Well, POV doesn't have to be deep all the time, or any of the time. Most books are NOT in deep POV, partly because it's more difficult to convey such information when you're confined to the deep perspective of the POV character. In a slightly more distant third-person POV, the reader will have no trouble accepting little bits of explanation like "his sister-in-law". That's just conventional narration, and as long as you keep it short and unobtrusive, the reader will absorb the info and move on.

However, in deep POV, you might need to imbed the information more deeply. So how would you do it? Let's try it:


Tom shoved the secret file under his blotter as Sandy strode into the office. Wouldn't be safe to let his sister-in-law know about the case.

The omission of the subject in the second sentence gives that "deep POV" feel, and separating the "sister-in-law" from the name might make the information seem more like it might have come from his own thoughts. But, as I said, it's especially hard to imbed information in deep POV, because we don't "think aloud" what we already know.

Another way to imbed is in dialogue, but be careful here. The reader is, like all of us, an expert in conversation-- we've all heard it all our life, after all. So we're quick to identify clunky, unrealistic dialogue. My friend Lynn Kerstan warns against what she calls "As you know, Alfonse," dialogue, where characters lecture each other about what they both know. So you wouldn't want this:
"Sandy!" Tom cried. "As my sister-in-law, you know about the family fortune and the difficulties we've had with our hedge fund the last year."

Clunk. So what would work? Think about what he might actually say. What's his motivation here? What is his goal? What's he trying to reveal? What's he trying to conceal? How can we fit that bit of info into what he'd say anyway? Go back to what you wrote of the scene without the info, and think about how you can modify it to add the info.

For example, maybe Tom wants to cozen Sandy to distract her from that secret file.

"Hey!" Tom got up and crossed the room to hug Sandy, blocking her view of his desk and the secret file. He let her go and said heartily, "So how's my favorite sister-in-law?"

The "heartily" is a sign that he's trying, that he's not being completely upfront here. And precisely because of that, the reader might accept a bit of clumsiness, because most of us are a bit clumsy when we're trying to deceive or conceal. It'll sound authentic-- authentically inauthentic. :)

Okay, so what other techniques have you all found to sneak in necessary but obtrusive information?

Alicia