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Coincidences, Vacuums, and MacGuffins

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Sue Grafton once said, “Coincidence can get you into a plot, but it can’t get you out.” I’m going to paraphrase her by adding, “And you can even have coincidence, but you can’t have a vacuum.”

Let me explain. A good thriller writer I enjoy is known for his action scenes, humor, and the complete implausibility of most of his novels’ key premises. His ability to push the reader forward and keep the suspense high is so masterful that most readers shrug at the no-way-in-hell inventions and proceed to the next shootout.

I’m one of those readers. I’m okay with colossal coincidences if the rest is working. What I can’t abide, however, is the middle dropping out of a story.

By that I don’t mean the literal middle of the book—the plotting, the dialogue, the consistency of voice, though all those things are important—I mean the central premise that got us going in the first place. When I get to the end, and there’s no meat, no substance, not even a coincidence, just a vacuum, then I start waving the red flag.

It’s a little tough to explain without actually revealing the plot, the title, or the author, but to summarize, the entire premise of one of his novels is built around discovering a MacGuffin* that, should it be found and exposed, will reveal horrific and damning truths about the several Very Important People connected to it. The world holds its breath as the protagonist races to find the MacGuffin and discover the secrets about the VIPs. Bad guys are mowed down by the dozen, allies are maimed, buildings explode. Finally, the villains are defeated and the MacGuffin falls into the trembling hands of our hero…

…who doesn’t have a clue what’s what it means. Nor does anyone involved, including the Very Important People who are Very High Up in the government that are mentioned in connection to the MacGuffin. And that’s it. Our hero gets tired of thinking about it and moves on. The book ends.

This is a profound disservice to the reader. It can’t have been that hard to think up some reason—any reason, even a bad reason —why dozens of minor characters were willing to sacrifice their lives over this object.

And for anyone who would defend this by saying, in effect, life is messy and sometimes things don’t make sense, let me introduce you to an aphorism that most fiction writers learn in Creative Writing 101: Truth is stranger than fiction.

This bon mot isn’t meant as a guide, it’s a warning: the essence for writers isn’t that they should look at our crazy, mixed-up world and use it as justification for their poorly plotted novels, it’s that no one cares about random events. We all know life has its oddball moments; we turn to tabloid newspapers and internet chain letters to keep us abreast of them. What we want from our fiction writers is to construct things that make sense, not for more of the same crap we see on the news and experience in our daily lives.

It’s not enough when a main premise is just a vehicle for us to experience the shooting, the chases, the love scenes. There has to be some there there. I’ll hang with you and your crazy reasons for getting me to read in the first place. But don’t leave me hanging.  As we all know, when the center doesn’t hold, things fall apart.

* A MacGuffin was Alfred Hitchcock’s phrase for the interchangeable “thing”–Maltese Falcon, diamond ring, voodoo doll, etc.–that drives the plot forward.

I ain’t no Superman

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For my own pleasure and education, I write personal critiques of popular books, books I admire, and books I think would be better used to level a wobbly table. I record my thoughts on voice, style, and especially great passages. I also write down weaknesses and issues I find grating. Recently, while reading through a critique I’d written on a well-known crime writer’s novel, I came across this note I wrote to myself:

The lead character is a former Army Recon sniper, now a forensic expert despite a career spent only as a beat cop. He’s sexy, willing to sacrifice anything for a friend, a former friend, or a loved one without complaint. Children and animals like him. In short, he’s phony as a $3 bill.

Please…I want my heroes to be tough, sophisticated, and softies at heart. But when the protagonist can’t be beat at anything, is morally superior than everyone around him, has the answers and the experience to respond to any situation, the air goes out of the balloon.

Inner turmoil, self-doubts, shady pasts (that actually affect him or her…not token problems) are not contradictory to having a compelling lead character and, in fact—as story-tellers have known for several thousand years—actually the key to creating a powerful, memorable protagonist and a moving story.

The Flawed Protagonist is nothing new or groundbreaking. Where is Samson without his vanity? King Arthur without his bad judgment and wounded pride? Would we care as much about Philip Marlowe if he didn’t have a shaky set of ethics? Robert Parker’s Spenser stopped being interesting once he became bullet-proof and unquestioning. When his self-doubts vanished, so did our deeper interest…the later Spenser for Hire books are worth reading only to see what new crooks get their asses kicked by the Boston PI and Hawk.

Broken lives need a less-than-perfect protagonist. Anything else becomes a cartoon and at that point we’re just killing time until the hero is admitted into the Justice League. Subsequent novels become conflicts not with antagonists (because they aren’t true challenges to our hero), but with abstract elements, like time (defuse the bomb) or a natural crisis (a volcano!). And these are fine forces to array yourself against. But they aren’t interesting characters and they don’t allow the protagonist to mature or grow.

Keep your Superman. I’ll take a flawed Philip Marlowe any day.