Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook (12 page)

So now that she was in the hands of the Oblation Board, Lyra didn't fret herself into terror about what had happened to the gyptians. They were all good fighters, and even though Pantalai-mon said he'd seen John Faa shot, he might have been mistaken; or if he wasn't mistaken, John Faa might not have been seriously hurt. It had been bad luck that she'd fallen into the hands of the Samoyeds, but the gyptians would be along soon to rescue her, and if they couldn't manage it, nothing would stop Iorek Byrni-son from getting her out; and then they'd fly to Svalbard in Lee Scoresby's balloon and rescue Lord Asriel.

Pullman's passage is written in the objective point-of-view, with the author observing and commenting upon his young protagonist. Yet despite that removal, and his description of Lyra as an unimaginative child, Pullman nevertheless conveys Lyra's view of herself: childishly confident, certain of her allies, trusting of her own ultimate safety. While Lyra may not consciously reflect on these qualities of herself, the author does so for her, and the effect is no less intimate than Richard Russo's passage above.

Recall mystery writer Janet Evanovich's series protagonist, Stephanie Plum, from an earlier chapter. Stephanie is not exactly a deep thinker. The Trenton, New Jersey, bail bond hunter is, rather, a beer swilling, blue-collar ball-buster. But even though the word
philosophy
may not be in her vocabulary, Stephanie nevertheless always has a few wry things to say about herself, as in this early

passage in
One for the Money
in which she recounts how, despite maternal warnings to the contrary, neighborhood bad boy Joe Morelli managed to lure her, at age six, into a dilapidated garage to teach her a special "game":

"What's the name of this game?" I'd asked Joseph Morelli.

"Choo-choo," he said, down on his hands and knees, crawling between my legs, his head trapped under my short pink skirt. "You're the tunnel, and I'm the train."

I suppose this tells you something about my personality. That I'm not especially good at taking advice. Or that I was born with an overload of curiosity. Or maybe it's about rebellion or boredom or fate. At any rate, it was a one-shot deal and darn disappointing, since I'd only gotten to be the tunnel, and I'd really wanted to be the train.

Self-observations like this (never mind Stephanie's scathing and hilarious observations of others) make her enormously appealing. We all wish we could be funny about ourselves, and sometimes we are. But Stephanie is funny on every single page.

In your latest manuscript, how does your protagonist regard himself? What does he see in the mirror? What is the condition of his mind, heart, and soul at any given point in the story?

In life it is difficult, if not impossible, to like someone whom we do not know. But when someone is self-revealing we (usually) are drawn to him. In any event, honesty about oneself is a positive quality. It takes courage to take a hard look inside. Give your protagonist that courage, and you will give your readers a character whose strength they can see and whose inner life is rich and accessible.

__________________EXERCISE

Deepening Exposition

Step 1:
In your manuscript pick a moment in which a point-of-view character does not react to what is happening, or when in fact nothing is happening and the action of the story is paused or static.

Step 2: Write a paragraph of exposition delineating this character's self-conscious thoughts about her own state of mind, emotional condition, state of being or soul, or perception of the state of the world at this point in time. Start writing now.

Follow-up work:
Repeat the above steps at four more points of deep exposition (passages in which we experience a character's thoughts and feelings).

Conclusion:
Passages of exposition can be among the most gripping in your novel. Indeed they better be, since nothing is "happening." When nothing overtly is going on, make sure that a great deal is at work beneath the surface. Otherwise you novel will have dead spots that your readers will skip.

Creating Secondary Characters

T
he world is full of people, and so are most novels. But how believable are the secondary characters who fill them out? Too many merely enter, fulfill a function in the story, then exit. They are forgettable, because they are not real. They act in only one way; usually exactly the way we expect.

Secondary characters do not have to be like that. They can engage us as strongly as the primary players do. When that happens it is because the author has bothered to make those characters in some way as multidimensional, conflicted, or surprising as the novel's major characters are. That's tough to do, especially when there is limited space in which to develop them, but it can be done.

Legal thriller writer Phillip Margolin is a lean writer, lavishing attention on the technical details that make credible the cases portrayed in his novels, but otherwise sketching his settings, stories, and characters with efficiency. Even so, he treats his secondary characters as more than props.

In
The Associate
, Margolin spins the story of Daniel Ames, a young associate at Portland, Oregon's most prestigious law firm: Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer, and Compton. Daniel's background is blue collar, not blue chip. He believes that his hold on success is tenuous. He works late hours.

In the novel's opening Margolin has another young lawyer, Joe Molinari, a good-times sort of guy, amble into Daniel's cubicle one evening to cajole him out for an associates' happy hour at a nearby steakhouse. Daniel declines to stay at work, and Molinari ribs him:

"Hey, man, you've got to stand up for yourself. Lincoln freed the slaves."

"The Thirteenth Amendment doesn't apply to associates at Reed, Briggs."

"You're hopeless"—Molinari laughed as he levered himself

out of the chair—"but you know where we are if you come to your senses."

That is all that the scene requires, but Margolin goes further, using this opportunity to deepen both Daniel and Molinari:

Molinari disappeared down the corridor and Daniel sighed. He envied his friend. If the situation had been reversed Joe wouldn't have hesitated to go for a drink. He could afford to give the finger to people like Arthur Briggs and he would never understand that someone in Daniel's position could not.

Molinari's father was a high muck-a-muck in a Los Angeles ad agency. Joe had gone to an elite prep school, an Ivy League college, and had been
Law Review
at Georgetown. With his connections, he could have gotten a job anywhere, but he liked white-water rafting and mountain climbing, so he had condescended to offer his services to Reed, Briggs. Daniel, on the other hand, thanked God every day for his job.

That same evening, Daniel agrees to do a favor for yet another associate, glamorous Susan Webster, who asks him to review late-delivered documents relating to a suit against the firm's client Geller Pharmaceuticals—documents that must be handed to the opposition lawyers the following day in the legal exchange of information called "discovery." Daniel agrees.

Too late, Daniel realizes that the documents are thousands of pages long, occupying five banker's boxes. It's an impossible task. Daniel pulls an all-nighter, but even so must gloss over most of the material. What is worse, buried in the material handed over the next day is a document that Daniel failed to see: an early memo from a Geller researcher expressing fears that the company's pregnancy drug Insufort may, like Thalidomide before it, cause birth defects.

This piece of evidence is devastating to Geller's case, and Daniel takes the blame for letting it slip through unnoticed. He loses his job and, worse, is suspected when his firm's founding partner, Briggs, is murdered. Daniel of course is innocent, and also believes that the incriminating memo was a plant. And so it was. After much effort and danger, Daniel and his love interest prove it.

At the novel's end, Daniel is due an apology and his old job back. Margolin could easily have had Daniel himself demand his due. Instead, he utilizes an unlikely secondary character: Molinari. The associate whom we know as a good-times party animal turns out to have another side, as we see when he confronts the firm's surviving senior partner:

"Come on in, Joe," J.B. Reed said as his secretary showed Joe Molinari into his corner office. Reed was puzzled by Molinari's visit since he was not working on any of Reed's cases. To be honest, he only remembered Molinari's name because his secretary had told it to him when she buzzed him to say that one of the associates wanted to talk to him.

"What can I do for you?" Reed asked as Molinari sat down. He noticed that Molinari did not seem nervous or deferential the way of the new associates were in his presence.

"Something is going on that you need to know about." "Oh?"

"Just before he died, Mr. Briggs fired Daniel Ames." Reed's features clouded when Molinari mentioned his friend's murder and accused murderer. "That was wrong."

"I don't see how any of this is your business, Mr. Molinari," Reed snapped.

Molinari met Reed's fierce gaze and returned one of his own.

"It's my business," Joe said forcefully, "because Dan is a friend of mine and someone has to tell you what he's done for this firm and Geller Pharmaceuticals."

Daniel is offered his job back with a raise. (He declines.) By allowing Molinari to stand up for a principle, Margolin gives this minor player an extra dimension. It is a small moment, but one that enriches Margolin's cast and gives his leanly written thriller a touch more texture.

Could there be more dishy fun than in Cecily von Ziegesar's racy Gossip Girl series of young adult novels about wealthy New York City private school seventeen-year-olds? Hardly. The series debut,
Gossip Girl,
tells the story of rich and popular Blair Waldorf and her model-gorgeous former friend at the Constance Billard School, the even richer femme fatale Serena van der Wood-sen. Serena, away for a year, has returned to New York and Constance Billard School after being kicked out of an even more exclusive private girls' school in Connecticut for showing up three weeks late for the start of the fall semester. (She was having a great summer in France.)

Like, we must pause here to explain the world in which these Platinum card girls live: They are barely supervised by their success-driven parents. Anything goes for them—including sex, drugs, and drinking—as long as they keep up appearances. Are we clear? Fabu. Pay attention now. It gets juicier.