Writing the Paranormal Novel: Techniques and Exercises for Weaving Supernatural Elements Into Your Story. (16 page)

Crushed — or at least annoyed — Intrepid Author sends the manuscript to other editors and gets the same response: too cliché. Some time later, Intrepid Author wanders despondently into her local bookstore and nearly crashes into a floor-to-ceiling display of the latest release from Paranormal Books. Title?
Angst-Ridden Vampire Detective: Book I
. Stunned, Intrepid Author flips a copy open. The acknowledgments page reads,
And special thanks to Emily Editor, without whom this book would never have been published.

Intrepid Author yanks out her cell phone, calls up a mafia hit man she's friendly with, and —

Oh — you
have
heard this one.

There, there. It happens. But
how
does it happen? Editors say they don't want certain clichés — or any of them — then turn around and buy novels stuffed chockablock with them. In this chapter, we'll take a look at what the supernatural clichés are, why editors do sometimes buy them, and finish with how to get away from them — and how to get away with using them.

Let's get a common definition first. In writing, cliché is a character concept, story, or situation that's been used so oft en, it's lost any ability to surprise, entertain, or otherwise engage a reader. (An overused turn of phrase like “light as a feather” is also a cliché, but we're going to discuss bigger concepts here.) With a cliché, the reader knows what's going to happen, which takes away the fun.

I certainly wouldn't say that paranormal novels have a monopoly on clichés. Romance novelists struggle mightily with the happy ending required for almost all romance novels — it's hard to keep suspense going when your readers know the heroine will end up with the hero no matter what. Horror runs the other way — the cliché is that just about everyone is going to die in some messy way, and the few survivors will regret living. Science fiction has a number of clichés about aliens and space travel. Mystery has two favorites: the hard-boiled private investigator and the amateur detective. However, supernatural tales are the oldest stories in human history, which means the ideas have had a few thousand years to simmer into clichés, whereas detective stories and science fiction haven't even reached the two-century mark yet.

Let's take a look at a few supernatural clichés. Have any of them slithered into your story?

He's handsome, he's dangerous, he's a loner. Three hundred years ago (or some other suitable length of time), he was transformed into a Creature of the Night. Now he struggles to hold onto his rapidly fading humanity. Some nights, he wonders why it's worth the effort. A century ago, Tragic fell in love with a beautiful woman, but she died (at the hands of the vampire who transformed Tragic in the first place) and he blames himself.

Currently Tragic hovers in the shadows, observing the world but refusing to take part in it. He's not a monster like the vampires out of folklore, but is instead a struggling hero. To prove how likable he is, he refuses human blood, surviving on stray cats and sewer rats and eking out a miserable existence in alleyways. But he's still handsome. Recently, however, he's encountered the Plucky Heroine (see below). She reminds him strongly (or perhaps exactly) of his long-dead lover. He quickly falls in love with her, but how can he truly be with her? As a mortal, she'll one day age and die while he stays forever young and gorgeous. Besides, his last lover died a terrible death, and her killer is still out there somewhere. The killer might target any new woman he falls in love with. If Plucky ever finds out about all this, her love for Tragic will surely turn to hatred. How can he handle all these problems and continue to deal with being an ultra-powerful, super-handsome vampire to boot?

In a variation on this cliché, the Tragic Vampire is gay, and the Plucky Heroine is a Plucky Hero, but everything else remains the same. Another variation is the Tragic Werewolf. Just substitute the word “werewolf” for “vampire” above and you have it.

The appeal of this cliché lies in the conflict between the guy who seems to have it all (looks, power, immortality, way cool outsiderness) and his “hurt” status (the tragedy of his loss). The reader, through the Plucky Heroine, hopes to comfort the hurting Tragic Vampire and bring him into the light. Metaphorically speaking, anyway.

Nothing gets the Plucky Heroine down. Right now, her life is indeed difficult. It might be small things: She can't lose weight or figure out how to break up with her boyfriend. It might be large things: Her new fiancé has locked her up in a draft y manor house far from her family, or she has lost her job and her apartment in the same day. But she forges ahead with relentless determination and the utter assurance that she
can
find a solution to her problems if she just tries hard enough.

If Plucky lives in the past, she invariably develops progressive ideas about women's rights, equality for minority groups, and how servants should be treated. This strange behavior is usually explained away by some sort of unusual upbringing — a single mother, an eccentric aunt, or living as the only sister among a dozen brothers.

Plucky always has one or two best friends at her side. One of them is outrageous and daring, the other quiet and thoughtful. At some point in the story, Plucky becomes separated from these friends, forcing her to solve her problem On Her Own. She also meets the hero of the story and, rather against her will, falls in love with him. She fights this because she's afraid he'll shackle her like all the other men in her life have tried to do, but in the end she realizes she can love her guy without losing any part of her plucky self.

Everyone wants to be plucky — or Plucky. She never gets depressed, and she always finds a way out of whatever problem she has. To top it off, true love hunts her down with relentless zeal, and who doesn't fantasize about being thus pursued? Hence the appeal of the cliché.

The Enigmatic Wizard stands ready to assist the protagonist of any paranormal novel, including ones set in modern day. He strokes his beard and makes prophetic pronouncements that make no sense until after the predicted event (leaving the reader to wonder why Enigmatic bothered to say anything at all). He is invariably a scholar who speaks several languages, and he hints that he may be immortal. When the plot slows down, Enigmatic can be counted on to hint at some nugget of information that conveniently sends the protagonist down the correct path. In fact, Enigmatic hints at a great many things.

Enigmatic seems to have access to a great deal of magic, but he almost never uses it, even when the fate of the world is at stake. Instead, he risks billions of lives by putting everything into the hands of an inexperienced protagonist just so the young hero can learn and grow. No one knows where Enigmatic comes from. He seems to have no family, no friends, and no life outside of helping the main character.

This character exists because he's handy. Writers use him as a repository for whatever the protagonist might need to know, and he's an easy way to nudge the protagonist in the right direction for anything else. Since he rarely uses his powers, he doesn't upstage the hero. Unfortunately, a good library or the Internet will do much the same thing.

She is so not going to wear a dress. Or get married. Or do anything else a man tells her to do. She won't be hemmed in by stupid rules. To her parents' despair, she does what she wants when she wants, and damn the consequences. She says can take care of herself (even when it's obvious she can't). She
definitely
won't fall in love (until she does). The Tomboy is oft en called up to be a warrior against supernatural antagonists, but she has to fight for the right to do so, since she lives in a society where girls stay home. But one day, she'll overcome the vampire/dragon/demon and prove she's as good as any man.

And did we mention she's beautiful?

The Tomboy gets to break rules with spectacular aplomb. She's also the center of attention all the time — no one in her orbit has anything better to do than try to force her into his or her mold of proper behavior. The character vs. society conflict inherent in the character appeals to writers looking for an easy way to start a story, which only adds to the cliché.

The Chosen One oft en appears hand-in-hand with the Vague Prophecy.

She's chosen by Fate or some other power to do something important, such as defeat a great evil — perhaps even a Dark Lord (see below). A Chosen One usually gets some nifty perks like warrior prowess or a magic weapon or the ability to learn new skills at impossible speed. Many Chosen Ones are reluctant heroes, and an Enigmatic Wizard must persuade her to take up arms against the evil. And nine times out of ten, the Chosen One is way, way weaker than the Dark Lord, yet somehow manages to win in the end anyway.

This cliché has a built-in method of getting the story going. The Chosen One, still innocent of her true identity, is attacked by evil forces. Fortunately, her new Chosen One powers kick in, saving her at the last minute. When the battle is over, the Enigmatic Wizard arrives to dispense wisdom. We're only on page 20, and we've already had a fight scene, superpowers, and a mystery. Cool, right? Problem is, this story has been done so oft en that the cool factor has worn thinner than your high school Levi's.

Mary Sue (and her male counterpart Gary Stu) has it all. She's strong, smart, and stunningly beautiful. The strength gives her fighting prowess or some other magical ability, the smarts let her into MENSA without breaking a sweat, and the beauty comes with exotic eye color. (The name, incidentally, comes from a
Star Trek
parody story by Paula Smith, in which Ensign Mary Sue, the youngest, smartest, and most capable officer in Starfleet, sacrifices herself to save the
Enterprise
and dies tragically while Kirk, Spock, McCoy, and the others weep for her loss.)

Mary Sue tears through conflict. Her strength and brains create a deadly combination that flattens everything in her way with stunning efficiency, and in her spare time, she solves her friends' problems. You may be sure she's an expert in any esoteric skill the story might require. And she
always
gets her man. Mary Sue has absolutely no flaws, not physical, not mental, not emotional.

Gary Stu characters lean toward anti-heroism. Like Mary, Gary is possessed of breathtaking looks (don't forget the exotic eye color), has more skills than James Bond, and has a body made for pouring melted chocolate over. He kills with a gun, sword, knife, or his bare hands. He does what needs to be done, and scorns those too squeamish to join him. He rid himself of any personal flaws years ago while mastering philosophy and martial arts at a lost Tibetan monastery.

Mary Sue and Gary Stu are pure wish fulfillment for the writer, who is clearly afraid of hurting the protagonist or providing any real conflict. In some cases, Mary Sue and Gary Stu are idealized versions of the writer. Readers find such characters annoying. Flaws and conflict make characters interesting because readers, like all humans, are dealing with their own flaws and conflicts and want to see this reflected in pages of their favorite books.

He executes his own underlings. He drops enemies into boiling oil. He snacks on freeze-dried kittens. Eventually, he'll take over the world. Or maybe he'll just destroy it. In any case, only the hero can stop him.

Like the Enigmatic Wizard, the Dark Lord has no family, no background, and no motivation. His many minions fight for him with fanatic loyalty, but where this loyalty comes from is never explained. (High salary? Benefits package with no co-pay? Matching 401(k)?) His attempt to take over the world stems from a lust for power or from a simple need to do evil deeds. Story-wise, the only reason he exists is to give the hero something to fight.

Dark Lords make for fun writing. There's something cathartic about creating on paper someone who does dreadful things we'd never even consider in real life. Unfortunately, Dark Lords make for dull reading. They're flat and unrealistic. Some writers try to counter this by taking their Lords further and further into debauchery. Except blood and gore can't replace character.

It's big, it's bad, it breathes fire, and it eats maidens for lunch. Oft en it can fly and speak a dozen dead languages (even though it never goes anywhere). The Dread Dragon
always
guards a treasure. It sleeps for a hundred or a thousand years at a time and then, when the story requires it, the creature wakes and hunts for food. Ordinary weapons can't penetrate its armored skin, which means the hero has to find the right magical tool to defeat it, though some Dread Dragons have a single weak spot that allows the hero to kill the creature with a single skillful shot.

Lately, a number of Dread Dragons have been transformed into Misunderstood Dragons — creatures who are not evil but merely persecuted. Humans, of course, assume that any giant lizard that breathes fire must harbor a hankering for virgin flesh, and they react with sharp, pointy efficiency. Once the hero learns the truth about the Misunderstood Dragon, he changes from dragon hunter into dragon helper, even though it means appearing to betray his own people.

Another subset of the Dread Dragon is the Mighty Steed (see below). The Dread Dragon may not actually be a dragon. It could be any awful monster — griffin, sphinx, basilisk, kraken, take your pick. Funny how many of them turn into Dread Dragons if you look closely enough.

A big scary monster is an easy target. You know it's evil, and it has to be exterminated before it hurts someone. The appeal lies in the drama inherent in a small man fighting an enormous beast and risking his life to save someone else. The problem is that the reader feels pretty sure the monster's going to lose, so there isn't much suspense.