Writing the Paranormal Novel: Techniques and Exercises for Weaving Supernatural Elements Into Your Story. (17 page)

The Mighty Steed is more than a white charger. It's a best friend, a lifetime companion, an ally who becomes closer than any mere lover. The Mighty Steed can be any large creature — a horse, a unicorn, a dragon, a griffin. The Steed's strength and speed makes it a powerful protector, the perfect guardian angel. Everything the Dread Dragon isn't.

Best of all, the Mighty Steed can read your mind. At an early point in the story, the Steed forges a telepathic bond with the protagonist because the protagonist is there when the Steed is born, the protagonist feeds the Steed at a critical stage in its development, or the Steed simply decides the protagonist is worthy in some way. This lifelong bond cannot be broken, and if one half of the pair dies, the other soon follows. The Steed and the protagonist become inseparable, the perfect friends, even as some terrible disaster threatens their lives.

The appeal here is obvious. The protagonist — and therefore the reader — ends up with a friend who loves her unconditionally, without judgment or ridicule and regardless of flaws, who will always be there and who will die to protect her. What's not to like? The trouble is, it's been done and done and done.

The future is set. No way to change it. And Certain People know what that future is. These people might spout it out loud or they might scribble it on a scroll for future generations. But they never, ever say anything useful. Vague Prophesies are always couched in odd metaphors (“The hand of darkness will steal the treasure of the sky”) or in deliberate double-speak. (When the oracle says, “If you go to war, you will destroy a great kingdom,” which kingdom does she mean?) In any case, the protagonist is hardly ever able to figure out what the prophecy means in time to do himself any good. In the rare instances when the prophecy is actually clear (“Great disaster will befall you in the city of Paris!”), the hero inevitably ignores it. As a result, great disaster befalls him, and he spends the rest of the book trying to get out of the manure pile he dumped himself into.

A subset of the Vague Prophecy is the Self-Fulfilling Prophecy. This type of prophecy only comes true because the prophecy itself exists. The king learns his newborn son will grow up to kill him, so he orders the child killed. The executioner can't bring himself to do the dirty deed, and he sends the kid far away. Years later, the grown prince returns to his homeland and accidentally kills his estranged father. None of this would have happened but for that stupid prophecy, so why didn't the oracle just keep her big mouth shut?

Prophecies are usually handier for writers than for readers. The vague or double-speak aspect allows the writer to say, “See? I told you what was going to happen right up front, but you didn't listen/pay attention/read carefully enough,” even though a Vague Prophecy is clearly a writer's trick. And the Self-Fulfilling Prophecy loops back on itself, making the story appear as neat and tidy as a figure eight. So tidy, in fact, that the reader knows exactly how it'll turn out.

In the back of an attic or between two standing stones lurks the Gateway to Another World. This cliché usually begins with a kid who has a problem — dysfunctional family, school bully, terminal shyness. In a strange new place, the kid finds a gateway to a world where magic works and where the kid can become some sort of hero. The kid makes new friends, survives incredible adventures, and finds the key to overcoming the problem he had back in the mundane world. Oft en the kid is forced to choose whether to stay in the magical world or return to the real one, and the kid always elects to go home. Always.

The Magical Gateway cliché seems to attract children (though the occasional adult does stumble across one). For readers, the idea of leaving this troubled world for one filled with magic and adventure proves powerfully magnetic. For writers, the gateway creates automatic conflict — the door thrusts the character into a difficult situation, and the plot nearly writes itself. This makes the Gateway a major draw, one that appears again and again.

The hero must rush to Point A and find the Key of Kevormax (Coupon 1). Then it's off to Point B to uncover the Book of Blastum (Coupon 2). After that, he dashes to Point C and the Ring of Roonja (Coupon 3). Once the hero collects all the Coupons, he can save the world, unlock his true heritage, or slay the Dread Dragon in an earth-shattering climactic battle. In an alternate version, the hero has to find Coupon 1 in order to find Coupon 2, and so on.

Plot Coupons are a beefed-up variety of treasure hunt, which looks neat on the surface, but any writer who uses it inevitably discovers the limitation — if the hero misses even one coupon, the climactic ending becomes a no-show, and the reader
knows
there'll be a climactic ending. This makes the story predictable.

Very few heroes get to stay home. Most leave their familiar surroundings (perhaps at the urging of the Enigmatic Wizard or as the result of a Gateway to Another World) and head off into unknown territory to find a particular object, rescue a particular person, or set the world aright. Usually a companion or two will come with. Along the way, the hero will make new friends, vanquish enemies, fall in love, and overcome at least one personal flaw.

This is the most ancient of clichés. Nearly every paranormal story uses it, and mythologist Joseph Campbell became famous for pointing out this fact. Humans seem to be hardwired to tell — and enjoy — such stories, and we inevitably drift toward them like sailors to sirens. To tell the truth, you can actually get away with using this cliché because there's almost no way to avoid it.

Many other clichés run rampant through fiction: the Servant Turned Hero, the Honorable Thief, the Street Kid, the Helpful Clergyman, the Lost Object, and more. By now I think you're getting the idea. Remember,
a cliché is any idea or character that's overused and underdeveloped
.

So enough about what they are. Let's look at dealing with them.

The first part of the above rule is
a cliché is any idea or character that's overused
. So the easiest way to defeat the cliché monster is to avoid it entirely. Yes, you must have a likable protagonist as the center of your book, and yes, you must have at least one supernatural element. That doesn't mean you have to repeat what everyone else has done.

Okay, sure — vampires in the city have been popular for two hundred years. But with dozens of Tragic Vampire books already on the market, why would an editor want to publish yours? Answer: She probably won't. She'll figure everyone has read your story elsewhere.

If you haven't created your main characters yet, stay away from the clichés. Sure, write about vampires. The market continues to maintain reader interest, against all expectations. Just do something
different
.

I can hear the groans all the way over here. “Yeah, Steven,” you're complaining. “Easy to say. What's new after a thousand years?”

Try turning the cliché upside down. Do the exact opposite and see what happens. Instead of a Tragic Vampire, what about a guy who
enjoys
being a vampire? Sure, he misses daylight and eating normal food, but the power is fantastic! Instead of a Plucky Heroine, try one who suffers from agoraphobia and has to fight inner demons every time she leaves her apartment. Forget the Enigmatic Wizard. How about a magician who keeps getting in the hero's way, who won't let him
be
a hero? (“You have no idea what you're doing, kid. Step aside.”) Instead of a Vague Prophecy, use a prophecy that spells everything out quite clearly and seems to lock the hero into a dreadfully predetermined end. (You think that won't create conflict? Ha!) The Gateway to Another World that always closes after a while? Leave it open. Of course, that means things can wander through at will. Forget the Hero's Quest. Have everything happen in the protagonist's hometown. As for the Tomboy, how would she react within a family who said, “Let her do as she likes. These are modern times”? (Besides, these
are
modern times.) What about a Chosen One who isn't actually chosen, but has to compete for the position? Or a completely different
type
of Chosen One? Stephen King used a little old lady for a Chosen One in
The Stand
to marvelous effect, as just one example.

Instead of Mary Sue's hyper-competence and ultra-confidence, create a protagonist who doesn't know anything about her current situation and is forced to learn or die. What if the antagonist gathers up all the Plot Coupons right from the beginning? Forget the Dark Lord. Try the Bright Lord, the one who intends to take over the world and do right by it. He has everyone's best interests in mind. Good schools, good roads, good police department, low crime, reduced poverty, and everyone goes to the same church every week. He loves everyone, and you're next. Oh my yes, wouldn't that be
nice
? Certainly a lot more scary than anything the Dark Lord could dream up.

A more challenging method is to simply not use the clichés at all. Create different characters entirely. A vampire who was embraced during the 1960s can't quite get away from the flower-child era. A recently divorced accountant who worries about her teenaged daughter's relationship with that strange boy and whose company is talking about some serious downsizing encounters magic in the copy room. A fifth grader with a smart mouth who covers up the secret fear his mother is going to die discovers that the young woman who runs the local comic shop is secretly a magician, and she's going to train him in the magic of artwork.

Don't be afraid to strike out into new territory. The newer, the better, in fact. Editors see dozens of clichés a day, and a book that avoids them will stand out like a spotlight in a cellar.

If editors are desperate for new material, why do they buy cliché-ridden novels? Any number of reasons. An editor will buy a novel from an established writer with a track record, regardless of clichés, because she knows anything with that author's name on it will automatically sell X number of copies and bring in X number of dollars. Other authors might write have a writing style (voice) that grips the editor so strongly, she figures the clichés won't matter so much. (Better to have a gripping voice
and
a lack of clichés, but the one will override the other.) In yet other cases, the editor may figure there's a market for that particular book at that particular time, clichés and all, and if your book had only arrived two weeks earlier, it might have been chosen instead. A chunk of publishing is, unfortunately, pure luck.

You can, of course, make some of your own luck. Editors are always looking for the next trend, and a writer who can anticipate a trend, either by luck or design, has a much better chance of jumping to the head of the publishing line. The trick is spotting a trend. You can't do it by watching the bookstore — most novels spend a year going from manuscript to book form, and that doesn't count the time it took to write the thing. If you start a project based on bookstore trends, you'll first have to write the book — months or years, depending on your speed — and spend more time finding someone who wants to publish it, who will then take a year or more to get it into print. By then, then trend may be over. So following what looks to be a current trend is difficult.

You can, however, become aware of upcoming trends by listening to what editors and agents are saying. Attend writers conferences and listen to what the editors say they're looking for — and what type of stories they think seems to be dying. Read agent blogs and Web pages and see what they're most interested in. Hang out at online forums where writers, editors, and agents do and see what they have to say.

Hollywood has an oar to row in this, too. Read entertainment news to keep an eye on what
kinds
of movies are coming out in the next year. Have three major stars signed on to do werewolf detective flicks for three different studios, set to release the summer after next? Might be a good time to start a werewolf detective novel. Big movies start — and feed — trends.

And remember, publishing may require a certain amount of luck, but the more you try, the luckier you'll get.

Okay, before you picked up this book, you created some characters and situations, and you completely love them. No chance of dumping them and starting over. Let me ask, then:

Do any of them fit the above list? Are any of them clichés? Be honest — no one's here but the two of us, and I won't tell.

If they are, don't worry. We can fix it, and it'll be more fun than you think.

You wanna know a secret? One of the better ways to sell a book is to get the editor all the way through the manuscript before she says, “Holy cow! It's a Plucky Heroine story and I never noticed.” In other words, you can use a cliché as long as you don't
look
like you're using a cliché.

Remember the other half of the rule:
A cliché is any idea or character that's … underdeveloped
. Lack of development is what really makes a cliché. The Enigmatic Wizard has no family, no friends, no hobbies (reading doesn't count), no background, nothing. So develop him. Figure out where he grew up, who his best friend was when he was twelve, where he went to school, what his favorite teacher was like, how he first discovered his magical talents. Give him a family — parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins. Do they know about his wizardry? If so, what's their reaction to it? Family ties are a rich source of plot, so use them. Give Enigmatic a hobby or two that has nothing to do with magic (and please, please don't have him play the violin — this has been the weirdo hobby of choice since Sherlock Holmes). Get rid of the stupid beard and put him in fashionable clothes. Hell, maybe he's a clotheshorse. And hey — Enigmatic Wizards often seem to be wealthy. If yours is, explain where his money comes from. Or maybe your Enigmatic is poor all the time because he smokes pot when he isn't chanting in chalk circles.