Okay, one day late. But I can blame it on a food coma...
So, true
story. I watched the season three premiere of The X-Files with Rick Springfield.
Yep, that Rick Springfield. He of
“Jessie’s Girl.”
I was
dayplaying on a show called High Tide, and for that day’s filming the production had
rented two big hotel suites in downtown San Diego. My friend Alice worked on the show, and she
and I were debating if we’d finish filming in time to catch the premiere of
The X-Files that night. We were huge
fans, after all, and there was no Tivo or DVR at this point in ancient
history. I’m not even sure I owned a
working VCR at the time.
Then the
locations manager pointed out the obvious—we were in a hotel suite that had
three televisions in it. Big
televisions! If we promised to keep a
low profile, we could just stay late and watch in style.
No, you
perverts. We were just friends. In fact, I was friends with her boyfriend.
Anyway,
after wrap we flopped down on the king-sized bed, turned on the television, and
prepared to find out what happened to Mulder in that half-buried train car that
had been set on fire by the Cigarette-Smoking Man (remember that cliffhanger?). And while we were waiting for the show to
begin, Rick Springfield wandered in.
Yeah, that sounds crazy, but he was the star of High Tide, so the
chances of him showing up weren’t that unlikely. Rick climbed onto the bed between me and
Alice and asked what was on. We
explained the X-Files premiere was about to start. Rick confessed he hadn’t seen any episodes.
Now, in all
fairness to him, it wasn’t THE X-FILES yet, it was still that
geeky cult show on Fox. Another thing
Rick didn’t realize was that Alice and I were those cult geeks and we took The
X-Files very seriously. Very, very
seriously. It wasn’t uncommon for her
and her boyfriend Greg to have folks over to watch episodes. And one firm rule was that you did not talk
during the show, because nobody wanted to miss anything.
Needless to
say, less than a minute into the episode Rick turned to Alice and asked who the
Cigarette-Smoking Man was. Alice shhhhushhed
him. Another minute passed before he
asked about the setting. She shhhhushhed
him again and gave him a little slap on the arm. Agent Scully showed up and he asked something
else. This is when I first backhanded him
on the arm. Not hard, but enough to
emphasize Alice’s shhhhushhing.
She smacked him again at his next question. I hit him on the one after that and we shhhhushhed
him at the same time.
So, aside
from shameless name-dropping, what’s the point of this story?
The point
is that it’s very hard for someone to get into any tale that’s focusing more on
the B story than the A story.
As the name
implies, the A story is the priority. The
A-Team. Section A seating. Getting an A on a paper. The A story is the main focus of my
particular tale, be it novel or screenplay.
If I pick up a copy of The Hunger Games, the back cover’s
going to tell me it’s about a girl fighting for her life in an arena as part of
a decades-old tribute. The A story is
what should be most important, and it’s where I want the reader’s attention
focused most of the time.
The B
story, of course, is secondary. It’s the
subplot or maybe a parallel story that just doesn’t have the weight or
repercussions of the main story. Maybe the supporting characters are dealing with something. Perhaps it’s the main characters dealing with
a less-important or less-pressing issue.
Or it might even be a bit more important than what they’re dealing with
right now, but they still have to finish dealing with this issue right
now. Again, in The Hunger Games
books, Katniss is torn between two boys she has strong feelings for. But this doesn’t override the fact that she’s
fighting for her life in a deathmatch.
There’s also a strong political element to the story, but this also
lurks in the background rather than demanding attention.
All seems
pretty straightforward, yes?
Now, I
mentioned up above that the A story is where I want my readers to be
focused. It’s where I should be focusing,
too. However, in a lot of genre stuff—books, television, comics—the B story can get too powerful. As the writers, sometimes we get too
concerned with this big universe we’re building and all the back story and set ups and reveals that are going to come somewhere down the line. And when we do this, we start to forget the A
story—what’s going on right now.
Now, we all
understand that eventually the B story catches up with the A story and
overwhelms it. It becomes the A story,
and probably a few new B stories have developed in the meantime. This is the point where people start telling
you “Well, you’ve got to watch it from the beginning if you want to understand
what’s going on.” With an ongoing series—books or television—this almost becomes
unavoidable. Many long-running series
eventually hit the point where people can no longer jump in, because all those
setups are paying off and questions are being answered. If you pick up the third book in the Hunger Games series, it’s pretty much all about the politics... and I can pretty much
guarantee you won’t understand any of it if you haven’t read the first two
books. LOST didn’t pick up a lot
of new viewers in season five. Neither
did Supernatural in season nine.
Not many people decided to start reading Game of Thrones with the
fourth book.
The question is, why would I want to
start a story at this point? Why begin
at a place where most people are going to immediately feel alienated? What benefit do I get by structuring a story
in such a way that people immediately think it should be structured another
way?
This is a
recurring problem I see again and again.
Some writers get so involved with their elaborate B stories that they
forget they need to be telling an A story.
There’s tons of flashbacks to cool stuff that happened months ago or
mysterious hints about things to come... but nothing’s going on in the here and
now. I’ve seen stories that focus on
people who are essentially supporting characters in the story. Not in a clever, Mary Reilly way—where
Dr. Jekyll’s housemaid is the main character and the events in his home are the
backdrop—but in a very boring way where the focus of our attention isn’t doing
anything while other folks do all the cool stuff.
That’s a
good analogy, actually. My A story is to
my B story as my main characters are to my supporting characters. In the same way that any character needs a
real reason to be part of your story, a plot line needs a reason to exist,
too. If my A story serves no purpose
except to be what I’m referencing the B story from... well, I really don’t need
an A story, do I? I should just be
telling the B story as the A story.
Y’see,
Timmy, your A story should always be what’s going on right now. Your B story, as the name implies, is
secondary. It hangs out in the
background. It doesn’t do as much. It’s not as important, because it’s the B
story. If it was important, it would be
the A story.
So figure
out which story you’re telling. And tell
it.
Next time, I’d
like to talk about subtlety and a very obscure old movie called Chain Gang.
Until then,
go write.
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