One big advantage in thinking about story strands rather than subplots is that you don’t have to worry whether a strand is big enough to count as a subplot in its own right or is really part of the main story. It won’t make any difference to your writing either way so you can leave that question for people who try to analyse your book after it’s finished. All you need to know is that the strand is there so you can use it to the best possible effect. (Incidentally, the better your book is plotted, the harder it is for analysts to tease apart the various strands of the story.)
How many strands does a book need?
Short stories and children’s picture books work well with just a single storyline. (In writing jargon, they have a basic linear plot.) However, longer novels are more interesting if they have more than one strand and the longer the book, the more strands you can include. My Pony-Mad Princess books are around 7000 words long and usually have two strands. Usually one is about the ponies and the other is about the royal world, and I always aim to end both strands in the final chapter. For example, the strands in Princess Ellie’s Secret are:
Ellie trying to stop her first pony being sold.
The problems caused by grumpy Great Aunt Edwina coming to stay at the palace.
(Warning: Spoilers ahead for pony-mad little girls.)
The plot starts with strand A. Ellie has outgrown her Shetland pony, Shadow, and is horrified when the King declares he must be sold because he has no work to do. She decides that she could drive him instead of riding him so secretly starts training him to pull a carriage. Then, just as everything seems to be going well, the plot twists with the introduction of strand B. Great Aunt Edwina has invited herself to stay at the palace and Ellie’s parents give her the task of entertaining the grumpy old lady. This means Ellie can’t spend any time at the stables.
After a frustrating time with her great aunt, Ellie manages to escape for a while to take Shadow for his first drive (back to strand A). Everything is going well until they turn a corner and come face to face with Great Aunt Edwina, who has gone out for a walk (strands A and B collide and join together). To Ellie’s surprise, Great Aunt Edwina is delighted. She always liked driving when she was a girl and insists that Ellie moves over so she can take the reins. The King is so pleased to find something that makes his difficult aunt happy that he agrees to keep Shadow so she can drive him (strands A and B end together).
Mirrored strands
In the plot I’ve just described, the strand about the outgrown pony is the main storyline while the strand about Great Aunt Edwina is a secondary strand that’s designed to complicate the plot. But you can also achieve a strong plot by making two strands of your story complement or mirror each other.
In my young adult novel, There Must Be Horses, one story strand is about the way Sasha’s troubled background has left her unable to trust other people, and another strand is about a horse whose troubled background has made him unable to trust humans. As these mirrored strands weave together, the girl and the horse heal each other and solve each other’s problems. There are plenty of other strands that make up the complete plot, but I am sure it is this mirroring that makes the conclusion of the book so emotionally satisfying for readers. (Most people cry happy tears when they are reading it, and I cried too when I was editing it.)
Unconnected strands
In another type of plot, the story strands are completely separate at first, and readers don’t see the connection between them until later in the book. For instance, in a disaster story, you might introduce three or four completely separate characters in different situations and move between them, building up their individual story strands until some big event (like an earthquake or a war) brings them together. Similarly, in a thriller, you might create one story strand about a detective and another strand about a girl, both of which seem completely unconnected until the girl is murdered.
When you jump around between strands like this, experienced readers will assume that there will eventually be a link between them so they will be looking for it. You can play along with this by hinting at possibilities and building up some tension about when the link will be revealed.
Although this approach can work well, it can be hard to hold your readers’ attention if you jump between characters so much that they are not sure which one they should be caring about. You can make life easier for them by introducing one character first and only introducing the others when their strands meet. So, in the thriller, you could concentrate on the girl until she’s murdered and then introduce the detective’s story strand, Or, alternatively, you could concentrate on the detective until the murder and then let him piece together the girl’s story as he investigates the crime. In Future Proof, I’m going to introduce Seb first and only introduce Jane when Seb’s story strand brings him into contact with her.
Weaving strands together
If your story has two or more main strands, it’s sometimes difficult to decide how to weave them together. When I’m faced with this problem, I find it helpful to write a step outline for each strand of the story, putting each step on a separate sticky note and using different colours for each strand. Then I experiment with different ways to join those steps into one coherent plot by moving the pieces of paper around. The result is a single, multicoloured line of sticky notes – much like the plait I talked about earlier.
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Creating story strands
All good stories involve at least one character with a problem, and the same is true of story strands. Your existing characters and their backstories can usually feature in more than just the main storyline. One obvious, but often useful additional strand is a romance between two of them, although a love triangle has even more potential because jealousy is such a powerful emotion.
Alternatively, you can create a new strand about an existing character by introducing a new fact about them that will affect the way they behave. Maybe they feel responsible for their sister’s death in a childhood accident and therefore annoy the other characters by being overprotective. Or perhaps they are gay and struggle with feelings of attraction that they don’t know whether to show or not. It’s up to you when you reveal this secret to the reader. If you do it early on, they can share the character’s struggle to resolve the issue. If you do it later, you’ll keep them guessing about behaviour they can’t understand which may intrigue them enough to keep reading.
Another useful way to add a new story strand is to add a new character – maybe a stranger comes to town, a new player joins the team or someone is spotted spying on your main character. They will bring their own story strand with them, and their arrival will upset the relationships between your characters which may, in turn, create new strands or help develop existing ones.
Making strands relevant
It’s important that each strand you add must connect in some way to the main one, even if that connection isn’t obvious at first. That happens naturally if the strand involves the same characters, but you need to plan carefully to make it happen when you introduce someone new.
Suppose you want to introduce a minor storyline about Mrs Morris and her lost puppy that is currently free-standing with no connection to your main characters or the events that surround them. Left like that, your readers will find the story an irritating diversion from the main plot, so it’s best to either leave it out or change the story strand so it can be easily woven into the story. Here are some ways we could do that in Future Proof.
Let Mrs Morris be the proprietor of a hotel where Seb and Jane stop to rest during their search for the rebels. They could be drawn into the search for the puppy and, as a result, find something important to the main storyline or miss a vital clue because they were distracted.
Let Seb and Jane discover the lost puppy has been kidnapped by the rebels and slaughtered as a terrible warning of what might happen to anyone who betrays the rebellion. So the fate of the puppy is a sign that the rebels may be as much of a problem as the aliens.
&
nbsp; Let Mrs Morris be Jane’s boss at the museum. Her preoccupation with the lost puppy makes her forget to lock her office when she goes out which gives Jane the opportunity to search her computer for vital information.
Let Mrs Morris not really have a puppy. She only thinks she’s lost one because her mind has been damaged by the aliens. This reveals a new danger for Seb and Jane as they may share her fate if they are captured.
Each of these options will move the story in a new direction, and our readers will find some of them more satisfying than others. (It’s always best to avoid slaughtering puppies when you’re writing for children.) The same is true when you try to deal with a disconnected story strand in your own novel. Do some brainstorming to see if you can weave it into the plot successfully. But, if you fail to think of a solution, be prepared to ditch that story strand completely as I am going to do with Mrs Morris and her puppy. Hopefully you’ll be able to use it eventually in a different book.
Story strand creation in action
Future Proof is definitely in need of some extra story strands. An obvious one is the developing relationship between Seb and Jane which may or may not turn into a romance. (I don’t know yet, and I’m planning to keep my readers guessing for quite a while.) To introduce some conflict and possible jealousy, I think I’ll eventually introduce Gareth, another rebel who joins up with them as they search for a way to overcome their alien rulers.
I also want to introduce a character who is a rebel alien, unhappy with what his race are doing and willing to help the rebels. He offers lots of story potential, especially if he hides his true identity at first. He might turn out to be an alien spy. He might sacrifice himself to save the others. He might fall in love with Jane which would have all sorts of implications. Of course, I’ve already got Gareth in that last role, and it’s not a good idea to have too many similar characters. So maybe I should combine the two and make Gareth the secret alien.
When I created Seb, I made him someone who lives on the edges of the law – a situation that offers opportunities for story strands based on his earlier transgressions. Maybe there’s a gang leader who is after him for some reason, or there are other criminals he could call on to help him.
Jane, on the other hand, currently has a more normal background but, to add another strand to her story, I could add a complication. Suppose her love of history comes from her father who is now so old and sick that she lives with him to make sure he is looked after. That’s going to make it harder for her to leave in search of the rebels which is great because you never want to make life easy for your main character.
Let’s give Dad his own strand too. Although he is old and frail, his brain is as alert as ever. He has always been open minded to new ideas so he believes that what Jane has discovered about the aliens is true and wants to help her. When she and Seb have to flee for their lives, Dad could come to their rescue – sacrificing what’s left of his own life to help them escape. That’s a story strand packed with conflict and emotion. I’m definitely going to use it.
Staying flexible
The main storyline of your book is the one you would talk about if you were asked to describe your book in one sentence. This is sometimes called the elevator pitch, because it’s what you might say if you got in a lift with a top publisher or agent and had to sell your book to them between floors.
As you work on your plot, you may find that one of your new story strands resonates with you and starts to take over from that original idea. If that happens, follow your instincts. If you’re sure that you can make the new strand work better than your original main storyline, swap them over. You are only at the plotting stage so it’s easy to do and there’s no major rewriting involved, even if you eventually decide to swap them back.
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Conflict, dilemmas and problems
The word conflict turns up in most books about plotting because it’s so important in making stories work. However, it’s one of the concepts I found most confusing when I was learning how to be a writer, and I am sure I am not alone in this.
The problem is that most of us think of conflict purely as physical fights and wars. But it occurs in many other forms too: explorers battle against the forces of nature, detectives struggle to outwit cunning criminals and doctors fight to save lives. All these situations can form the basis of a good story, but a story isn’t just a string of events. It’s an account of how those events affect the characters.
That’s why the conflicts that are often most powerful in storytelling are the ones that go on inside your characters’ heads while they struggle to decide what to do or force themselves to overcome their fears. These are often called internal conflicts but, because conflict is such a confusing word, let’s call them dilemmas. In Future Proof, Seb faces a dilemma when he has to decide whether to keep the diary or hand it in to the authorities while Jane faces one when he asks her to break the law by translating the diary in secret.
The problem/dilemma connection
A dilemma doesn’t happen in isolation. It’s always closely tied to a problem. Let’s leave Future Proof for a while, and imagine a character called Ben who is caught up in a volcanic eruption. He’s managed to escape to his car and is about to drive away to safety.
Problem: As Ben reaches out to start the ignition, he hears a child crying for help in a house that’s about to be engulfed by the approaching lava.
Dilemma: Should he drive away and leave the child to certain death, or risk his own life by trying to save her?
Result: The action he decides to take will move the story onto a new track. It will also reveal a great deal about Ben. If he goes back, he is obviously brave (and may end up dead). If he doesn’t, is he a coward or is he totally unfeeling? Will leaving the child to die scar him for life and affect how he handles other crises in the future?
That was a life-and-death situation with all the tension it brings with it. Let’s look at a non-fatal example where what’s at stake is success. Anne is an athlete who is desperate to leave her small town behind. She’s been offered a place on the national team provided her relay team win their next race. But the competition is fierce.
Problem: One of her team members admits she’s been taking performance-enhancing drugs, and she offers some to Anne.
Dilemma: What should Anne do? Should she take the drugs and improve her chance of winning, refuse them and report her team member to the authorities or refuse the drugs and keep quiet so she can benefit from the other team member taking them?
Result: Her decision will determine where the story goes next and reveal crucial details about Anne's character.
Whatever the situation, the problem and the dilemma (or conflict) are tied so strongly together that it’s virtually impossible to have one without the other. The problem comes first, the dilemma happens as your character struggles to cope with it and that in turn results in an action which will move the story forward. Unless you’ve reached the end of your book, that action will almost certainly lead on to another problem that will result in another problem/dilemma/action sequence. And a string of problem/dilemma/action sequences gives you a story.
To show you how that can happen, let’s imagine a character called David who is being chased through a forest by a pack of hungry wolves. Although there are plenty of trees, he can’t climb them because their branches are too high. Suddenly he spots one with a conveniently low branch so he grabs hold of it, hoping to climb to safety.
Problem: That convenient low branch snaps off in his hand. There’s no way he can climb the tree now, and the wolves are closing in.
Dilemma: Should he run again or try to fight?
Action: He turns to face the wolves with his back to the tree. He shouts at the wolves and waves the broken branch at them.
Problem: The wolves hesitate at first, then creep forward growling menacingly. (Do wolves growl – I need to check on that.)
Dilemma: This isn’t going to work. And they are too close now to run from. Wha
t else can he do?
Action: He pulls off his bandana, wraps it round the end of the branch and sets fire to it with a lighter he conveniently has in his pocket. (Need to mention this earlier so it doesn’t look too contrived.) He waves the burning branch at the wolves, and they draw back.
Problem: As he waves the branch, it touches the dry leaves covering the forest floor and they start to burn. Flames leap up, fanned by the strong breeze. (something else to mention earlier). The wolves run off in fear but the fire remains, spreading rapidly and racing towards David.
Dilemma: Running is the obvious action – the question is where? Water is the only thing that can save him now.
Action: He races downhill, hoping to find a stream.
So that sequence has changed the story from one about attacking wolves to one about a deadly forest fire. It has shown David to be resourceful and determined and given him a possible escape route, although that probably won’t go smoothly.
As you can see, once you’ve found the problem, the dilemma and the action follow naturally. So when I’m plotting, I spend a lot of my time creating problems for my characters. I often make these build on the one before, as I did with David and the wolves, but occasionally I throw in one that’s completely unexpected to twist the story in a new direction.
Plots and Plotting Page 9