Showing posts with label Aristotle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Aristotle. Show all posts

Friday, March 12, 2021

The Ending of the Tale

 Copyright 2021 by Michael Williams


In this post, Michael Williams concludes his remarks about writing a well-plotted story along the lines laid out by Aristotle. Thank you, Michael, for your contributions to Chillers and Thrillers!


In his Poetics, Aristotle points out that the end of a story should be both logical—in other words, the cause-and-effect relationships that have existed among the incidents of the plot throughout the drama (or narrative) should be maintained—and emotionally satisfying. The end of the story, in other words, should “make sense,” both intellectually and emotionally. Otherwise, the audience (or readers) are apt to be disappointed. He used the example of the deus ex machina, or “god of the machine,” a device employed, in his opinion by inferior playwrights, for ending a play for no other reason than that the playwright wanted the story to end. An actor portraying a deity was suspended upon a rope, which was lowered by a stagehand situated out of sight, above the stage, to descend onto the boards and, by dint of divine fiat, bring the drama to its conclusion. Often, the conclusion had little or nothing to do with the performance prior to the descent of the god of the machine. The expression deus ex machina has come to mean, therefore, a “tacked-on ending.”

 


Unfortunately, in genre fiction, some authors, including Stephen King, have sometimes tacked on just such arbitrary and unsatisfying conclusions to their novels, an offense that is especially annoying in volumes of the length that King writes. The violation is all the more offensive when, on a previous page, the author has already provided several other, more plausible possible causes of the novel's many apparently otherworldly incidents, as King does in Under the Dome (a 1,074-page tome).

 


Bentley Little, once praised by King as the horror poet laureate,” is notoriously lax about ending his novels well. When it comes to endings, he puts little or no effort into writing a conclusion that makes sense of the mysteries of his plot and in no way satisfies his readers, especially when his books are really rehashes of the same formula. How many times can readers stand another slight variation on a worn theme, especially when there is no meaningful (and, often, no intelligible) resolution to his books' conflicts, no meaningful motivations for their characters' actions, and no discernible theme?

To read such books is to understand not only the wisdom of Aristotle's demand for an intellectually and emotionally satisfying ending, but also to see what the lack of such an ending does to a book as a whole. Playwrights and novelists ignore Aristotle's advice at their own peril.

 


If the beginning of a book shows characters undergoing a quest, the end must show them fail or succeed in discovering the object or, perhaps the truth, they have sought (Dorothy discovers that happiness is in her own backyard).

 




If a novel sets forth a mystery to be solved, the end must solve the mystery—and the solution has to fit the facts and account for any apparent contradictions and red herrings (Paula Darnell's Amanda Trent always explains to the readers of her A Fine Art Mystery series not only who committed the novels' murders but also how and why the dastardly deeds were done).

If a tale showcases a series of bizarre incidents, these incidents must be explained through logic; through scientific knowledge, theory, principles, or verifiable empirical means; or through other pertinent and convincing evidence (after presenting us with an invisible creature in “The Damned Thing,” Ambrose Bierce is good enough to explain to us why the creature is invisible).

 


If beginning a story in media res avoids providing a context for incidents, the end of the story must establish this context (we may not know why characters are being attacked by supernatural creatures during the beginning of AWhole World Full of Hurt, but we learn the reason [and a whole lot more] by the novel's end).

Only when these tasks have been accomplished will readers be satisfied that they have read the full, complete story.

 


Michael Williams's Twisted Tales series, consisting, at present, of Tales with a Twist, Tales with a Twist II, and Tales with a Twist III, is available on Amazon. Not only are they entertaining, but they're also textbooks on how to write fantastic flash fiction!

 


Saturday, August 1, 2020

Benefits of Alternate Endings: Pick One

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

It was fashionable in Hollywood, at one time, to produce movies that have alternate endings. Hollywood executives hoped that, by trying out two or more endings for the same movie on test audiences, they could determine which one viewers enjoyed most, which might translate into more ticket sales (i .e., dollars) at the box office.

For short story writers and novelists, however, there may be other benefits to devising possible alternate endings. In doing so, however, authors should follow Aristotle's dictum (and Edgar Allan Poe's advice) that a story's ending should end in a manner that does not destroy the integrity of the rest of the plot.

Devising possible alternate endings to a story can also assist writers in selecting the most appropriate, effective, and memorable ending possible from an array of alternatives.

In addition, imagining possible alternate endings can, perhaps, improve the story, because a new possibility might round out, explain, or otherwise complete the narrative in a more believable or otherwise satisfying manner than the original ending. (We're speaking, now, of works in progress, rather than published, stories.)

Imagining alternate endings could also produce unexpected or better twist endings than the one a writer originally had in mind.


The Cone” by H. G. Wells

Current ending: Raut, who has cuckolded Horrocks, is doomed when a blast-furnace cone lowers him into the furnace, while Horrocks pelts the adulterer with hot coals.

Alternate ending: Horrocks seizes Raut by the arm, shoving him into the path of an oncoming railway tram. (This incident occurs earlier in the story, but, at this point, Horrocks is terrorizing Raut and, at the last minute, pulls him to safety; revised, the original story would end with this incident, without Horrocks pulling Raut from the tram's path.)


The Damned Thing” by Ambrose Bierce

Current ending: An entry in Morgan's diary reveals that the creature he hunts is invisible because its color is imperceptible to the human eye.

Alternate ending: Both Morgan's friend Harker, who witnessed Morgan's death and Morgan himself are insane, the former because of his fantastic testimony at the coroner's inquest concerning the cause of Morgan's death, the latter because, in writing of the incident in his diary, he described it in a manner that is consistent with Harker's account of the occurrence. On suspicion of having killed, and possible brainwashed Morgan, Harker is arrested and held for trial.


Dracula's Guest” by Bram Stoker

Current ending: Horsemen frighten off the werewolf guarding and keeping an English hotel guest warm in a forest and take him back to the hotel; they were dispatched at the request of a Transylvanian count named Dracula.

Alternate ending: The horsemen arrive to find the Englishman's throat torn out by the werewolf feasting upon his corpse.
 
"The Signalman" by Charles Dickens

Current ending: The narrator learns that a signal-man, seemingly mesmerized by something he saw, was struck and killed by an approaching train after ignoring the engineer's repeated warnings to get off the track.

Alternate ending: The train strikes the signal-man, but investigators cannot find his body; on the anniversary of his supposed death, the signal-man again appears on the track and is struck, but, afterward, investigators cannot find a body.

Sunday, July 12, 2020

Three Girls Walk into a Forest, and . . . .





Girl Eaten by a Tree by Mark Ryden

What strikes you about this picture? What is the first thing that draws your attention?

The girls? The situation? The setting? The action? The conflict? The girls' motives?

Who are these girls? What are their backgrounds? Why do they share the same facial features? What are they doing? What is the tree doing? What time of day is it? In what forest are they? Where are the girls going? Why are they in the forest? Why did the tree attack one of the girls? Why don't the two girls help the one who has been attacked?

Envision several answers for as many of these questions as you can; write them out, each in a complete sentence.

You can start a story with an answer to any of these questions, but each answer must be interrelated with the one before and after it so that a chain of incidents develops which is based on cause-effect relationships throughout.


Next, as Aristotle suggests in Poetics, arrange the incidents in a pattern organized by the story's beginning, middle, and end. (Edgar Allan Poe gave good advice when he said to know the story's ending before you begin writing.)

Stories are hard to plot because, although they seem simple, they are, in fact, complex: all the parts (answers to the questions of who?, what?, when?, where?, how”, why”, and how many? or how much?, are interrelated. By identifying causes and effects among the incidents, they appear logically connected, unified, and coherent.

Let's try the exercise.

For me, the situation captures my immediate attention. Perhaps the painting's artist, Mark Ryden, anticipated that the situation would be most prominent, as he named the work Girl Eaten by a Tree.

Initially, therefore, maybe I should focus my attention on the situation: a girl being eaten by a tree.

Who is the girl? The sameness of the facial features and the similarities in the dress of the two sisters watching the third girl being eaten by the tree suggests that the two girls are sisters. Although we can't see the third girl's face, her clothing is similar to that of the other two girls, which could suggest that she is their sister; possibly, her appearance is identical to theirs—a triplet. For now, that will be my interpretation: The three girls are triplets.

Notice how, starting with the situation, I veered off to a consideration of the painting's figures, the characters of the story? That's likely to happen, and it's fine: the elements of the story are, after all, interrelated; one question is apt to suggest the answer to another.

But back to the situation: why is the girl being eaten by a tree? Perhaps she insulted the tree, and it is eating her to avenge itself. Maybe she happened to be walking closest to the tree, and the tree snatched her up because it is hungry. It could be that the tree is a sentinel, guarding the forest, and it is eating the girl because the tree perceived her (and possibly her sisters) as being in some way a threat. It's also possible that the two girls who are watching their sister being eaten by a tree are only imagining the situation. Maybe they discussed a scene in a fantasy in which a tree devoured one—or all—of them and the memory of this earlier conversation inspired one of the girls to imagine it happening as the sisters walk through the forest.

For now, I am going to say that the girl in the yellow dress is imagining the situation. Why? We'll come back to this question in a moment, as we envision the girls' background.


Why are they in the forest? They are taking a shortcut. From where to where? From their house to Grandma's house (allusions can exp[and the theme of a story; this one may even have suggested an ending to the story!)

Obviously, it's daytime, but the sky seems overcast; it is gray. Rain seems to be on its way: there's a storm coming, it seems, and it may be an emotional as well as a meteorological storm. (Symbolism is often highly effective in a narrative.)

Apart from the tree's grasping and devouring of the girl in blue, there is no overt action, other than the girl in the yellow dress's touching the shoulder of the girl in the pink dress while holding up her other hand, as if to ward off the tree, and the girl in the pink dress's folding her hands together, as if she is making a silent plea.

Why aren't the other girls helping the victim? Especially if they are sisters—and triplets, at that—one would expect that the other two would be seeking to free their sister from her attacker. Perhaps they are frozen with fear? Their shocked expressions suggest that thy may be. In addition, their hair (not a single one of which is out of place), their pressed dresses, the ribbons restraining their hair, and the attitudes they have adopted suggest that these girls are unaccustomed to the violence they've encountered. Not only are they terrified, but they are also at a loss to know how to react. They are helpless. Al they do, probably instinctively, is to watch, as one wards off the tree and the other pleads silently for deliverance.

And, now, what about the story's ending? The allusion to Little Red Riding Hood (the girls were going to Grandma's house when the tee attacked one of them) suggests that a hero will appear, rescue the girl, and, perhaps, chop down the tree (or, at least, the limbs with which it holds the girl). Obviously, the scene Ryden has depicted is fantastic, so the appearance of a woodsman fits the genre well.

Now, we need only break the story into its three divisions, beginning, middle, and end. (Notice that we have figured out our ending before writing the story.) In doing so, we can insert words that indicate CAUSE and EFFECT.

Beginning

On an overcast morning, BECAUSE they plan to spend the day with their Grandmother, three young girls, triplets, who are dressed in similar dresses, bows, socks, and shoes, travel together through a forest, BECAUSE it is a shortcut, chattering about their plans and about the story of Little Red Riding Hood.

Middle

BECAUSE the tree is hungry, it snatches one of the girls. (The tree has human features—eyes, nose, mouth, and arms—and characteristics—it is hungry, predatory, and conscious.) BECAUSE they are shocked and frightened by the tree's attack, the other girls, feeling helpless, look on in horror, BECAUSE they do not know what to do and are paralyzed with fear.

End

BECAUSE a woodsman, happening to be in the area, chances upon the scene, he cuts off the limbs (arms) of the tree, freeing the girl, who has not come to harm. The girls are unable to thank him BECAUSE he is gone before they can do so. The girl in yellow finds that she holds the woodsman's ax BECAUSE, as she realizes, it was she who vanquished the tree. She took strength from imagining herself to be a woodsman BECAUSE doing so made her feel strong and gave her courage. She thought of herself as a woodsman, she thinks, BECAUSE her talk with her sisters made her think of him when her sister was endangered. In fact, their talk and the creepy forest CAUSED her to imagine the whole incident—her sister was never attacked, except in her own mind. But, now, BECAUSE she has learned of her own strength and courage, the girl needs no surrogate hero: she herself is strong, courageous, and heroic.


Although this seems a simple story, whether it is or is not depends on how the story is written. Possibly, a writer could make profound statements about such matters as gender roles, sisterhood, fantasy as a means of personal empowerment, self-discovery, and self-realization. Before writing such a story, an author might do well to read Bruno Bettelheim's The Uses of Enchantment.
Although Bettelheim's scholarship has been tarnished by allegations of his misrepresentation of his credentials, by plagiarism, by abusive behavior toward his students, and other issues, his study of the therapeutic potential of fantastic literature is stimulating, indeed, and may suggest psychological and social directions for a narrative about a girl in a forest who imagines an assault upon her sister, especially when her sister, a triplet, is identical in appearance to herself.

Friday, March 13, 2020

Make Sure that Your Story's Monster Is Integral to Its Setting: Aristotle and Poe Insist upon It

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

Judging by its trailer, the monster of The Sand (2015) is integral to the movie's setting:


A red plastic cup lying, half-buried in the sand, litters an otherwise pristine beach. Waves roll toward the shore, carrying, upon the surface of their waters, green slime suggestive of pulverized vegetation or algae, implying that nature, too, is a litterbug of sorts. A mechanical device, embedded in the sand elsewhere on the beach, among dunes and reeds, is a sign of the presence of human technology amid natural landscape features.

Night. Teenage boys in loud shirts cavort on the beach with teenage girls in bikinis and other abbreviated attire. A boy tosses beer from a red plastic cup toward squealing, grinning girls. While performing a handstand on the sand, Marsha drinks beer, upside-down, from the spigot of an upright keg. Another girl quaffs her beverage from a red plastic cup. A boy does flips.

Vance warns, “Don't use Facebook or MySpace. Nothing leaves this beach.” The party continues, in full swing.

The next morning, Kaylee looks over the beach from the lifeguard tower where she's spent the night. The crowd is gone. Only a few red plastic cups and the teens' sleeping bags and towels remain.

Text appears, informing viewers that “66% of marine species are still undiscovered today.”

A seagull beats its wings, as it struggles to free its feet from the sand. Kaylee, looking on, declares, “He's heavy.” She asks the bird, “Are you stuck?” and is startled to see the bird sink (or being pulled) into the sand until it disappears. “Oh, my God!” she cries, backing up.

Text: “Until now.”

Holding her hand above the sand, Kaylee, with Mitch, who also slept on the lifeguard tower, kneeling beside her, watches water “rain” from her palm.

Kaylee runs across the platform, warning Marsha, “Don't touch it!” Marsha's foot presses into the sand. A hand clutches the girl's wrist, pulling upward.

The screen flickers as Kaylee's boyfriend Jonah and a girl named Chandra, in the front seat, and Vance and his girlfriend Ronnie, in the back seat, sit in a convertible parked on the beach and look out toward the sea.

Mitch asks Kaylee, “So do you want to tell me what just happened?”

“You saw,” Kaylee tells Mitch.

Gilbert frowns as he looks at something unseen by the viewer.

Jonah tries to start his car, as Chandra yells, “Start the car!”

“The car won't start,” he says. The teens are trapped in the convertible.

"We're all going to die,” Mitch predicts.

This is crazy,” Gilbert declares.

Mitch tosses a life preserver.

Mitch, his feet wrapped in towels, runs across the sand.

A police officer approaches a girl lying on on a picnic table on the beach.

Chandra balances on an inflated raft as she walks across the sand.

Jonah lies prone on the beach, suffering and unable to move.

Vance leaps from the stranded convertible.

The police officer sprays Mace on the sand.

Energy crackles around the fingers and arm of a fallen figure—the patrolman?—who lies on the beach.

Kaylee leaps from the lifeguard's tower, onto the sand.

Text: “like a monster.”

Kaylee waves her and shakes her head, saying, “I don't believe in monsters.”

Jonah jumps back into the convertible.

Vance falls onto the beach.

A boy is pulled into the beach as he struggles, clutching the bench of a picnic table.

Kaylee screams.

Night. A blonde in a red bikini backs up, screaming, as she stares, horrified, at a gigantic tendril of light sweeping across the sky. A car, the driver's door open, is parked beside her. The tendril whips down. She ducks, and the tendril slams the car door shut.

Against a black background, the film's title appear in large red, centered letters:

The Sand


An Anything Horror review of the movie posted on Horrorpedia is mixed. The film jumps the shark, so to speak, when the monster is introduced: director Isaac Gabareff apparently couldn't leave well enough alone. He had to “give us the Big Monster,” and one which he doesn't seem to have been able to afford, at that: “the money spent on attempting this wouldn’t pay for a Pizza Hut meal,” which, unfortunately, makes it look “cartoonish.”

There are other problems with the special effects, too, reviewer Phil Wheat, of Nerdy, complains: “especially during a couple of the bigger, and gorier, death scenes.” However, there's a silver lining: “it’s [a] testament toThe Sand‘s production that the low-budget nature of the effects don’t detract too much from the overall experience.”

Another reviewer has trouble with the plot, Luke Owen of Flickering Myth finding it “full of padding, a hammered[-]in love triangle and rather unfunny jokes.”

For his part, reviewer Christopher Stewart of UK Horror Scene finds the characters flat, the final girl somehow awkward, and the romance cringe-worthy. Stewart disagrees in part with the Anything Horror reviewer concerning the monster's credibility, seeing “the monster effects” as “decent” overall, although, he argues, “they don't seem entirely integrated into the scene and come off a little cheap looking.”

This movie itself shows how the monster in a story can (and, in the opinion of Chillers and Thrillers, should) be an integral part of the setting. It shouldn't be merely an afterthought tacked onto the environment, but should arise from the story's setting as naturally and believably as a shark rises from the depths of the ocean, as a bear bounds across the floor of a forest, or as an eagle swoops down from the sky.

It seems that the octopus-thing or the squid-thing, or whatever kind of thing the “undiscovered marine species” specimen-thing is (actually, it turns out to be a giant electric jellyfish), is clearly integral to the setting; it comes from the sea, onto the beach, to attack the teens during spring break. All the pieces fit; there are not only unity and coherence, but also integration and relevance. Of course, whether the effects are “integrated into the scene” as seamlessly and naturally as the could and should be is another question.

Moreover, the movie's posters also indicate that the monster is, indeed, integral to the setting.




One poster shows Kaylee running across the beach, leaning well forward. There's a full moon in the dark sky, but the sand is dark and looks more like both mud and water than sand as such. Indeed, at first glance, it appears that Kaylee is running upon the surface of the ocean, especially since the illuminated tentacle of the monster rises from the sand beside her. Beneath the title, in solid, block red letters is the caption, “This beach is killer.”


Another poster shows a blonde wearing a bikini top resembling seashells; she is buried in the beach up to her waist. Beneath the sand, two of the monster's illuminated tentacles stretch toward her, even as a third seems to attempt to surround her. On her knees, Kaylee reaches toward the other girl, as a third teen, perhaps Chandra, walks slowly toward the victim. A patrol car is parked behind Kaylee. Above the trapped teen, who stretches her arms overhead, the caption appears, in capitals, all red, above the film's sand-colored title: “This beach is killer. The Sand.”

In “The Philosophy of Composition,” wherein Edgar Allan Poe explains how he write his celebrated poem The Raven, Poe says he began the process with the particular emotional effect in mind that he wanted to create (horror, of course), and then chose each and every other element of the poem, it plot, its structure, its meter, its rhyme scheme, the raven's increasingly eerie refrain, and, of course, the setting so that, individually and together, these elements help both to create the preconceived effect and to maximize its impression upon the poem's readers. Like Aristotle, who warned against a tacked-on ending, or deus ex machina, insisting that the end of a story should be pertinent and seemingly inevitable, given all that had gone before, and led, to the culmination, the effect itself.

By ensuring that the characters, including the monster, are integral to the story's setting, writers can gain a sense of inevitability for their denouement that is as apt and satisfying as that of Poe's raven. The elements of The Sand, the monster included, do lead up to and emphasize the effect that the film, as a whole, produces. In this, the movie succeeds well, however well or poorly the film the “monster effects” themselves may be “integrated into the scene.”


Saturday, June 15, 2019

Modeling the Three-Act Plot Formula

Plotting a story is often difficult for many (most?) writers. This post may make the job a bit easier.

According to Aristotle's analysis, a plot consists of three interrelated parts, among which there is a series of cause-and-effect relationships. Every story (or play, which is what he was analyzing in Poetics) has a beginning, a middle, and an end. (The ancient Greek plays he watched were three-act plays.)

With this structure in mind, the basic plot formula of 1. CAUSE, 2. ACTION, and 3. OUTCOME can be used to generate many specific plot models. Any of the models can produce either a comedic or a tragic outcome, depending on its development.

Here are a few such models, some with an example from a book, a short story, or a movie.


  1. Problem
  2. Solution
  3. Outcome

Example: As Good as It Gets



  1. Seduction
  2. Sex
  3. Outcome

Example: Fatal Attraction

  1. Masquerade
  2. Unmasking
  3. Outcome



Example: The Crying Game

  1. Victimization
  2. Vengeance
  3. Outcome

Example: Sudden Impact

    1. Stalking
    2. Assault 
    3. Outcome

Example: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV series)

    1. Temptation 
    2. Resistance 
    3. Outcome


Example: Joan of Arc (LeeLee Sobieski)

  1. Options
  2. Selection
  3. Outcome
  1. Submission
  2. Dominance
  3. Outcome
Example: The Story of O


  1. Dominance
  2. Submission
  3. Outcome


Example: The Collector

  1. Role
  2. Reversal
  3. Outcome


Example: The Final Girl

  1. Curiosity
  2. Experiment
  3. Outcome

Example: The Moviegoer

  1. Anxiety
  2. Confession
  3. Outcome

  1. Opportunity
  2. Pact
  3. Outcome

Example: Faust


  1. Twins
  2. Swap
  3. Outcome

Example: The Parent Trap
  1. Twins
  2. Share
  3. Outcome

  1. Dissatisfaction
  2. Novelty
  3. Outcome


Example: The Wizard of Oz

  1. Change
  2. Adaptation
  3. Outcome

 
Example: King Henry IV, Part II



  1. Threat
  2. Response
  3. Outcome

 
Example: Alien

  1. Isolation
  2. Challenge
  3. Outcome

  1. Novelty
  2. Trial
  3. Outcome
 
  1. Process
  2. Change
  3. Outcome
 

Example: The Fly



  1. Perspective
  2. Violence
  3. Outcome

 
Example: Death Wish


Thursday, March 28, 2019

Plotting Board, Part 8

Copyright 2019 by Gary L. Pullman

Although there are several patterns of plots, one is the three-part structure described by Aristotle in his Poetics: beginning, middle, and end. We can think of this three-part structure as consisting of a cause of an action by which action an effect is produced:

  1. Cause
  2. Action
  3. Effect
Every effect, or outcome, can be either comic (end well for the protagonist) or tragic (end poorly for the protagonist).

With this in mind, many varieties of plots can thus be developed:

The Problem-Solution Plot
  1. Problem
  2. Solution
  3. Effect (Outcome)


As Good As It Gets (1997) uses this plot:

  1. Problem: Misanthropic Melvin Udall suffers from an obsessive-compulsive disorder
  2. Solution: Melvin falls in love with Carol Connelly, a server.
  3. Outcome: Through his relationship with Carol, Melvin reaches the point at which he can overcome his obsessive-compulsive disorder.

The Sex-Violence Plot

  1. Sex
  2. Violence
  3. Outcome


Fatal Attraction (1987) uses this plot:
  1. Sex: Dan Gallagher has an affair with Alexandra "Alex" Forrest.
  2. Violence: Unstable and possessive, Alex refuses to end the affair, attacking Dan's wife, Beth.
  3. Outcome: Dan rescues Beth, who shoots Alex, preventing her from killing her husband.

The Masquerade-Unmasking Plot
  1. Masquerade
  2. Unmasking
  3. Outcome



The Crying Game (1992) uses this plot:
  1. Masquerade: Dil, a transvestite, masquerades as a woman.
  2. Unmasking: Dil's true sex is revealed as she is about to have sex with Fergus.
  3. Outcome: Fergus and Dil remain close friends.

The Victimization-Vengeance Plot
  1. Victimization
  2. Vengeance
  3. Outcome



Sudden Impact (1983) uses this plot:
  1. Victimization: Jennifer Spencer and her sister are raped.
  2. Vengeance: One by one, Jennifer kills the rapists.
  3. Outcome: Detective “Dirty Harry” Callahan learns the serial killer's identity, but lets Jennifer walk.

The Temptation-Sin Plot
  1. Temptation
  2. Sin
  3. Outcome


Joan of Arc (1999) uses this plot:

  1. Joan of Arc is tempted to commit the sin of pride.
  2. Joan arrogantly insists on attacking Paris.
  3. Joan repents and receives God's forgiveness.

The Status Change-Adaptation Plot

  1. Status Change
  2. Adaptation
  3. Outcome


Shakespeare's King Henry IV, Part II uses this plot:
  1. Status Change: Prince Hal becomes King Henry IV.
  2. Adaptation: Henry IV adapts to his new status, becoming responsible and wise.
  3. Outcome: Henry IV defeats his enemies and rules well.

The Threat-Response Plot
  1. Threat
  2. Response
  3. Outcome


Alien (1979) uses this plot:
  1. Threat: An alien aboard the Nostromo space tug threatens Warrant Officer Ripley and the rest of the vessel's crew.
  2. Response: Ripley fights the alien.
  3. Outcome: Using her wits, Ripley defeats the alien, opening an airlock, which causes the creature to be sucked from the vessel, and blasts it with Nostromo's engine exhausts.

The Role-Reversal Plot
  1. Role
  2. Reversal
  3. Outcome


The Final Girl (2015) uses this plot:
  1. Role: Veronica poses as a helpless young woman, allowing four teenager serial killers to “lure” her into a forest as their next intended victim.
  2. Reversal: Actually a highly trained assassin, Veronica, the boys' intended prey, becomes the predator.
  3. Outcome: One by one, veronica kills her would-be killers.
There are plenty of other variations on this basic plot pattern. Perhaps we will consider others in a future post.

Paranormal vs. Supernatural: What’s the Diff?

Copyright 2009 by Gary L. Pullman

Sometimes, in demonstrating how to brainstorm about an essay topic, selecting horror movies, I ask students to name the titles of as many such movies as spring to mind (seldom a difficult feat for them, as the genre remains quite popular among young adults). Then, I ask them to identify the monster, or threat--the antagonist, to use the proper terminology--that appears in each of the films they have named. Again, this is usually a quick and easy task. Finally, I ask them to group the films’ adversaries into one of three possible categories: natural, paranormal, or supernatural. This is where the fun begins.

It’s a simple enough matter, usually, to identify the threats which fall under the “natural” label, especially after I supply my students with the scientific definition of “nature”: everything that exists as either matter or energy (which are, of course, the same thing, in different forms--in other words, the universe itself. The supernatural is anything which falls outside, or is beyond, the universe: God, angels, demons, and the like, if they exist. Mad scientists, mutant cannibals (and just plain cannibals), serial killers, and such are examples of natural threats. So far, so simple.

What about borderline creatures, though? Are vampires, werewolves, and zombies, for example, natural or supernatural? And what about Freddy Krueger? In fact, what does the word “paranormal” mean, anyway? If the universe is nature and anything outside or beyond the universe is supernatural, where does the paranormal fit into the scheme of things?

According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the word “paranormal,” formed of the prefix “para,” meaning alongside, and “normal,” meaning “conforming to common standards, usual,” was coined in 1920. The American Heritage Dictionary defines “paranormal” to mean “beyond the range of normal experience or scientific explanation.” In other words, the paranormal is not supernatural--it is not outside or beyond the universe; it is natural, but, at the present, at least, inexplicable, which is to say that science cannot yet explain its nature. The same dictionary offers, as examples of paranormal phenomena, telepathy and “a medium’s paranormal powers.”

Wikipedia offers a few other examples of such phenomena or of paranormal sciences, including the percentages of the American population which, according to a Gallup poll, believes in each phenomenon, shown here in parentheses: psychic or spiritual healing (54), extrasensory perception (ESP) (50), ghosts (42), demons (41), extraterrestrials (33), clairvoyance and prophecy (32), communication with the dead (28), astrology (28), witchcraft (26), reincarnation (25), and channeling (15); 36 percent believe in telepathy.

As can be seen from this list, which includes demons, ghosts, and witches along with psychics and extraterrestrials, there is a confusion as to which phenomena and which individuals belong to the paranormal and which belong to the supernatural categories. This confusion, I believe, results from the scientism of our age, which makes it fashionable for people who fancy themselves intelligent and educated to dismiss whatever cannot be explained scientifically or, if such phenomena cannot be entirely rejected, to classify them as as-yet inexplicable natural phenomena. That way, the existence of a supernatural realm need not be admitted or even entertained. Scientists tend to be materialists, believing that the real consists only of the twofold unity of matter and energy, not dualists who believe that there is both the material (matter and energy) and the spiritual, or supernatural. If so, everything that was once regarded as having been supernatural will be regarded (if it cannot be dismissed) as paranormal and, maybe, if and when it is explained by science, as natural. Indeed, Sigmund Freud sought to explain even God as but a natural--and in Freud’s opinion, an obsolete--phenomenon.

Meanwhile, among skeptics, there is an ongoing campaign to eliminate the paranormal by explaining them as products of ignorance, misunderstanding, or deceit. Ridicule is also a tactic that skeptics sometimes employ in this campaign. For example, The Skeptics’ Dictionary contends that the perception of some “events” as being of a paranormal nature may be attributed to “ignorance or magical thinking.” The dictionary is equally suspicious of each individual phenomenon or “paranormal science” as well. Concerning psychics’ alleged ability to discern future events, for example, The Skeptic’s Dictionary quotes Jay Leno (“How come you never see a headline like 'Psychic Wins Lottery'?”), following with a number of similar observations:

Psychics don't rely on psychics to warn them of impending disasters. Psychics don't predict their own deaths or diseases. They go to the dentist like the rest of us. They're as surprised and disturbed as the rest of us when they have to call a plumber or an electrician to fix some defect at home. Their planes are delayed without their being able to anticipate the delays. If they want to know something about Abraham Lincoln, they go to the library; they don't try to talk to Abe's spirit. In short, psychics live by the known laws of nature except when they are playing the psychic game with people.
In An Encyclopedia of Claims, Frauds, and Hoaxes of the Occult and Supernatural, James Randi, a magician who exercises a skeptical attitude toward all things alleged to be paranormal or supernatural, takes issue with the notion of such phenomena as well, often employing the same arguments and rhetorical strategies as The Skeptic’s Dictionary.

In short, the difference between the paranormal and the supernatural lies in whether one is a materialist, believing in only the existence of matter and energy, or a dualist, believing in the existence of both matter and energy and spirit. If one maintains a belief in the reality of the spiritual, he or she will classify such entities as angels, demons, ghosts, gods, vampires, and other threats of a spiritual nature as supernatural, rather than paranormal, phenomena. He or she may also include witches (because, although they are human, they are empowered by the devil, who is himself a supernatural entity) and other natural threats that are energized, so to speak, by a power that transcends nature and is, as such, outside or beyond the universe. Otherwise, one is likely to reject the supernatural as a category altogether, identifying every inexplicable phenomenon as paranormal, whether it is dark matter or a teenage werewolf. Indeed, some scientists dedicate at least part of their time to debunking allegedly paranormal phenomena, explaining what natural conditions or processes may explain them, as the author of The Serpent and the Rainbow explains the creation of zombies by voodoo priests.

Based upon my recent reading of Tzvetan Todorov's The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to the Fantastic, I add the following addendum to this essay.

According to Todorov:

The fantastic. . . lasts only as long as a certain hesitation [in deciding] whether or not what they [the reader and the protagonist] perceive derives from "reality" as it exists in the common opinion. . . . If he [the reader] decides that the laws of reality remain intact and permit an explanation of the phenomena described, we can say that the work belongs to the another genre [than the fantastic]: the uncanny. If, on the contrary, he decides that new laws of nature must be entertained to account for the phenomena, we enter the genre of the marvelous (The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre, 41).
Todorov further differentiates these two categories by characterizing the uncanny as “the supernatural explained” and the marvelous as “the supernatural accepted” (41-42).

Interestingly, the prejudice against even the possibility of the supernatural’s existence which is implicit in the designation of natural versus paranormal phenomena, which excludes any consideration of the supernatural, suggests that there are no marvelous phenomena; instead, there can be only the uncanny. Consequently, for those who subscribe to this view, the fantastic itself no longer exists in this scheme, for the fantastic depends, as Todorov points out, upon the tension of indecision concerning to which category an incident belongs, the natural or the supernatural. The paranormal is understood, by those who posit it, in lieu of the supernatural, as the natural as yet unexplained.

And now, back to a fate worse than death: grading students’ papers.

My Cup of Blood

Anyone who becomes an aficionado of anything tends, eventually, to develop criteria for elements or features of the person, place, or thing of whom or which he or she has become enamored. Horror fiction--admittedly not everyone’s cuppa blood--is no different (okay, maybe it’s a little different): it, too, appeals to different fans, each for reasons of his or her own. Of course, in general, book reviews, the flyleaves of novels, and movie trailers suggest what many, maybe even most, readers of a particular type of fiction enjoy, but, right here, right now, I’m talking more specifically--one might say, even more eccentrically. In other words, I’m talking what I happen to like, without assuming (assuming makes an “ass” of “u” and “me”) that you also like the same. It’s entirely possible that you will; on the other hand, it’s entirely likely that you won’t.

Anyway, this is what I happen to like in horror fiction:

Small-town settings in which I get to know the townspeople, both the good, the bad, and the ugly. For this reason alone, I’m a sucker for most of Stephen King’s novels. Most of them, from 'Salem's Lot to Under the Dome, are set in small towns that are peopled by the good, the bad, and the ugly. Part of the appeal here, granted, is the sense of community that such settings entail.

Isolated settings, such as caves, desert wastelands, islands, mountaintops, space, swamps, where characters are cut off from civilization and culture and must survive and thrive or die on their own, without assistance, by their wits and other personal resources. Many are the examples of such novels and screenplays, but Alien, The Shining, The Descent, Desperation, and The Island of Dr. Moreau, are some of the ones that come readily to mind.

Total institutions as settings. Camps, hospitals, military installations, nursing homes, prisons, resorts, spaceships, and other worlds unto themselves are examples of such settings, and Sleepaway Camp, Coma, The Green Mile, and Aliens are some of the novels or films that take place in such settings.

Anecdotal scenes--in other words, short scenes that showcase a character--usually, an unusual, even eccentric, character. Both Dean Koontz and the dynamic duo, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, excel at this, so I keep reading their series (although Koontz’s canine companions frequently--indeed, almost always--annoy, as does his relentless optimism).

Atmosphere, mood, and tone. Here, King is king, but so is Bentley Little. In the use of description to terrorize and horrify, both are masters of the craft.

A bit of erotica (okay, okay, sex--are you satisfied?), often of the unusual variety. Sex sells, and, yes, sex whets my reader’s appetite. Bentley Little is the go-to guy for this spicy ingredient, although Koontz has done a bit of seasoning with this spice, too, in such novels as Lightning and Demon Seed (and, some say, Hung).

Believable characters. Stephen King, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, and Dan Simmons are great at creating characters that stick to readers’ ribs.

Innovation. Bram Stoker demonstrates it, especially in his short story “Dracula’s Guest,” as does H. P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe, Shirley Jackson, and a host of other, mostly classical, horror novelists and short story writers. For an example, check out my post on Stoker’s story, which is a real stoker, to be sure. Stephen King shows innovation, too, in ‘Salem’s Lot, The Shining, It, and other novels. One might even argue that Dean Koontz’s something-for-everyone, cross-genre writing is innovative; he seems to have been one of the first, if not the first, to pen such tales.

Technique. Check out Frank Peretti’s use of maps and his allusions to the senses in Monster; my post on this very topic is worth a look, if I do say so myself, which, of course, I do. Opening chapters that accomplish a multitude of narrative purposes (not usually all at once, but successively) are attractive, too, and Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child are as good as anyone, and better than many, at this art.

A connective universe--a mythos, if you will, such as both H. P. Lovecraft and Stephen King, and, to a lesser extent, Dean Koontz, Bentley Little, and even Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child have created through the use of recurring settings, characters, themes, and other elements of fiction.

A lack of pretentiousness. Dean Koontz has it, as do Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, Bentley Little, and (to some extent, although he has become condescending and self-indulgent of late, Stephen King); unfortunately, both Dan Simmons and Robert McCammon have become too self-important in their later works, Simmons almost to the point of becoming unreadable. Come on, people, you’re writing about monsters--you should be humble.

Longevity. Writers who have been around for a while usually get better, Stephen King, Dan Simmons, and Robert McCammon excepted.

Pacing. Neither too fast nor too slow. Dean Koontz is good, maybe the best, here, of contemporary horror writers.


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