WHAT’S IN THE BOX?!?!
With YeahWrite’s seventh (!!!?!!?) birthday happening this month, editor Michelle and I spent some time sitting around brainstorming seven-themed ideas for tips and tricks.
This quickly devolved into the two of us yelling WHAT’S IN THE BOOOOOX at each other.
If you haven’t seen the film Se7en, SPOILERS AHEAD. The film stars Brad Pitt during the less-hot Brad Pitt years, trying to catch a serial killer who’s murdering his victims to the theme of the seven deadly sins. By the end of the film, the only sin left is Wrath. The killer wants the final death to have that theme, so he kills Brad Pitt’s wife and arranges for a “mystery box” to be delivered to Brad at the point of arrest. Brad’s partner, played by Morgan Freeman, spends way too much time trying to convince Brad to just arrest the guy instead of looking in the box.
The result is that the character yells WHAT’S IN THE BOX a lot, okay?
And the point right now is that we know what’s in the box. The viewers know. Morgan Freeman knows. The serial killer knows.
But Brad doesn’t.
Honestly I’m not sure HOW he doesn’t. But he doesn’t. That split sets up the final conflict, the crux of the movie: will he or won’t he look in the box? And that’s this month’s Technique Toolbox: separating author, reader, and character knowledge.
Box 1: Author Knowledge
The best part of being the author is that you – theoretically – know everything about the story. You even know each character’s thoughts and background, if it’s fiction. If it’s not, you still know your own thoughts about it, the setting, all the events, the history that led up to it, and what happens after the story ends.
The problem with author knowledge is twofold: first, it can create a lot of clutter in your story if you put too much of it in, but second, you have to remember that neither your readers nor your characters know what you know. So anything you want either of them to know, you have to tell them specifically.
So what do you do with author knowledge? Here’s what you don’t do: you don’t barf it all over your reader at the beginning of the story, making them wade through 700 words of brainvomit before they get to the 77 words where anything happens. It’s great that you know your character had a rough childhood, or that they lost their favorite sticker book when they were five, but unless it informs their responses to something that happens in the story itself, you don’t need to share that. Now that I’ve said that, remember that the offscreen stuff you know about your characters affects how they react onscreen, and how they interact with other characters. Whether you’re writing nonfiction or fiction, know more about your story than takes place on the page. Then edit that down to what the reader needs to know in order to understand the action.
Box 2: Reader Knowledge
Unlike the author, the reader comes to the story with almost no knowledge of the characters or setting, except in a few cases:
- You’re writing nonfiction and they actually know you or follow you.
- You’re writing a sequel to something they’ve read.
- You’re writing fan fiction.
Unless one of those three cases applies, your reader knows nothing that you know. So part of your story needs to be about transferring an appropriate amount of writer knowledge to the reader.
Part of the challenge of transferring knowledge to the reader Is timing. What’s happening in your story, and how much do they need to know to understand it? When do they need to know it? At the time the action takes place? Well before the action? After, because it’s a Big Reveal?
Probably my favorite example of transferring knowledge to the reader at the right time is in Ian’ Fleming’s James Bond book (not the movie) Casino Royale. Fleming wants to make Bond do something so incredibly cool during an esoteric card game that the reader is astonished and impressed with the character almost immediately. But Fleming knows that, unlike himself and his character, most readers won’t play baccarat. So he spends nearly two entire pages of the novel teaching you to play baccarat, in one long and engaging aside, just to set up the move Bond is about to make. Without that knowledge there’s no possible way to understand the nuance of the play the character makes, nor the connotations of it. And all that knowledge is necessary to the reader’s understanding of the character. By balancing that tell (how to play) with show (the play itself), Fleming gives you an intense and immediate sense of who James Bond is, without having to tell you anything specific about the character.
Box 3: Character Knowledge
Like readers, characters don’t have any knowledge you don’t put into them. Unlike readers, you can put knowledge into characters outside the lines of the story. Each character comes to the story with a background and knowledge of their own.
Most character knowledge problems arise when something happens in your story and a character isn’t there, but you forget the character doesn’t know about it and they later refer to it. Don’t do that. And don’t summarize character knowledge for the reader. If it’s relevant, the character will bring it up. It’s like when you remember something: you’re not really thinking about that memory until you need it, right?
On the other hand, don’t have your character conveniently “remember” things right before they need it all the time. Give the reader enough of an understanding of their background that it makes sense they’d know how to hotwire a car, or give CPR, or shoot a bow and arrow.
What’s in which box?
Keeping the three boxes separate is the hardest but most necessary part of telling a story. If you roleplay (Dungeons and Dragons, anyone? No? That’s fine, WhiteWolf is a better system even if the founder is trash) you already know how to keep player and character knowledge separate. Use that skill.
Remember, your characters can’t act on information they don’t know. So if you want James Bond to rescue Misogynist Pun from Racist Joke, you need to give bond enough information to figure out where she’s being held hostage.
Using the three boxes can also generate tension… or even humor! Think how many times in a sitcom you’ve known something the character didn’t? Or rewatch the “hair gel” scene in Something About Mary. Or don’t. Secondhand embarrassment makes me itchy, which is why I always fear drawing “romcom” in NYCM competitions. The point is, when the reader knows something the character doesn’t, suspense builds. You can release this tension with humor, terror, or catharsis, or use it to create an ambiguous end to a story. Would The Lady or the Tiger change, if the reader knew where the tiger was?
