Nothing Goes Right; Now Make It Worse
I have taped a note to my monitor for twenty years that says: When nothing goes right, your story is strong.
I keep taping it there because I keep forgetting it.
You’d think after a lifetime of writing — started in my crib with crayons — and twenty-something books I would have this figured out. You’d think conflict would be burned into my writing DNA — a reflex, a habit, a basic survival instinct like checking both ways before crossing a street, checking my zipper, or checking to make sure I wore pants on my coaching Zoom calls.
But no. Every first draft of anything I write starts exactly the same way. Nice people. Nice conversations. Nice places. Nobody’s house is on fire. Nobody’s marriage is falling apart. Nobody is being chased across a rooftop by a pirate with genuinely alarming dental hygiene.
FIGHT! FIGHT! STEP RIGHT UP!
Here is what none of my English classes ever told me about plot: plot is not “what happens.” Plot is why it matters. It is a series of cleverly arranged miseries designed to tap your reader’s deepest fears and desires — safety, love, the need to survive, the terror of being alone, the hunger to matter.
I know this. I have known this for twenty years. The note is right there on the line above my desk with clipped pictures of my kids, grandkids and Dad.
Steven James said it best: “The core of every story is about a character who wants something but cannot get it.”
That’s it. That’s the whole game. A character wants something. Doesn’t get it. Wants it harder. Things get worse. Repeat until the reader is hooked and you are questioning all of your life choices.
I have written approximately forty first chapters where the biggest conflict is whether the protagonist should have coffee or tea. Coffee, I eventually type. She chose coffee. Scene ends. Nothing explodes. Nobody weeps. The coffee, I am forced to admit, is really quite good.
This is not a story. This is a breakfast menu.
SO HOW DO YOU FIX A PLOT THAT’S GOING NOWHERE?
Ask yourself three questions. Be brutal. I’ll go first.
1. What does your Lead want?
Not “sort of want.” Not “it might be nice if.” A burning, non-negotiable, will-do-anything-to-get-it want. Your Lead’s objective drives every scene. Without it, you have a character standing around waiting for something interesting to happen.
Like I said: I want my first drafts to be conflict-free. What I get is a manuscript that reads like a brochure for a very pleasant town no one has ever visited and no one ever will.
2. What’s stopping her?
Every scene must have a problem. Not a mild inconvenience. A genuine obstacle that makes the situation worse when the scene ends. Worse for your Lead. Better for your reader. These are not the same people. Your reader is enjoying your Lead’s suffering from a safe distance with a cup of coffee that is probably also very nice.
3. Can she just walk away?
If yes, you don’t have a story. You have an anecdote. The difference between a story and an anecdote is whether anyone has to be there. If your character can shrug and leave, she will shrug and leave, and so will your reader.
I have written entire novels where my Lead could have left by page three and saved everyone a lot of trouble. My Lead did not notice this. My readers did.
THE SHORTHAND — AND I DO MEAN SHORT:
Portrait: Show your Lead’s normal life. Crisis: Blow it up. Struggle: Your Lead tries to put the pieces back together. Discovery: She realizes the problem isn’t what she thought. Change: She’s not the same person she was on page one.
Notice what is not on that list: “Nice people have a nice conversation and agree to meet again soon for more of the same.”
I notice this every time. Then I tape the note back to the monitor.
THE WORST THING
Do yourself a favor. Open your manuscript. Find the last scene you wrote. Ask: What is the worst thing that could happen to my character right now?
Then make it happen.
I know. I know. It feels wrong. It feels mean. Your character is a nice person who has done nothing to deserve this, and you are about to drop a metaphorical mobile home on her from a height of sixty thousand feet. This is correct. This is your job. This is the thing that separates a story that keeps readers up past midnight from a document that puts them to sleep by nine.
Your Lead should not have a nice day. Your Lead should have the day. The one everything else hinges on. The one that costs her something she cannot get back.
I believe this with my whole heart.
I am going to go tape the note back to my monitor now.
Want the full breakdown on plot, character, dialogue, and scene structure — in under 60 minutes? Grab A Novel Idea at EddieJones.org. It will not solve the problem of your first drafts. But it will help you understand, in great detail, exactly what is wrong with them.