Without Conflict There is No Plot

When I grew up I would be a writer. I had always known this. The only obstacle was growing up.

I had spent years imagining the garret, the years of torment followed by my bestseller and international renown. Decades slipped by and I kidded myself that life was getting in the way but with another milestone birthday on the horizon it was time to “get my shit together” as my friend Celia would say.

The reality was that my weapon of choice was a bottle of wine rather than the pen. I had fooled myself that experience of life could replace learning how this craft worked. Things had to change. Reluctantly, with my only piece of writing, my precious story of lost love clutched to my chest and addled brain cranked in gear I signed up for a creative writing class confident that this would provide the tools for my success.

“How bad can it be?” encouraged Celia.
With one look she was reminded of having said the same thing before sending me off to that ill-fated speed dating session. We arranged to meet later for a post-mortem.

“I’ve got you a large one” was exactly what I needed to hear
“Jesus, Celia, no wonder I haven’t made it on my own. You wouldn’t believe this stuff. Apparently there’s only 7 plots. All those novels and only 7 bloody plots. I need a hook, conflict, exciting language whilst saying as little as possible. She’s taken my life’s work home but has already said that I will need to get rid of every other word, less is more apparently! And…we’ve got homework!”

The weeks sped by as our tutor attempted to instil the basics into a bemused class. Our characters needed to jump from the page, we needed to know every detail of their lives even if the readers didn’t, our plot needed pace and originality, we needed to find our voice.

Meantime I had received my reality check
“I like your perspective but this needs re-writing, the pet phrases need to go along with all those adjectives. Show don’t tell! The plot must be strong, simple and compelling, the character sorely tested” she told me using, beyond, what I now knew to be the requisite number of adjectives to make her point.

I put my life’s work to one side and tried to concentrate on the homework exercises. I found that I actually enjoyed the concentrated form of writing to a formula. The discipline of a haiku, mini saga or flash fiction really focused the mind. It left nowhere to hide!

I decided to distil my blockbuster using the methods I had been taught. I tried to remember all the rules and pared my story down to its bare bones. I made the plot and location as small as possible. I had to change the characters considerably, ensure that there was conflict in my plot and add a twist, but at last I could do this – I knew these personalities like the back of my hand. Satisfied I had used the prescribed criteria, there it was, 100 words, job done!

The other woman

He hadn’t been home for days when Daphne spotted him sidling up the street, head held high, rump swinging suggestively. She watched as he made his way to the door in no great hurry, not a care in the world. She flung the door open and took a deep whiff of cheap perfume. He had been with that floozy again! Alan smirked and slunk through the door making no greeting whatsoever, heading straight for the kitchen. It was then she saw the new glitzy collar he had round his neck.
“Get your own bloody cat” she screamed down the street…..