#WorkshopWednesday: High/Low Stakes

 

“Oh yeah,” Richie said. “I can see it. After you shoot it four or five times and it keeps comin at us like the Teenage Werewolf in that movie me and Ben and Bev saw, you can try your Bullseye on it. And if the Bullseye doesn’t work, I’ll throw some of my sneezing powder at it. And if it keeps on coming after that we’ll just call time and say, ‘Hey now, hold on. This ain’t getting it, Mr. Monster. Look, I got to read up on it at the library. I’ll be back. Pawdon me.’ Is that what you’re going to say, Big Bill?”

Apologies in advance if you were hoping not to hear any more about the Clown Book after that post a couple weeks ago. I certainly didn’t intend to make it an ongoing thing, but it’s spooky season, and I’m rereading the Clown Book for the first time in years, and remembering why I love it so, and wondering when I can squeeze in a movie rewatch, so, the first wasn’t the last, and neither is this one. The year is 2023 and I’ve got Clown Book brainworms. There are worse worms to have, I suppose. And look, I can put the worms to use!

I’m currently on page 372 of 1,153, and I’ve reached one of my favorite scenes: Richie and Bill going to the house on Neibolt for the first time, just the two of them. Earlier in this same chapter, Richie went home with Bill to look at Georgie’s photo album (one of those delicious small scare scenes that I wish had made it into the movie), and earlier than that Richie tried awkwardly but sincerely to comfort Bill when he had a breakdown on the curb about his worried complicity in Georgie’s death.

“He was your brother for gosh sakes. If my brother got killed, I’d cry my fuckin head off.”

“Yuh-Yuh-You d-don’t have a buh-brother.”

“Yeah, but if I did.”

“Y-You w-w-would?”

“Course.”

The entire chapter is one of my favorites because Richie – Kid Richie, especially – is terribly sincere and tender-hearted under his Voices and his need to make a spectacle of himself. I could go on for pages about ventriloquism as a metaphor, but we’ll stop there. We’re talking stakes today.

Any scene in which a child comforts his friend during an ugly crying jag is one that tugs on the heartstrings. But in this instance, it tugs a little harder, pulls a little sweeter, because of the elevated stakes. Bill’s not crying because he got grounded, but because his little brother is dead and he lies awake at night worrying it was his fault. A low stakes moment made more poignant by the higher stakes moments that frame it.

High stakes versus low stakes moments are extremely relative, depending on genre and plot. I have such admiration for authors who turn claustrophobic, low-risk family stories into highwire acts that leave you gasping. That’s such an art form: dialing up the tension so your heart races over stories that are daisy chains of slow beats, plays entirely of conversations and kitchen table awkwardness. One day I’d love to be able to write something like that. For now, I keep dragging shootouts and werewolves into the mix. Not because I think that makes my work better; it’s a simple matter of taste. I like the shootouts and werewolves. I like superheroes, and spaceships, and Gothic vampire mansions. I think too often the genres get played against one another, readers and writers alike trying to find moral reasons for their preferences. They’re just preferences. Chocolate, and vanilla, and strawberry. And I often find that I resent when fantasy or sci-fi are seen as not real. As not being about real stuff. “Oh, all those monsters and dragons? Yeah, no. I like books about real stuff.” When I complained that the end of Game of Thrones sucked, someone said, “Ha, I never watched it. It had dragons in it, please.” But the dragons weren’t why the ending sucked: that was down to the producers failing to understand anything about character motivations. When I hated the last Avengers movie and stopped watching all things Marvel after that, someone said, “Those movies were dumb. People don’t have superpowers.” But once again, that wasn’t the point.

All stories are about real stuff. All of them. No matter how wacky. It isn’t about an evil Lovecraftian clown who gobbles children. He’s there, leering at me from the cover of my paperback edition, but the story isn’t about him. It’s about the pain and indignity of growing up; it’s about friendship; about parental abuse, and living through it; it’s about bravery, and sacrifice, and fear, and being brave and sacrificing in the face of that fear. All things that could be told in a more realistic, less fantastic way, sure; but the fantasy is what cloaks the whole of it, raises the stakes up to eleven, and makes those very real moments twice as enjoyable.

Every story I’ve ever written has largely been about the intricacies, failings, and triumphs of family. Sibling relationships, both strong and damaged, parental relationships, romantic relationships. No two the same, and all of them contrasting and complementing. As much as I enjoy the inherent eroticism of vampirism, or the pulse-pounding drama of a good fist fight, all of the fantasy and action elements are window dressing meant to highlight and deepen the character connections. It’s one of the reasons I’m never in a hurry to tell a story quickly. I’m not a plot-driven writer. I’m not rushing to “get to the point.” There’s a war on in the Drake Chronicles, but the books aren’t about the war. A few very twisted members of the FBI are hassling the Lean Dogs in Lord Have Mercy right now, but the book is about Mercy finally coming to grips with his heritage. All the betrayals, the revelations, the kisses, and the love confessions are honed to sharp points thanks to that window dressing. High stakes pointing spotlights on the low stakes.

I’ll let you decide which stakes are actually high and which are actually low. But that balance is essential in storytelling. I’m a slow beat, kitchen table conversation sort of writer, so that’s where all those stakes are focused in my work. Understanding what your tastes and preferences as a reader mean is a huge step in finding an authorial voice in your writing, I believe. You have to think about which stories stick with you the longest and most stubbornly, and then you have to analyze why, and then you can turn those lessons into your own writing mantra and set out to create all those warm fuzzies and shocked gasps for your readers in return.

And while we’re speaking of stakes…I decided I wanted to do a reread of the entire Sons of Rome series. Not skimming or note-checking, but an honest to goodness reread. I queued them all up on my Kindle and started with the preface, and I realized two things. One: I really, really enjoy this series, as a writer, but as a reader, too. Why wouldn’t I? It’s all my favorite things. And two: I want to do a structured readalong, hopefully starting next month. So be on the lookout for that. My aim is to start October 1^st, and do a post a week, moving at a reasonable pace through all four books. I’d love to dive back into work on Lionheart, but I need a refresher first, and I think it’ll be fun if we do that together. I’m always ready to share “director commentary” stuff.

Keep your eyes peeled. I miss my vamps and wolves.