Someone has to die for it to be a good story. But what if I do not want to kill anyone. What if the characters I create are not meant to be sacrificed at the altar of the story’s supposed greatness. What’s the way out?
Why not kill the story itself? Let me build this story’s end within itself. Let’s brew a murder that will achieve sweet fulfilment in the very inevitability of every story’s destiny; the end.
For every murder, there has to be a plot. So does every story need one. In this strange pun, let’s weave in the swirls and twirls of the happenings that will lead to this story’s end. Let’s cook up a character who walks the pages, and slips between folds, who hides behind serifs, and seduces ellipses effortlessly. Let’s write up a character who is beyond the power of the author, of words, of the story itself. Let him be a shadow that needs no wall, no light, no being… just pure essence. Let him be the beginning of the end.
Feel the story quaver already? What next? For the plot to be executed, there has to be a motive. Why would the character want to do the story in? Perhaps the story plans to knock him off. Perhaps there’s glory and power in bringing down the world that limits him and threatens to knock him off with a heavy exclamation. Perhaps the character is a sequel killer, lurking in the twists of many a story, responsible in secret for many an untimely finale. No. Our character goes beyond such petty clichés. His motive is art in itself. The sheer poetic justice of doing unto the doer what is due to him. Doesn’t make sense? Wait, dear reader. The end will reveal more than the inevitable chalk outline.
The story does not give in so easily. It resorts to its most dastardly trick, the twisted tale. It ushers in a series of events that cripples the character, challenges his very essence. It changes the rules, gives birth to deadly new predators, and even shatters the fourth wall. As the debris comes crashing down, I shudder at the implication. Has my perfect murderer been mowed down by the sheer scale of events, by the complete disintegration of the world around him?
I realize I’m not alone in my horrified fascination. The story watches too, gasping at the damage it has wreaked on itself in its hunger to root out its doom. I quell my distaste at sharing a moment with my adversary as I wait for the dust to settle. It eventually does. I see a chasm has opened up. And on the edge is a pair of hands that hang on doggedly. A powerful heave of metaphorical shoulders reveals my character hoisting himself up. Wiping streaks of tattered sub-plots from his grim visage, he pulls out a board, and plugs it in right over the chasm. PLOT HOLE, the board announces. The story and I gasp, horror and wonder melded together in one sound. The story overreached and laid itself open in its quest to vanquish its hunter. Alas! Its end was written within itself. And right then and there, everything vanishes into the void. Not even a measly Fin remains.
I burst into applause, that quickly peters out. I see him standing in front of the void. He is not done cleaning up the mess. The story is done with. The author remains. No, I cannot...
Cogito Ergo Finito
Why not kill the story itself? Let me build this story’s end within itself. Let’s brew a murder that will achieve sweet fulfilment in the very inevitability of every story’s destiny; the end.
For every murder, there has to be a plot. So does every story need one. In this strange pun, let’s weave in the swirls and twirls of the happenings that will lead to this story’s end. Let’s cook up a character who walks the pages, and slips between folds, who hides behind serifs, and seduces ellipses effortlessly. Let’s write up a character who is beyond the power of the author, of words, of the story itself. Let him be a shadow that needs no wall, no light, no being… just pure essence. Let him be the beginning of the end.
Feel the story quaver already? What next? For the plot to be executed, there has to be a motive. Why would the character want to do the story in? Perhaps the story plans to knock him off. Perhaps there’s glory and power in bringing down the world that limits him and threatens to knock him off with a heavy exclamation. Perhaps the character is a sequel killer, lurking in the twists of many a story, responsible in secret for many an untimely finale. No. Our character goes beyond such petty clichés. His motive is art in itself. The sheer poetic justice of doing unto the doer what is due to him. Doesn’t make sense? Wait, dear reader. The end will reveal more than the inevitable chalk outline.
The story does not give in so easily. It resorts to its most dastardly trick, the twisted tale. It ushers in a series of events that cripples the character, challenges his very essence. It changes the rules, gives birth to deadly new predators, and even shatters the fourth wall. As the debris comes crashing down, I shudder at the implication. Has my perfect murderer been mowed down by the sheer scale of events, by the complete disintegration of the world around him?
I realize I’m not alone in my horrified fascination. The story watches too, gasping at the damage it has wreaked on itself in its hunger to root out its doom. I quell my distaste at sharing a moment with my adversary as I wait for the dust to settle. It eventually does. I see a chasm has opened up. And on the edge is a pair of hands that hang on doggedly. A powerful heave of metaphorical shoulders reveals my character hoisting himself up. Wiping streaks of tattered sub-plots from his grim visage, he pulls out a board, and plugs it in right over the chasm. PLOT HOLE, the board announces. The story and I gasp, horror and wonder melded together in one sound. The story overreached and laid itself open in its quest to vanquish its hunter. Alas! Its end was written within itself. And right then and there, everything vanishes into the void. Not even a measly Fin remains.
I burst into applause, that quickly peters out. I see him standing in front of the void. He is not done cleaning up the mess. The story is done with. The author remains. No, I cannot...
Cogito Ergo Finito
No comments:
Post a Comment