For the Plot

As a writer (and reader), I’m much more intrigued by character development than clever plot twists. Even if the protagonist has been chased by a violent mob, and is clinging by fingernails to a 20^th floor window ledge, I want to know more about what this terrifying predicament is doing to their psyche, than how/if they will be rescued.

But even I acknowledge that something has to happen in the story (maybe several somethings), so I dutifully sprinkle a happening or two into my tales.

So, it seems, it is with my own personal life. Stuff occurs, but there are long stretches when nothing much (at least nothing dramatic) does. I look back through my trusty planner and entire weeks feature the following notations: yoga (Wednesday), essay due to magazine (Friday). Maybe a dentist appointment or oil change for the car. What else of interest has transpired? No adventures great or small. Tried a new recipe maybe. Took a neighborhood walk. Nothing whatsoever that would inspire a breathless fan to turn the page (or even continue reading).

Recently I heard about a popular catchphrase, though, and it speaks to my current situation. The phrase? “For the plot” as in, do something, anything (learn to parasail, enroll in clown college) just because it’ll make your life more interesting. This also applies to the preferred attitude about unexpected calamities. Basement flooded? Goldfish go belly up? Accounts hacked? All good, because it’s all for the plot!

My next step, though, is to determine just what KIND of book I’m plotting here. Cozy mystery? Then I should adopt a cat, take up counted cross-stitch, and discover random bodies in the neighbor’s garden. Romance novel? A bit limited, as I remain happily married, but maybe I could set up a single friend with one of the many (haha) broodingly handsome men of my acquaintance, and then arrange for her to betray him, or be betrayed by him (whichever!) before their satisfying happily-ever-after. Madcap comedy? Joyriding in a “borrowed” country club golf cart, accidentally baking cookies with hot pepper flakes instead of chocolate chips, switching identities with one of my daughters (Wacky Wednesday), and so on.

This all sounds completely exhausting.

Here is a much more manageable version of my memoir:

Wake up, and spend the next two hours analyzing my dream about lizards and Luciano Pavarotti. Wash face, and brood about the new pimple on my nose. Think back on all my previous blemishes, starting at age 10. Drink my coffee, and ponder why anyone on earth ever thought Sanka was a good idea. Applaud myself for my impressive character development: I am phobic about reptilian opera singers, also weirdly obsessed with my skin flaws, and I think I’m a superior being just because I drink Starbucks—fascinating pages of self-examination, and I’ve done basically nothing!

So the next time someone tries to goad me into some ridiculous action “for the plot,” I’ll push them into a patch of poison ivy.

For the plot, of course.