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The Arc of Narrative
August is almost over; the forecast shows the latest wave of hazy-hot-humid letting go of us in Vermont on Friday. And I have a lot to do, when that change of weather happens.
But the saying “I’m a human being, not a human doing” is on my mind right now. And I know the past five years have reshaped me in ways I never dreamed of: two-plus years walking with my beloved through his final illness, two years coming to terms with his absence (and letting go of “stuff”), and six months of building a new home.
It’s tempting to put the positives mostly into that final six months. To see it as creative and hard-working (my belt notch changed too). To credit it with the start of who I am on this summer-almost-autumn day.
But that would ignore the Arc of Narrative.
The point of the Arc is that a good story has events, suspense, drama — in short, moments of possibility, and choices made that create or confirm big changes — all the way along. Almost nobody among today’s ravenous readers would bite into a story if the first half was bland. If nothing happened.
So the Arc, on paper, becomes an action plan. “Show, don’t tell.” The character’s actions set up the courage, or daring, or weaknesses, from the first chapter onward. So when, in my recently published novel This Ardent Flame, Alice Sanborn tucks up her skirt and…
