Exposition

This lesson is about exposition, but the first thing I'm going to mention is a term associated with another aspect of storytelling. The term is plot dump. It refers to that point when story questions have mounted to an insane level, subplots and red herrings and hidden agendas reach a critical point and the story demands that you stop and explain a few things.

In its most obvious (and ineptly handled) form, it's the point at which the two main characters drop everything, face each other, and one says to the other, “As you know, Bob ...”

You know you've seen it. Maybe you're even guilty of it yourself. I certainly am.

In my critiques, I make it a point to identify the plot dump when I see it. There's no way to avoid it; sooner or later, it has to happen.

Like the plot dump, exposition has to happen. Like the plot dump – and plot in general – it's not the exposition itself that causes problems. It's how you get it in there.

Your story demands details. You have to set the scene, establish a tone, create atmosphere. If you're writing a horror story and your first paragraph is a description of a bright summer carnival, is the reader going to figure out what you're up to? The details have to be strong, support your tone, and they have to be relevant. That's exposition.

Sound like a lot to deal with? It's not so bad. In fact, the more you write, the more it becomes second nature.

I'm going to pull some examples from the example short story, so if you get confused, read it before continuing. Things will make a lot more sense.

In Lightning Rod, I wanted to establish immediately that neither Rod Spencer or Mr. Coulomb are really what they seem to be on the surface. I used two different techniques to do this, but both are (hopefully) embedded in the exposition in a way that does not make the reader consciously aware of them.

The first technique is visual or physical description. It's pretty straightforward, but very flexible - you can do a lot more with this than just tell the reader what your guy looks like:

Mr. Coulomb crossed the threshold, hand extended for the introductory handshake. His movements were quick and jerky. His legs brushed against each other, producing a dry crackling sound, like sheets pulled fresh from the dryer. When he shook Spencer’s hand, a tiny, stinging spark passed between them.

Prior to this, he introduced himself as the “electrician.” With that detail in place, the weird physical description becomes more intriguing. Why is he all static-clingy like that? Is this something that just happens to electricians after years of dealing with crossed wires, chewed insulation and shorting fuse boxes?

That takes care of Mr. Coulomb. The second technique is a brief flashback “sparked” by Mr. Coulomb's handshake:

Spencer’s hand jerked back as if he’d been burned with a cigarette lighter. His head filled with visions of a vast cornfield, an enormous black oak tree as its centerpiece. A hot blue flash bleached the vision. Spencer blinked.

Why the heck is Spencer seeing a cornfield and a big tree after touching this guy? This is what I mean when I talk about crafting in these lessons. You manipulate the narrative to produce these questions, and then you answer them. This is all about control, so it's definitely not a first draft activity. This scene went through fifteen or twenty drafts before I felt I had it right. Most of the fine-tuning involved the exposition.

Spencer's vision of the tree and the cornfield is the main story question – the big one. When Spencer gets the answer, his life will change forever. Plant the big question early in the story and then don't fully answer it until the end. Curiosity will pull your reader through the story.

While you don't provide all the answers until the end, you need to leave a trail of breadcrumbs along the way, or your reader will either a) lose interest or b) get tangled up in details and forget what the question was.

Spencer's vision of the cornfield finishes at the top of page two. About halfway down page five, Mr. Coulomb tells Spencer about a man he knows who experienced some unusual things. Spencer remembers the cornfield again – this time with an additional detail:

Spencer closed his eyes and saw the grain again. The spidery oak, branches fanning out toward heaven. His left eye twitched. He’d had the twitch for a long time. It came and went.

Now, through context, we learn that there is some relationship between Mr. Coulomb and what happened to Spencer in the cornfield. Mr. Coulomb is obviously talking about Spencer himself. This paragraph introduces two new questions: how do these two know each other? And why does Spencer's left eye twitch?

These questions are introduced at the story's midpoint. One refers to new information that spins the plot in a new direction. New information must be added to a story at each significant plot point - particularly in the final third of your story. A lot of people reach the beginning of the last part (known as Act III if you're a screenwriter) and just run the character to the finish line. As long as the story continues, you must build new information into the narrative. The story has to progress.

Exposition is the timed release of just enough information to keep the reader curious. I've received plenty of stories for Spacesuits and Sixguns that tell the entire story as summary in the first couple of pages. If I was interested in the narrative, my curiosity was satisfied after reading those pages, and there was no reason to read further.

More often, this method of exposition was dramatically disappointing, and I rejected the story because I wasn't interested at all – because all the story questions had been answered for me. Storytelling is teasing, leading the reader on, giving just enough to whet the appetite. Like the plot dump, the exposition dump is the antithesis of the tease. It's like giving your whole life story on a first date. Do that, and there probably won't be a second.

Keep the sense of mystery alive - and keep the guessing game going for as long as possible.