Writing by Numbers 3

by Adrian Glamorgan

There's something about threeness. It's in the little pigs building their dwellings, straw, sticks and stones. It's in the cadence of rhetoric: "I came, I saw, I conquered" from Caesar; "liberty, equality, fraternity," by the citizenry. Three's endemic in the sacred search: "faith, hope and charity," holy trinity and triple goddess; psychology's variations of the id, ego and super-ego, and a favourite of mine, the drama triangle. If triangles give strength to structure, then threes give vigour to writing.

Works typically divide into a beginning, middle and an end. Aristotle's obvious insight about such threefoldness has its uses. The beginning hooks the reader, sets up characters and generates a plot, creating expectations to make it worthwhile to stay on. The end delivers what's been promised, showing a transformation that's taken place. The middle, maps out how this transformation came about, connecting everything. All very tidy, it would seem, done well, and put in the right order.

If your story isn't hanging together, look at threes for structural integrity. The art has a craft. In the case of plot, link up your intro with your outro, to diagnose loose ends, unresolved promises; reshape your middle bit so the transformations therein are of sufficient interest, likelihood and integrity to drive the narrative. It's okay to dangle, if you mean to, but not if you don't.

Threes give you form. This is the panelbeating aspect of writing that the reader ostensibly never knows about, unless it's a reflective postmodernist piece, and the author winks and nods at the reader so we're all in on how our sympathies are being drawn in and carried along. That's fine, too. The craft is in the unspoken conversation between reader, author and writing conventions. Even if you are a rulesbender, and quite disposed towards the cryptofragmentation of narrative, streams of consciousness and collage of plot, dadaist notions of plot development can disrupt your beginning, middle and end, but rely on us knowing about Aristotle's template all the same.

The point of this beginning, middle and end, was the transformation. Aristotle's word for it was "catharsis," or purging, a purifying of the soul. Twentieth century poet and playwright Bertolt Brecht didn't have much time for this approach. He thought it too straightforward, perhaps too spiritual. Better to leave the audience agitated, some emotionshalf-resolved and ready for action on the material plane. All the same, his in-your-face, slow-fuse catharsis works in Mother Courage and Galileo. A good writer can't help it. The beginning, middle and end, and their formative catharsis come in different styles and cadences. Why write, if it is not to feel the movement? Why read, if not to be transported?

Creating presence, absence and promise is part of the dance of story; some kind of compression holds the parts together long enough for them to interact and do their pyrotechnics. In his Poetics Aristotle further discerned another threefoldness: in the unity of time, action and place. Of course, the modern writer can flashback and have as many shards break away as he or she pleases. The attractor in this chaos theory, perhaps, is the reader's implicit attempt to draw some kind of unity from these divided parts.

Trilogies sell. Douglas Adams spilt the beans when he published the fourth Hitchhiker's Guide in his trilogy. Just a thought, in case your publisher's asking.

All the same a writer can't produce for long unless he or she unites head, heart and hands. For head, robust mental clarity, not relentless claret, is recommended. For hands, daily writing builds up the reflex and will to write, according to Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way. Which leaves heart. Too much heart gives cloying, clagging sentiment and supercilious love interest. Too little and you have brutalism. In your own life, and on the page, heart balances out the thinking and doing. Together they help make the best writing life.

We live on one world, but it has been divided into three. The First World describes the rich countries, often democracies. The Second World archaically remembers once communist Russia and its satellites, plus China. The Third World describes the poorest. We write for fun, for business, for pleasure, for meaning, for escape, for recovery. Beyond our easy, troubled lives, are the refugees in Darfur and the slumdwellers of Sao Paulo who pay rent for cardboard boxes. Three worlds can give us a higher context and deeper purpose for why we write. Between heaven and earth is our shared humanity.

Okay, try this:

Use the drama triangle to help generate three characters to drive a plot of any length. Write about someone stuck in being a victim. Next think of an authority figure who abuses their own position, at least in your own imagination. Bring this persecuting character into interaction with your victim. Show the light and dark of both victim and persecutor. Conjure up someone who qualifies as a rescuer. Suitably smuggle them into the plot, intervening between the characters who are persecutor and victim.

Once all this is up and running, introduce an event that flips the persecutor into a victim, and vice-versa. Portray the initial bewilderment and readjustment of the rescuer. Continue, indefinitely, into the tunnel of mirrors until someone takes responsibility.

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