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Last week I discussed why as a writer you want things to go wrong in your story, and illustrated the challenges faced by the characters in Watership Down. This week, I thought I’d review how I kept throwing obstacles at Rob Moore, disrupting his ideal smooth escape to freedom.

The premise is that Rob is a wanted man by a bunch of criminals who want to silence him before he can talk to the authorities. He’s already a person of interest and is expected to be arrested soon. His goal is to flee the country, but in order to do so, he must first stop at his father’s to get something he’ll need before going into exile.

I throw two challenges at Rob right off the bat after he gets what he came for. The first is that the suitcase he was after is a lot heavier than he expected, and the second is that his new ride is farther down the street than the car he rode to his father’s.

I don’t let up though. Rob is already grumbling that it took longer than he’d expected to get the suitcase, hinting at a schedule he needs to keep to. Before he can reach his car, a man starts screaming from a neighboring townhouse. Because Rob is in the process of fleeing the country, he doesn’t want to be spotted outside his home, where he is still believed to be, and spends the rest of the trek to the new ride in fear that he’ll be spotted. As he’s approaching the new vehicle, one of the scoundrels that are after him impedes his path, training a gun on him.

All of this happens in Chapter 2, which is a whopping 2 pages, a chapter whose sole purpose is as follows:

Rob exits Preston’s townhouse carrying a heavy briefcase until he is stopped by gunpoint.

It’s just one event that needs to happen to set up the events in the following chapters, but instead of keeping it dry like the one sentence synopsis I just gave, I try to make it fraught with tension (Rob not wanting to be spotted), throwing hurdles at him during his escape (heavy suitcase, farther distance to travel out in the open) and the sense of a countdown (grumbling that it took too long) until his life is put in danger (being held at gunpoint). All of this is done to spice up the two pages and keep it engaging for the reader.

You tell me, did it work?

Johan hadn’t been so sure he wanted the man to get into the back of his cab. The man had been swaying terribly, even though there wasn’t even the faintest hint of a breeze, and had to steady himself for dear life against his mountain of luggage.

American, Johan thought, when he stared at the cowboy hat the man was wearing.

Gawking at the cowboy hat had been the mistake. The man had noticed him eyeing it and had taken that as his cue to crawl into the backseat, expecting Johan to fetch his bags and cram them into his miniscule trunk.

After tending to the drunk’s bags, Johan settled back behind the wheel only to notice that the man in the cowboy hat was stretched out across the backseat, and was snoring. Johan shouted to get his attention, but it wasn’t until he blew his horn that he got the man to wake up.

It was only after the man offered apologies in Swedish that Johan accepted that he wasn’t American. And it wasn’t until after the man reluctantly sat up, and his cowboy hat fell off, that Johan realized he recognized him.

The drunk’s eyes may have had a glassy look to them, and Johan had never envisioned seeing him with a waterfall of drill spilling down his chin, but his passenger was unmistakably Axel Forsberg.

The man was a celebrity in Sweden. An inspiration to everyone with an entrepreneurial mindset. He’d attained great heights, running the arms company that the U.S. Government renewed contract after contract with to supply the many branches of their armed forces.

Partnering up with Axel Forsberg was like receiving Midas’ touch. Rivaling companies were willing to slit each other’s throats for the chance to attain exclusivity with him. Five years ago, Sweden’s business world marveled at how a startup experienced a meteoric rise from operating out of the founder’s garage to becoming a powerhouse solely off of the deal with Forsberg to supply all his offices in Europe with whatever office supplies they needed.

“Mr. Forsberg,” Johan said, cheerily.  “It’s an honor to have you in my cab.” He still thought his passenger might vomit all over his backseat, but now he almost welcomed it.

If Axel Forsberg ruined the interior of his car, he might be more agreeable to a business partnership as a way of making up for his actions.

“It’s an honor to be in your cab,” Axel said as he picked up his hat and placed it over his eyes, still attempting to get some sleep.

“If I may say so, sir, while I hope this isn’t the last time I can escort you to your destination, I do hope this is the only time I can provide such a service with such a, well, modest means of transportation.”

Johan had been polishing a plan for years to start up his own business. In essence, it would be a cab company, but with a more luxurious feel, catering to wealthy businessmen who wanted to arrive at meetings in style. He’d have a few limousines as well, and hike up the rate to rent them out, but only to steer his customers towards the town cars he would have an easier time financing as he got his business up and running.

Over the past two years, his wife had grown weary of listening to him expound on hos successful the company he was refusing to start would eventually be. He was practically giddy fantasizing about breaking the news that he had struck a deal with THE Axel Forsberg.

“Ah, an entrepreneur,” Axel said, in a tone that was one step above drowsy.

“Yes sir,” Johan said, merrily, believing that they were hitting it off.

“I like talking to entrepreneurs,” Axel said, shifting in the back seat, resting his head against the window. “I love hearing their stories. Tell me, do you have people who don’t believe in you. Who only tell you to quit because all you’ll do is fail?”

“Yes sir,” Johan said, though he withheld sharing that the person who voiced the most doubts was his wife.

My god, he’s asking questions! We’re really delving deep. I might actually strike a deal with him before the end of the trip.

Axel seemed to snore, even though he was awake and talking. “Me too,” he said with a yawn. “Every day I wake up, I remind myself about all the ways I was ‘bound to fail’ if I returned to America.”

“Does it motivate you to wake up every day and prove them wrong?” Johan asked. He waited for the longest time for a response, eyeing his rearview mirror to see if his passenger had fallen asleep. He was about to pose the question again when Axel finally replied.

“It motivates me to keep coming back here. I never miss the chance to look my father in the eye and tell him he was wrong.”

As a writer, you want things to go wrong. In your story.

Having things go wrong in your narrative is one of the best things you can do for your story. New challenges popping up right as your characters think they’re getting out of a tough spot, or better yet, while they’re still dealing with a challenging situation, really adds to the excitement level for the reader, keeping them squirming on the edge of their seats as they keep turning the pages to see if the characters can survive the latest hurdles. It’s like adding the right spice to cook the perfect meal.

As readers, we want to see the characters we’re following overcome the obstacles before them. But make it too easy, and the experience is just…bleh. If every encounter is easily won, what’s going to be memorable about your story?

One of my favorite books, Watership Down, does this constantly (if you haven’t read this novel, do yourself a favor and find a copy of this masterpiece).  The story starts off with its main characters, two rabbits named Hazel and Fiver, living in the Sandleford warren, establishing them to be on the smaller side compared to the other rabbits due to Sandleford’s governance. Fiver, who can experience very accurate premonitions, senses that the fields they live in will grow red, and we the reader understand that construction is set to begin on the field shortly.

As a reader, through Fiver’s premonition, we understand that the story has established a countdown. If Hazel, Fiver, and the rest of the warren are meant to survive, they must abandon Sandleford as quickly as possible. But when they bring Fiver’s vision to the leader of the warren, they are ignored. What’s more, it is believed they’re trying to cause dissent against authority, forcing them to be secretive about how they recruit to escape, as anyone they speak to can turn them in. One of the rabbits they talk to does turn them in, causing the larger rabbits that make up the guard of the warren to ambush them as they try to escape. They’re pursued as they flee, only to find their escape is cut off by a stream too deep for them to scurry across.

This is all just in the opening chapters. With Hazel and Fiver being on the smaller side, and without the protection the numbers of Sandleford provided, being outside the warren is fraught with peril throughout the novel. Richard Adams never passes on the opportunity to make life hard on the rabbits of Watership Down.

The story masterfully weaves obstacle after obstacle the rabbits must overcome to survive, and the dangers they face flow so naturally. Each choice by the characters, whether its Hazel and Fiver, or even the opposing forces they square off against, makes sense and leads to new, logical avenues of conflict, as well as new challenges that arise from the decisions they make. I may not remember everything about this book, but I remember how nervous and excited I felt whenever Hazel  and company had to deal with a new challenge.

So, if your story feels like it’s missing something, go through and see how many times your characters face adversity. Are they constantly being pushed to the brink, or are their sections that feel like it’s a walk in the park for them? If it’s feeling like the latter, start thinking of ways to liven this up a little. Your story will be richer for it.  

Sven had to accept that he wasn’t getting anymore sleep on the flight. He expected there was only had another hour or so before they touched down in Stockholm, so it wasn’t like his whole night was ruined, but he’d been away in America on business for two straight weeks, and his wife was sure to let him have it about how much she’d had to deal with being left alone with their four daughters.

He would’ve preferred having the extra amount of rest before the inevitable fight, but that jackass across the aisle from him in 1B kept hollering if the stewardess made him wait for another drink.

It was amazing. Sven didn’t think the man had slept at all on the flight, even though he seemed to struggle as he drunkenly found his seat when they were first boarding. Sven judged he must’ve had at least another three whisky sours since they’d been in the air, and yet the man in the cowboy hat looked even more alert than when he’d first stumbled onto the plane.

The jerk swiveled the ice around as he spied to see if there was any whisky left. When he determined there wasn’t any, he began to fish out his wallet while he jabbed the service button again and again.

Oh my. He’s going to order another one.

The stewardess, who seemed to have aged a decade since the flight first started, stormed over, grabbed his wrist firmly, and settled it down along the side of his lap.

“Where are we?” he asked. The man seemed to have reached a state of drunkenness in which everything sounded muted to him, because he practically shouted his question at her.

“We’re over Ireland,” she seethed. “Perhaps it’d be best if you took this opportunity to get some—”

“Ireland!” he exclaimed, then winced playfully and giggled as he put his finger to his lips, mocking the stewardess as she did the same. “I love Ireland,” he whispered, practically mouthing the words.

His eyes caught sight of Sven watching him. “Bring a pint of Guinness for me and my friend here. I’m buying.”

“We don’t have pints,” the stewardess replied.

“Well, bring what you have then.”

“It’s a little early for me,” Sven said.

“I’ll have his then.”

“I’ll bring you one,” the stewardess reluctantly conceded before storming off.

The man in the cowboy hat snorted and gave a shrug, content that he was getting served another round. He didn’t seem to notice Sven staring at him.

Sven didn’t mean to gawk, but he couldn’t help study the man. Ignoring the man’s impeccable ability to remain conscious after an overnight, overseas flight filled with heavy drinking, it intrigued him what could possibly be waiting for him when they landed that he needed to drink as much as he was to face it.

The man’s cowboy hat had been pulled down low, obscuring his eyes, but Sven didn’t doubt that they might look a little withdrawn and misty. Sven doubted that it would’ve all been attributed to the drink.

For the first time during the flight, he pitied the man.

Suddenly, facing an angry wife didn’t seem so bad.

I was a little fearful when I reached the point in writing Dig Down that I needed to find an editor. I’d written plenty of stories, most of which I’d never shared with anybody, but all of which I’d worked on by myself. I knew that if I wanted to go the publishing route, I’d need to hire an editor, but I was still a little apprehensive.

Everything I’d ever worked on had my voice because I was the only one who worked on it. But would that still be the case if I shared it with someone?

I’d submitted my manuscript to a consulting agency. There was one editor who’s bio I read who I thought would be a good fit for me, but the agency passed it along to another editor as well in case my top choice passed on the project. This other consultant’s notes were that they were really intrigued by the setup, that my opening avoided the trap of many first time writers by just providing tons of exposition up front….but that a standard novel was between 70 and 80 thousand words, and that because Dig Down was half that, we should work on beefing up the word count.

As I’ve mentioned before, brevity was key to Dig Down. It needed to have that quick pace so that it felt like Rob was constantly in danger. I knew the tradeoff I was making. Focusing on the pursuit left little in the way of character development for all the characters, but it was something I was willing to sacrifice so that I could make the escape is great as I could, believing that this would make the story stand out among the rest of the vast number of reading options out there.

I stared at that message blankly when I read it, thinking “You haven’t even read beyond the first two chapters (what even is that…3, 4 pages?) and you’re already proposing a vast overhaul to the story? You have no idea why those choices were even made, and you’re proposing a change based on the way other books have been written.”

Luckily for me, my first choice also responded later that day. She was also intrigued by the premise and impressed by the first few chapters. There was no suggestion to immediately double the word count because that’s how long most books were. She even outlined her process: reading the story through once to understand what was happening in it and what sort of story I was trying to tell, before reading it a second time to suggest revisions.

This. This was exactly what I needed to feel comfortable working with an editor. This was exactly how I felt the editing process should go. She wasn’t interested in taking my story and stripping away everything that made it mine. She was about finding out the best way to make everything work and still sound like I was telling it. A lot of her comments were about keeping the point of view consistent and pointing out where more of an explanation was necessary because it was confusing, and one thing she kept saying was “I don’t know what the answer to this is, but, that’s your job, to write it.” This always assuaged my fear that my story was being taken away from me and molded into something else.

So if you’re writing a story that you want to publish one day, but are worried that sending it to an editor will change the story you’re trying to tell into something unrecognizable, don’t be. You might get a response similar to the one I got from the first editor, but you’ll know that that one isn’t for you. They’re not trying to take your idea and rewrite it to the point where it’s their book but has your name on the book jacket. They’re doing what they can to make your story as polished and excellent as it can be.

Crystal wanted to knock the hat right off his head. In her fifteen years as an airline stewardess, she’d never had a more obnoxious passenger.

As she’d attended to the other travelers, she stole quick glances of him out of the corner of her eye. She would’ve thought he’d be too bleary-eyed to notice her, but he seemed to catch her every time during the past half hour, glancing over the back of his seat each time she looked over at him. And each time he did, he made a point of tapping his watch. Not to indicate it was luxurious. To let her know he was still keeping time, counting down the “time out” she had essentially given him before she would serve him another drink.

Crystal wished the U.S. Marshal aboard the flight would intervene, but what could they do. He was just being loud. He may’ve been bothering the other passengers, but he was staying in his seat. He wasn’t breaking any rules.

She was handing a blanket to a woman when he began pressing the service button. Only he wasn’t so much pressing it repeatedly as he was stabbing it with his finger.

“Yes?” she asked, testily, as she approached his seat, even though she already knew what he was after.

“It’s been thirty minutes,” he answered with a sly grin, once again showing her his watch.

“I still think you’ve had enough for one flight,” she said through gritted teeth.

“I only had one,” he started to bark before he caught himself and lowered his voice to a quieter tone. She saw some of the passengers sitting behind him in first class spring awake, then glare at the back of his ridiculous hat as they tried desperately to fall back to sleep.

In retrospect, she probably shouldn’t have even served him the one. She had an inkling he’d already had a few at some of the airport bars before boarding, and hadn’t seen the harm in him having one more, possibly needing to take the edge off while flying. She’d thought it would help knock him out, and that he’d sleep across most of the Atlantic. But the whisky sour only seemed to bolster his vitality.

And the volume of his slurred speech.

“Maybe it’d be better if you got some rest,” she suggested, and made a move to fetch him a pillow and a blanket. Then he couldn’t accuse her of being rude to him.

“I ain’t tired,” he said, his voice rising. The passenger next to him flickered their eyelids, and tossed unpleasantly in their sleep.

“Shh!” she hissed at him. “You’ll wake the other passengers.”

“They’ll be the least of yer troubles if you don’t wrassle me up another sour,” he spat back. “Now, I’ll be good and quiet fer ya, if ya do that – make it a double –” he blared this last part, causing some of the nearby passengers to bolt wide awake, only to sneer at him as they fought to drift back to sleep again. He took no notice, continuing in a softer tone. “But if you refuse me, I swear, within an hour – maybe thirty minutes –” he blared again, “you’ll be getting a personal phone call from Mr. Harvey Winthrop. You know who Mr. Winthrop is, don’cha?”

She nodded. And gulped. Mr. Winthrop was the CEO of the airline. He flashed her a serpent’s smile as he tipped his cowboy hat at her. “And he knows me,” he said before he hooted with glee. “Oh, just try me if you don’t believe he knows Axel Forsberg.”