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The Active Ingredient

I knew what you were thinking, not because I read your mind, but because I know how people work and how stories work. I led you there—with story. I gave you an experience that hooked you in. Something you can learn to do every time by mastering the story craft.

Fine, so far, but where do we go from here? We left me standing there, watching my wife talking to Larry. What's next? Well, I've raised your expectations, so I have to give you what you want—or something better. Let's go with the kiss.

My wife says something. Larry laughs, opening his arms. They embrace and have a nice long kiss.

What now? She kisses Larry. End of story. Yes? No? Why not? I'm sure you know in your heart, it's not over. Your heart is a good guide. It might be enough for an obvious example like this—might be. But when it's not obvious, when it gets subtle and tricky, when you get lost, it's never enough. To be a successful storyteller, you have to know in story terms, why it's not over. So, what has to happen to complete this story, to give it a bang-up ending? How about this:

I figure, "Heck with it. What do I care? Everybody cheats. Look at Clinton." Then I go in, we have a nice dinner, pledge our friendship to Larry, and wind up good friends just like before.

A satisfying ending? Maybe the characters are satisfied, but we are not and no reader will be either. All right. If this story is going to hold someone, I have to care, to feel betrayed, and go in and do something about it. Stories are about doing, always. It could go like this:

"Hi, guys," I say happily as I come in. "Here's the smokes."

They thank me and both light up. Larry pours himself some scotch.

"How'd it go while I was gone?" I say, flopping into a kitchen chair.

"Fine," my wife says.

"How about you, Lar? Enjoy yourself in my absence?"

He glances at my wife. "I did," he says.

"Good. I was worried you might get lonely. But when I saw you through the window, I could see you didn't need me to entertain you."

"Well," Larry says. "We both missed you and we're glad you're back."

"That's right, honey," my wife says. "It's not the same without you."

"Of course not," I say. "Say, hand me the butcher knife, darling."

"Butcher knife, what for?"

"No reason. I just feel like holding it."

"Don't be silly," she says.

"No, really. Indulge me." "Will you stop," she says.

"Stop what? You don't trust me with a knife? What is this: No sharp objects for the lunatic?"

"Very funny," she says.

Larry stares at me, smiling weakly.

"Afraid I'll hurt myself — slit my wrists — or my throat? What do you think, Lar? Can I be trusted with a knife in my own kitchen with my best friend and my loyal wife?"

"Of course, you can," Larry says flatly, then downs his scotch.

"Damn right. Hear that, angel? Larry trusts me. He trusts you. We all trust each other. So pass me the knife, sweets."

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