“So are Ash and Skye going to get together or what?” my mom demanded after reading the latest installment of my Syzygy series.
I stifled a groan. “Do you think I’m that predictable?”
“No, I just know you.”
Meaning she knows I’m a total sucker for a good ship. Since Sesame Street, romantic subplots in stories have fascinated me. I’ve endured tedious book series and shark-jumping television shows just to find out if two characters finally get together. The obsession taught me that all the twists, turns, and heartbreaks that keep us turning pages derive from a few fundamental constructs. Let’s strip down these romantic subplots—we’ll call them loveplots—and see what makes them tick.
“Speak low, if you speak love.”
Loveplots don’t necessarily mean you’re writing a romance novel. In a dedicated romance, the love story is the plot. The protagonist’s primary arc concerns the development and ultimate attainment of a relationship: a love quest. Readers never suffer any real doubt that the characters will get together. Loveplots, conversely, thrive on doubt. Because they functions as a secondary thread to the core narrative, the characters don’t necessarily have to get together for the story to resolve. Like a flirtatious lover, loveplots tease but guarantee nothing. This tantalizing question of “will they or won’t they?” is the magic ingredient that makes them loveplots compelling for readers and writers alike. As Oscar Wilde observes in The Importance of Being Earnest, “the very essence of romance is uncertainty.”
There’s an easy way to determine which category a book represents. Imagine the story without the relationship. Does it still function as a narrative? Remove the central relationship from any Harlequin paperback and there’s not much left. Compare that to my debut novel Blue Karma. If the romance between two of the protagonists disappeared, we’d still have the journey of three young adults fighting for survival and justice in an environmentally ravaged world. Threads of romance add dimension, interest, and character, but the basic story structure remains independent.
“For which of my bad parts did thou first fall in love with me?”
Just as there are archetypal characters and tales, there are archetypal loveplots. Flick around prime-time TV some evening and you’ll spot several of them. (My particular favorites are crime dramas in which investigative partners make eyes at each other over body bags for season after season. I’m a sucker for the slow burn.) Three common motifs appear time and again, a trinity of shipping structures I call the “Love Triangle”:
- Unrequited Love. The protagonist’s heart is fixed on a seemingly unattainable love interest. Sometimes this works in reverse, with another character who worships your protagonist. In either case, the smitten one must prove their worthiness to their chosen partner. Their emotional journey resolves when they either get the guy/girl/whomever or mature beyond that particular desire. Example: Katniss and Peeta in The Hunger Games.
- Opposites Attract. My personal favorite. Sparks fly from the moment two characters meet, lighting up every scene. Being drastically different personalities (or occasionally the reverse, far too much alike) they bicker incessantly and may even profess dislike of one another. But they just can’t sublimate their magnetism. Resolution occurs in two stages: the characters admit the attraction to themselves and at last to each other, usually after some growth and pride-swallowing from both parties. Example: Hermione and Ron in the Harry Potter series.
- Mutual Interest Obstructed. Characters may fancy one another when the story starts, or they can arrive at this point from one of the other two setups. These two want to get together, but something stands between them and their happily ever after. It might be an external barrier (physical distance, belonging to feuding clans, etc) inner conflict (such as the protagonist’s belief that a relationship would endanger his/her loved one) or a combination of the two. Only by defeating both the plot impediments and their own insecurities can these two finally embrace without fear. Example: Ellie and Everett in my fellow indie author Anela Deen’s Insurrection serial.
Each of the three structures can function on its own, or forms #1 and #2 can evolve into form #3. Let’s go back to The Hunger Games example. Katniss and Peeta begin as Unrequited Love—he’s nursed a crush on her for years, but she’s too focused on survival to respond with much enthusiasm. By the end of book two, she realizes how much she’s come to care for him, just as the antagonist’s forces take him hostage. The subplot shifts to Mutual Interest Obstructed, as Peeta’s imprisonment and the psychological damage he sustains, threaten to destroy the pair’s relationship.
“Time goes on crutches ’till love has all his rites.”
Like besotted hearts beating in rhythm, loveplots typically mirror the progression of the larger story, with significant relationship developments corresponding to major plot points. Thus the resolution of the relationship becomes inextricably tied to the main conflict. If we superimpose a loveplot on the classic plot diagram, you’ll see what I mean:
The Harry Potter series gives us a nice example of how this works. Ginny Weasley first spots Harry Potter as he boards the Hogwarts Express to begin his magical studies (inciting event). Over the next several books, their connection slowly develops: Harry saves Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets; she evolves into a spirited supporting character who fights alongside him in the Department of Mysteries (rising action). Harry finally reciprocates her crush and they start dating, but when Death Eaters infiltrate the sanctuary of their school, Harry realizes their relationship will make Ginny a target for Voldemort (crisis). (See how their loveplot structure shifts from Unrequited Love to Mutual Interest Obstructed?) Harry must defeat the Dark Lord before he and Ginny can be together (climax). With destiny fulfilled and the wizarding world safe from evil, Harry and Ginny eventually marry and have a family of their own (denouement).
“Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.”
Is that all it takes to write a loveplot? Not quite. Like any other relationship, it needs the right people to make it work. Years ago, a savvy friend advised me on what to look for in a relationship. “You need to be like peanut butter and jelly,” she analogized. “Delicious on their own, but together they are absolutely awesome.” When I started dating my Laddie a short while later, I realized what my friend meant. We’re not each other’s appendages, but independent entities who complement each other magnificently and bring out the best in one another. This “PBJ principle” is crucial to a good loveplot. Craft strong characters, then employ these classic techniques to bring them “into a mountain of affection, th’ one with th’ other” and keep even the most jaded reader up past their bedtime!