Mechanics & Plot in writing

I pick up this from my note:- Mechanics is the term we use to describe the technical aspects of writing, such as spelling, punctuation, capitalization, etc.  Many fiction writers would say that mechanics are not the most important part of writing.  They come second to other elements such as a good storyline, well-developed characters, and so on.  However, mechanics are still very important.  If your story is not mechanically well-written, many educated readers will not even bother to read it, either because it’s too hard for them to figure out what you’re trying to say, or they just assume the story won’t be good because it doesn’t appear to be well-written.  Despite the phrase “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” appearance matters.  If your story doesn’t look worth reading, people may not read it.  Good mechanics make a story easy to read, and that will attract more readers.

 

This is based on me:- when we started to write, it’s really hard to write first word. I always face the same problem when it comes to first word in a first paragraph or chapter. Plot plays an important role in our stories. If we want to write about something, we will need to have knowledge of the subject area. This is known as idealisation. Then we will need to be able to formulate sentences to express this knowledge and information that we has. The ideas will need to be planned and arranged in a connected way to enable the reader to understand clearly what is being written. Here, I jot some notes from the book and put some examples from the novels that I had read. It’s really helpful, hope that it can help you too. Good luck! 

 HOW TO WRITE A PLOT?

 

1. What conflict is there in the novel? What is the basis for the conflict? What does the main character want? Does he get it?
2.   How does the story create suspense? When is your curiosity aroused about? What is going to happen? When is this curiosity satisfied?
   -          In the opening paragraphs of a good story, you begin to wonder what is going to happen. In stories of adventure or a mystery, the suspense is particularly intense. You read eagerly to discover ‘what next?'
3. How does the story depend on a cause-and-effect relation between the scenes or incidents? How do the events in the early part of the story cause the main event? Plot shows the cause-and-effect relationship between character and event, or between one event and another. In a story, early incidents prepare you for later events; each detail is devoted to showing why the main event can happen. One incident leads to-causes-the next
4. Out of all the possible details which make up life, what details has the author included in the story? Of more importance, what details about his subject has he left out?
   -          In a good story, every detail- the way a character looks, what he does, says or thinks, the objects around him contributes to the plot of the story. The author obviously cannot include every factual or imaginary detail relating to an incident or a character. He must choose those details which best produce the effect he wants and which best support or illustrate what he is saying in the main action of the story. And he must omit any details which do not contribute directly to his purpose.
   
   
   For example:
   
   
   Once, as he ran his fingers over the keys, shaking his head when the chords gave him no pleasure, he felt the change in the air. The faintest shimmer of movement and sound. But when he looked up, there was nothing but his little parlor and the empty doorway leading to the hall.
   
   
   "I know you're here." He said it softly, waited. But nothing spoke to him. "What is it you want me to know?”
   
   
   Pg.50. Tears of the moon. Nora Roberts.
   
   
   In the next driveway, a boy and girl were playing hopscotch. I walked by children playing in every garden, yet none of them saw me or invited me to play. People on bicycles and skateboards, and remote-controlled cars were whizzing by, oblivious to me. I was beginning to think that coming to Fuchsia Lane was a bit of a mistake, which was rather confusing because usually I was so good at choosing places and there were so many children here. I sat down on the garden wall of the last house and began to think about where I could have taken a wrong turn.
   
   
   Pg.23. If you could see me now. Cecilia Ahern
    
5.   How many scenes are in the story? Where does the author state the transitions between them? where does each begin and end? What is the purpose of each scene? Of each incident?
   -      Just as the author chooses details from experience which contribute most to the plot, he also chooses scenes which show most effectively the relationship between character and events. Each scene and each incident contributes to your understanding of what happens by preparing you for the outcome of the conflict, or by showing you what a character is like, or by explaining what has happened earlier, or by developing the action of the story.
   
   
6. What is the high point in the action, the climax, the turning point in the action?
   -          At the climax of the story the outcome of the conflict is decided; who (or what) will win the struggle is determined. You are usually emotionally involved in what is happening, and your suspense is greatest at this point. The conflict, the suspense, the scenes and incidents have been building to the climax point.
   Example :
   He glanced toward her bedside table. Her phone was there—she probably took messages now and then—but he didn’t see either a pen or pad. He opened the drawer, rifled through it, and found a ballpoint near the front. Looking for some paper, he continued shuffling—through magazines, a couple of paperback books, some empty jewelry boxes—when something familiar caught his eye.
   A sailing ship.
   It was on a piece of paper, wedged between a slim Day-Timer and an old copy of Ladies’ Home Journal. He reached for it, assuming it was one of the letters he’d written to her over the last couple of months, then suddenly froze.
   How could that be?
   The stationery had been a gift from Catherine, and he used it only when he wrote to her. His letters to Theresa had been written on different paper, something he’d picked up at the store. He found himself holding his breath. He quickly made room in the drawer, removing the magazine and gently lifted out, not one, but five—five!—pieces of the stationery. Still confused, he blinked hard before glancing at the first page, and there, in his scrawl, were the words:
   My Dearest Catherine . . .
   Oh, my God. He turned to the second page, a photocopy.
   My Darling Catherine . . .
   The next letter.
   Dear Catherine . . .
   “What is this,” he muttered, unable to believe what he was seeing. “It can’t be—” He looked over the pages again just to make sure.
   But it was true. One was real, two were copies, but they were his letters, the letters he had written to Catherine. The letters he had written after his dreams, the letters he dropped from Happenstance and never expected to see again.
   On impulse he began to read them, and with each word, each phrase, he felt his emotions rushing to the surface, coming at him all at once. The dreams, his memories, his loss, the anguish. He stopped. His mouth went dry as he pressed his lips together. Instead of reading any more, he simply stared at them in shock. He barely heard the front door open and then close. Theresa called out,
   “Garrett, I’m back.” She paused, and he could hear her walking through the apartment. Then,
   “Where are you?”
   He didn’t answer. He couldn’t do anything but try to grasp how this had happened. How could she have them? They were his letters . . . his personal letters. The letters to his wife. Letters that were no one else’s business. Theresa stepped into the room and looked at him. Though he didn’t know it, his face was pale,
   his knuckles white as they gripped the pages he held.
   “Are you okay?” she asked, not realizing what was in his hands.
   For a moment, it was as if he hadn’t heard her. Then, looking up slowly, he glared at her. Startled, she almost spoke again. But she didn’t. Like a wave, everything hit her at the same time —the open drawer, the papers in his hand, the expression on his face—and she knew immediately what had happened.
   “Garrett . . . I can explain,” she said quickly, quietly. He didn’t seem to hear her.
   “My letters . . . ,” he whispered. He looked at her, a mixture of confusion and rage.
   “I . . .”
   “How did you get my letters?” he demanded, the sound of his voice making her flinch.
   “I found one washed up at the beach and—”
   He cut her off. “You found it?”
   She nodded, trying to explain. “When I was at the Cape. I was jogging and I came across the bottle. . . .”
   He glanced at the first page, the only original letter. It was the one he had written earlier that year.
   But the others . . .
   “What about these?” he asked, holding up the copies. “Where did they come from?”
   Theresa answered softly. “They were sent to me.”
   “By whom?” Confused, he rose from the bed.
   She took a step toward him, holding out her hand. “By other people who’d found them. One of the people read my column. . . .”
   “You published my letter?” He sounded as if he’d just been hit in the stomach.
   She didn’t answer for a moment. “I didn’t know . . . ,” she began.
   “You didn’t know what?” he said loudly, the hurt evident in his tone. “That it was wrong to do that? That this wasn’t something that I wanted the world to see?”
   “It was washed up on the beach—you had to know someone would find it,” she said quickly. “I didn’t use your names.”
    “But you put it in the paper. . . .” He trailed off in disbelief.
   “Garrett . . . I—”
   “Don’t,” he said angrily. Again he glanced at the letters, then looked back at her, as if he were seeing her for the first time. “You lied to me,” he said, almost as if it were a revelation.
   “I didn’t lie. . . .”
   He wasn’t listening. “You lied to me,” he repeated, as if to himself. “And you came to find me. Why? So you could write another column. Is that what this is about?”
   “No . . . it isn’t like that at all. . . .”
   “Then what was it?”
   “After reading your letters, I . . . I wanted to meet you.”
   He didn’t understand what she was saying. He kept looking from the letters to her and back again. His expression was pained.
   “You lied to me,” he said for the third time. “You used me.”
   “I didn’t. . . .”
   “Yes, you did!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the room. Remembering Catherine, he held the letters out in front of him, as if Theresa had never seen them before. “These were mine—my feelings, my thoughts, my way of dealing with the loss of my wife. Mine—not yours.”
   “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
   He stared hard at her without saying anything. His jaw muscles tensed.
   “This whole thing is a sham, isn’t it,” he said finally, not waiting for her to answer. “You took my feelings for Catherine and tried to manipulate them into something you wanted. You thought that because I loved Catherine, I would love you, too, didn’t you?” Despite herself, she paled. She felt suddenly incapable of speech.
   “You planned all this from the beginning, didn’t you?” He paused again, running his free hand through his hair. When he spoke, his voice began to crack. “The whole thing was set up—”
   He seemed dazed for a moment, and she reached out to him.
   “Garrett—yes, I admit I wanted to meet you. The letters were so beautiful—I wanted to see what kind of person writes like that. But I didn’t know where it would lead, I didn’t plan on anything after that.” She took his hand. “I love you, Garrett. You’ve got to believe me.”
   When she finished speaking, he pulled his hand free and moved away.
   “What kind of person are you?”
   The comment stung, and she responded defensively, “It’s not what you think. . . .”
   Garrett pressed on, oblivious of her response. “You got caught up in some weird fantasy. . . .”
   That was too much. “Stop it, Garrett!” she cried angrily, hurt by his words. “You didn’t listen to anything I said!” As she shouted, she felt tears welling up in her eyes.
   “Why should I listen? You’ve been lying to me ever since I’ve known you.”
   “I didn’t lie! I just never told you about the letters!”
   “Because you knew it was wrong!”
   “No—because I knew you wouldn’t understand,” she said, trying to regain her composure.
   “I understand all right. I understand what kind of person you are!”
   Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be like this.”
   “Be like what? Mad? Hurt? I just found out this whole thing was a charade, and now you want me to stop?”
   “Shut up!” she shouted back, her anger suddenly rising to the surface.
   He seemed stunned by her words, and he stared at her without speaking. Finally, with breaking voice, he held out the letters again.
   “You think you understand what Catherine and I had together, but you don’t. No matter how many letters you read—no matter how well you know me—you’ll never understand. What she and I had was real. It was real, and she was real. . . . ”
   He paused, collecting his thoughts, regarding her as if she were a stranger. Then, stiffening, he said something that hurt her worse than anything he’d said so far.
   “We’ve never even come close to what Catherine and I had.”
   He didn’t wait for a response. Instead he walked past her, toward his suitcase. After throwing
   everything inside, he zipped it quickly. For a moment she thought to stop him, but his comment had left her reeling. He stood, lifting his bag. “These,” he said, holding the letters, “are mine, and I’m taking them with me.”
   Suddenly realizing what he intended to do, she asked, “Why are you leaving?”
   He stared at her. “I don’t even know who you are.”
   Without another word, he turned around and strode through the living room and out the door
   
   
   p.g 150-153. Message in a bottle. Nicholas Sparks
     
   
   
   Reference:
   
   
   William Eller, Ruth E. Reeves & Edward J. Gordon. 1964. The study of literature. Gin and company.