Writer's Corner

Lessons from the Vampire Slayer
By Catherine Mulvany

When my editor suggested I try writing a vampire book (Something Wicked), I started watching the Buffy series as research. You know the kind of research I mean. The I-don’t-want-to-do-this-but-I’ll-grit-my-teeth-and-get-’er-done variety. A big part of my reluctance stemmed from the fact that years ago I’d seen the original movie. I can’t say I hated the film version of Buffy. I can’t say I remember the film version of Buffy. Not in any detail. All I’ve retained is a vague impression of a sort of Southern California Lite version of Stephen King’s Carrie. Clever concept. Cute heroine. Amusing. A little hokey.

The TV series starts out much the same way, but along about Season 3, I became hopelessly addicted. Turns out Buffy, the Vampire Slayer isn’t just a campy monster-of-the-week action show. It’s all about character development, brilliantly delineated by a staff of excellent writers.

So what insights have I gained from watching seven seasons of Buffy on DVD? What have I learned that will help me as a novelist?

Lesson Number One: Don’t be afraid to torture your protagonist.    

Poor Buffy underwent almost every conceivable physical torment, up to and including dying…several times, but it was the mental torment that caused her the most anguish and, I suspect, built the strongest “reader” identification.

In Season 2, for example, she and Angel, the vampire with a soul, finally consummate their love. That one moment of true happiness steals Angel’s soul, and he reverts to a demon, a demon who, as the season progresses, devises increasingly vicious ways to inflict psychological torture on Buffy. At the climax of Buffy and Angel’s final battle, Buffy’s friend Willow manages to restore Angel’s soul. Unfortunately, it’s too late. Angel is no longer a demon, but Buffy must kill him anyway in order to save the world. In a poignant final moment, Buffy kisses Angel, then shoves a sword through his heart and, metaphorically, through her own.

This is very powerful writing with gut emotional appeal. Work a scene with the same level of angst into your book, and you will elicit a powerful reader response.

Lesson Number Two:  End all pivotal scenes with strong hooks.

“At first, Officer Jim Chee had felt foolish sitting on the roof of the house of some total stranger.” –Tony Hillerman, Sacred Clowns

In “Selfless,” an episode from Buffy, Season 7, Willow discovers a frat house full of undergrads who’ve had their hearts ripped out by a giant spider. “Where’s the spider now?” Willow asks the lone coed she finds cowering in a closet. The girl stares in horrified silence as the spider looms into view behind Willow. Scene break.

TV shows are written this way to keep the audience on the edge of their seats throughout a seemingly endless string of commercials, but it’s a trick novelists would do well to emulate. Never give the reader a chance to put the book down; he/she might not pick it up again. The only caveat here is to use finesse. I read a bestseller a few years ago that employed blatant cliffhangers at the end of every chapter. Halfway through the book, I got so irritated that I quit reading. Bottom line, hooks are a great device, but the writer should vary the type and the intensity level to avoid predictability. Be subtle. Be clever. No one wants to feel like a marionette in the hands of klutzy puppeteer.

Lesson Number Three: Give each character an individual voice/unique vocabulary.

If you’re familiar with the Buffy oeuvre, you know that although characters in the same age group tend to use the same slang—for example, “You want to come with?” and “I’ve got the wiggins!”—each character has his or her individual speech patterns. Willow is diffident and intellectual. Xander is a smart-aleck given to long-winded diatribes. Buffy uses a lot of punchy puns and plays on words. Spike tends to be sarcastic, his speech larded with British slang.

This is not like real life, where the speech patterns within any particular social group are fairly homogeneous. Novels aren’t real life; they’re real life with all the boring stuff removed. Think of it this way. A novel is to real life as a diamond is to coal. Same basic elements but transformed. Crystallized.

In novels, a non-visual medium, it’s doubly important to give each character an individual voice. Not only does this technique make it easier for the reader to picture the characters, it adds the spice of variety to your story. Novelist Suzanne Brockmann goes so far as to list her characters’ speech quirks in her pre-writing character sketches. I’m not that organized, but if that trick works for you, use it.

Lesson Number Four: Create secondary plots that echo the primary plot.

In Season 6 of Buffy, Buffy’s friends resurrect her, unaware that by doing so, they are literally ripping her out of heaven. After she’s brought back to life, the world seems alien and hard-edged. She copes by indulging in a violent affair with Spike, a vampire she hates. She uses sex and degradation as a drug to mask her pain. Meanwhile, in a secondary plotline, Buffy’s best friend, Willow, is battling her own sick addiction to dark magic. The parallel plotlines echo and reinforce one another.

Louis Sachar used this technique to good effect in his middle-grade novel Holes. In the primary plot, protagonist Stanley Yelnats is sentenced to eighteen months at Camp Green Lake, a prison camp for juvenile offenders. There he’s befriended by Hector “Zero” Zeroni. In a secondary backstory plotline, Stanley’s great-great-grandfather, Elya, strikes up an unlikely friendship with a crippled gypsy woman known as Madame Zeroni. The two plotlines overlap when Stanley carries Hector up the rock formation known as God’s Thumb in order to save Hector’s life. Stanley not only saves his friend but breaks the Yelnats family curse when he finally fulfills his no-good-dirty-rotten-pig-stealing-great-great-grandfather’s broken promise to Zero’s ancestress, Madame Zeroni

Lesson Number Five: Surprise the audience with twists and reversals. Don’t be predictable.

In the opening scene of the very first episode of Buffy, a pretty blonde girl allows a boy to talk her into making out after hours in the deserted high school. The girl seems nervous and keeps hearing noises, but the boy assures her there’s no one around. Of course, the viewer isn’t convinced that all’s well at Sunnydale High where demons are the rule rather than the exception. The viewer knows darn well that boy is up to no good. The cute little schoolgirl is about to lose more than her virginity.

But Buffy creator Joss Whedon is rarely predictable. Once the boy assures the girl that no one’s there, the delicate little blonde shows her fangs. In a sudden reversal, the presumed predator suddenly becomes the prey.

This technique works beautifully in novels, too, and can double as an end-of-chapter hook. Be cautious about using a reversal just for the shock value, though. Always lay logical groundwork to explain the change, so that on a second read, the reader can see that you played fair, that all the hints were there. For instance, in the Buffy example, upon a second viewing, it’s obvious that the girl is feigning nervousness just to be certain she and her potential snack are truly alone before she attacks.

Remember, a successful reversal isn’t about the writer tricking the reader. It’s about the reader tricking the reader. Successful reversals rely on the readers’ (or viewers’) preconceived notions to mislead them.

Lesson Number Six: Strong moral underpinnings resonate with the audience/readers.

Buffy battles evil. That’s her job, but the morality of the series is much more complex than simple good versus evil. Again and again Buffy and the others must make the hard decisions, choosing to sacrifice what they want for the greater good. It is those gut-wrenching choices, those down-and-dirty decisions that make for powerful drama.

The lesson for novelists is to force protagonists not only to choose good over evil—that’s a no-brainer—but to choose the greater good over the selfish personal desire. Build unbearable dramatic tension by forcing your characters to make impossible choices.

So the next time you’re butting your head against writer’s block, take a Buffy break. Or a fill-in-the-blank-with-the-DVD-of-your-choice break, and see what lessons you can glean from your favorite screenwriter.

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