I should have seen it coming: I was writing two books instead of one. Or, how to determine what your story needs

I was about 54,000 words into my manuscript when I could no longer ignore this dreadful, gnawing pit ravaging my stomach. Everything was wrong. I wasn’t writing one novel like I had envisioned. I was writing two. Two really bad ones, and I was forcing them together.

The only thing I was effectively accomplishing was mashing these two halves into a sloppy gruel instead of giving either of them room to cook.

And I should have realized this 20,000 words ago.

So why didn’t I?

What the hell was I thinking?

This was my vision: three best friends—broken apart by forces outside their control, by growing up, by discovering new identities—reuniting in circumstances that not only cement why they have broken apart, but fray the nostalgic threads that once kept them together, now ready to snap.

Book 1 was supposed to be about Riza and Laurio. In my ambitious attempt, you would have seen their upbringing in the village together, as well as Laurio’s time at the university (cue the red flag here).

The plot would be cut into three ingredients:

• The present day.

• Riza’s flashbacks in the village.

• Laurio’s flashbacks at the university.

But there was an issue. I saw it coming but I ignored it.

Already I knew this was going to be a long book. Already I was anxious about how I could pull this off. Already I knew that there were significant chasms between Riza and Laurio’s stories—

But. But I thought I could make it work (those of you more wise than me would be shaking your damn heads right about now).

Laurio’s side of the story became a mass. It grew. And grew. It grew so much that it alone overtook more than half the manuscript at the time. There were so many questions to answer: Who were his new friends? What were their stories? How do I expand on this drug epidemic gripping the university? How do I incorporate the dictatorship’s influence and profit from this drug culture?

I stuck to my vision and hammered on the keyboard (shake your head at my shameful face right now). I thought to myself: if I could transform his experiences at university into vignettes (shake it now!!), I could pull it off.

Silly me.

It only took thirteen vignettes for it to overwhelm Riza’s story entirely, dwarfing her into a whisper in a stadium where everyone else was whooping. It became his story when it shouldn’t have been. The story needed to be hers first.

Fuck.

So you wrote a multiple-POV story. If George R. R. Martin pulled that off, you can, too.

Not quite.

There are two (2) major reasons why it worked for A Song of Ice and Fire and not for my book:

• Cohesion

• Consequence

Cohesion is the broader term, which goes over a span of several factors such a similar themes (or foiled themes) that flare up with each character, and it all naturally concludes at one focal point of the story. In A Song of Ice and Fire, that focal point is the Iron Throne. Whether Dany sits on a foreign throne across the Narrow Sea, or Jon Snow is discovering what lies North of the Wall, all scenarios excavated the central question: what does this mean to the one who is sitting on the Iron Throne? And how does this affect everyone else?

Consequence in a story refers to action begetting reaction. Matt Stone and Trey Parker, the creators of South Park, said it best at a presentation at NYU:

“I sort of call it the rule of replacing 'ands' with either 'buts' or 'therefores.' It's always like 'this happens, and then this happens, and then this happens.' Whenever I can I go back to my writing and change that to 'this happens, therefore this happens, but this happens.' Whenever you can go back and change your 'ands' with 'buts' or 'therefores,' it makes for better writing.”

In other words, when you’re writing multiple perspectives, the actions of one character should have reverberations on another, even across oceans. What threatens the Iron Throne threatens Daenerys and her aim to reclaim it. It threatens the Lannister’s directly as they fight to keep it. It threatens the remaining Stark survivors as it changes what it means to stay alive. Everyone is playing on the same chess board.

What I wrote were two separate worlds that went in different directions. Sure—these two halves will eventually affect each other and find a similar focal point, but during the stage I was at with the book, they wouldn’t just yet. What happened at the university did not affect what happened at the village. Not until what I had planned for Book 2.

Therefore, I didn’t hit either of those landmarks. Which meant I didn’t have the justification to write them in one singular novel.

Conclusion: So then how the hell do you know if you could pull off multiple POVs in one book, or give each character their own separate books?

Ask yourself these major questions:

1) Why?

Not all stories need multiple perspectives to begin with. Outside of just “enriching the story with character development,” each perspective needs to take at least one step forward in the plot. If you find that switching characters bogs the story down with too much backstory and not enough forward momentum, it might be time to do some rework.

2) Is there an element that ties the perspectives together?

Think about Victoria Schwab’s The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue. Addie and Henry are closely tied not only through their romantic connection to each other but their fateful connection to Luc. It only took one book to explore that, not a series. If your multiple POVs don’t actually share similar aspects like foiled or shared themes, parallel plot/character progression, or even a central villain (among other things, this is just a start), then you may have to rethink some your plan.

3) Are your characters creating consequences or future consequences for the others?

If they are not, it’s seriously time to redo your strategy, since consequence will be the most compelling way to progress your plot. Remember: your characters are playing the same chess game. While serving consequence is a must for any singular plot, it’s especially necessary if you’re going to interrupt your narrative and switch gears.

If you find that you’re not hitting these landmarks, don’t sweat it. It’s called “Kill your babies”* for a reason.

Bonus question: Should I give my cut multiple POVs books of their own?

Short answer: Only if the information pulled from their perspective is necessary for the overall story. Necessary. Key Word.

Long answer: A novel is comprised of basic elements: an inciting incident, rising action, climax, falling action, and resolution. Even in the course of a series, each novel will need to follow this same structure. The information provided by the side character’s perspective will need to both be necessary and have an arc of its own to justify a full novel.

Thankfully, I could answer that last question with a “yes.”

While it hurt to kill and bury a vision I had, the moment I took this book to the guillotine, the wounds had healed. The story is simpler, cleaner, and more effective this way. Plus, I get the added perk of shrouding Laurio’s behavior in mystery while we await a companion novel. Readers can then engorge themselves into some delicious dramatic irony (not an element that most people mention as a favorite, but I live for it).

Take it from me. Next time something doesn’t sit right with you, trust your gut.

*It’s supposed to be “Kill your darlings” but my Southern Gothic professors referred it to babies and it stuck with me ever since.