Studying English Literature at school has left me with rising anxiety whenever I encounter the terms irony, sarcasm, satire and paradox. Can I tell the difference? Does it matter? Resources permeate the internet (see Masterclass, Literary Devices just for starters). However, all I come away with is that a good tale involves slippage between what characters or readers expect and what transpires.
I was faced with these issues lately when I did the online course ‘Writing Conflict’ led by Cate Kennedy (through Writers NSW). Over a very intense week, we engaged with lively talks by Cate, well-targeted written explanations, and a series of writing exercises designed to push us out of our comfort zones. My motivation for doing the course was a dawning realisation that the therapist in me kept resolving conflict for my characters rather than using it to drive the story forward. Before the course, I had concentrated on building conflict in a narrow way, mainly involving characters opposing each other verbally or physically. However, Cate’s course widened the scope to integrate dramatic irony (and the rest of the team!) so that it provides the web within which the tale sits. As soon as a specific moment of conflict occurs within one strand, the vibrations resonate through those mismatched expectations.
A great example of this kind of writing is the Netflix series ‘Criminal’, where all the action is confined to the police interrogation room and its observation room (with occasional forays into the corridor for moments of dramatic relief) — see The Guardian for a recent review. As a story, each episode provides an excellent example of William Goldman’s maxim for storytelling: arrive late and leave early, i.e. we head straight into the interrogation/interview of a witness/suspect and leave the moment the detectives have uncovered the truth. Of course, the police interrogators’ goals are fundamentally at odds with those of the suspect or witness. However, more interesting is watching the characters on both sides of the one-way mirror say one thing and mean another. Our privileged position of watching from both sides ramps up the tension. We know things that the interrogators and/or the suspects/witnesses do not. Watching the suspect/witness make assumptions about where the line of questioning is leading is riveting.
In our writing course, we were invited to write a short scene where conflict arises through the mismatch between characters’ perceptions. Here’s my response to the task.
The Good Lecturer
Brent Thwaites, BA, PhD, MAMS, brushed his hands against each other, freeing his fingers of chalk dust. That’d show the inspector, or quality assurance officer or whatever they called him. No-one could question his lecture preparation now. His eyes raked across the densely packed equations and diagrams that covered every inch of the board. No smart alec student would catch him off guard this lecture.
The students drifted in, filling the seats from the back. He peered at their faces, trying to spot which might be that of the inspector. Possibly he’d sit with the usual mature-aged students perched at the front, already scribbling notes. Three flashes from the back. A student with a James Dean swagger was moving his iphone in a steady panorama, taking in the notes from the board. No wonder students were so abysmal these days. Had no-one ever taught them the point of notetaking? He shrugged as if to say, students these days, to the mature-age students.
At precisely five minutes past the hour, he commenced the lecture, not waiting for the packed lecture hall to fall quiet.
‘Dr Thwaites?’
The students’ heads twisted to view who had dared break into his train of thought. From their sly grins, he realised a hand had been waving for some time.
‘Yes?’
‘This is all in the text book, right?’
‘Of course,’ he said, picking up a stick of chalk and underlining where he’d written the relevant page numbers on the board. ‘All this,’ he stabbed at the board, ‘is absolutely up-to-date.’ The chalk snapped, with a shriek of protest.
‘So why do we need to be here?’
A mutter rippled through the hall.
‘Because young man,’ he said with deliberation, ‘without full attendance marks, you will fail.’
With silence effectively restored, Brent Thwaites continued the lecture to the end.
As the students rushed for the exit, a girl approached, her arms cradling a clipboard.
‘If I might have a moment of your time, Dr Thwaites.’
‘Certainly, young lady, what is it you didn’t understand?’
She placed her clipboard on the lectern. ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ she thrust out her hand. ‘Associate Professor Judy Kingbury, from the PVC Teaching & Learning, quality assurance division.’
Her hand was smooth and cool. He wished he’d wiped away the last of the chalk.
‘So that’s my inspection over and done with,’ he said. His voice echoed in the now empty room.
‘Not quite over, I’m afraid.’ She looked through the notes she’d made on her clipboard. ‘Tell me, how well do you think that lecture met the learning objectives?’
‘Very well. Full attendance, as you saw. That’s very rare these days, as I’m sure you’re aware. And I got across all the information clearly,’ he gulped for air, ‘using um, written support material, and as you saw, there weren’t any questions.’
Her eyes softened in sympathy before she let the axe fall.
(by Alison Ferguson, 3 October 2020)