What two fields could be as different as physics and fiction? It’s hard to imagine that the science of matter and energy has anything to contribute to the art of words and narratives. But as far-fetched as it may sound, I believe fiction writers can learn a lot from physics. What physicists understand about motion in the physical world applies as well to movement on the page. With apologies to physicists, who may flinch at the liberties I’m taking here, I’d like to show how the following notions from physics can be useful in the construction of fictional works, especially novels.
Receive free weekly strategies for writers here.
Mass. In physics, mass is the quantity of matter in a body, the number of atoms a thing contains. It’s not the weight or size of the object—it’s how much stuff is crammed into it. In the same way, the mass of a novel has to do with how much stuff exists between the first sentence and the last. How many characters does the novel have? How complicated a plot? How many settings? How many scenes?
Velocity. Physicists define velocity as how fast something is moving and what direction it’s moving in. It’s not hard to see how this applies to fiction. Novelists talk about the pace and direction of their stories all the time. How long does your plot take to get off the ground? Where is it going? How quickly is it getting there?
Force. This one is simple. Force is anything that causes a change in the motion of an object. It’s a push that sends a body in motion or a pull that slows it down. Friction. Air resistance. Gravity. Magnetism. A swift kick. They are all forms of force.
In fiction, force is whatever gets your novel moving, such as:
- an interesting new character
- a surprising plot twist
- a heart-pounding action sequence
- a suspenseful scene
- a new problem or challenge for the characters
Force is also what slows your story down:
- description
- internal monologue
- backstory
- long stretches of dialogue
Taken independently mass, velocity, and force don’t tell us much about how—and how well—a novel is working. What is more important is how they interact within the work. To show what I mean, I’d like to compare two very different novels–George R. R. Martin’s Game of Thrones—the first in his Song of Ice and Fire series—and Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl.
Both of these two novels are hugely popular—and for the same reason: They’re both impossible to put down. Why do readers stay up late into the night to finish them? Why do they give them four-star reviews and recommend them to their friends? Because they both make excellent use of mass, velocity, and force. But they do so in completely different ways.
Game of Thrones is a perfect example of a novel with a lot a of mass. The Song of Ice and Fire series has more than 1,000 named characters, scores of distinct settings, and dozens of interwoven plots, many of them initiated in the 819-page first novel. Entire volumes have been written just to help readers sort through the story.
As any college physics major can tell you, an object with a lot of mass takes a lot of force to get it into motion. Novels are no different. Martin knows this, whether he thinks of it in physics terms or not. In the second sentence of Game of Thrones, he tells us that “the wildlings are dead.” “Wildlings?” we ask ourselves, our curiosity piqued. With that four-word phrase, he has used force to set his novel in motion. Six sentences later, he makes us question if the wildlings truly are dead, adding a little more force. Tension simmers among the characters by the end of the first page. Mysterious walking dead people appear. Swords clash. In next few chapters, we learn of murder, intrigue, the deep love between a husband and wife, children struggling to survive in a menacing world, potential war, dragons, and magic. At the end of the seventh chapter, a seven-year-old witnesses an act of incest and is thrown off a building for it. The stories are powerful, intense, and horrifying. Every chapter is a push forward. Game of Thrones has a lot of mass, but it also has velocity because a lot of force pushes it forward.
Gone Girl operates in a different way. It focuses on a handful of characters and a single main plot. Only two characters appear in the first 9 paragraphs. Only three in the first 42 paragraphs. No one needs to read a whole book to keep the characters of Gone Girl sorted out: The plot could be summarized in a page.The story, told from the point of view of two characters as opposed to the dozens in Game of Thrones, shoots by with lightning speed because its plot is clean and streamlined.
Gillian Flynn begins her novel with force that pulls us back, slowing the story down to a comfortable pace. Internal monologue, description, and backstory fill many pages. In contrast, the force that compels us forward is relatively light—a lost job, an unwanted move to a new city, what appears to be a run-of-the-mill marital conflict. Flynn doesn’t need a huge push to set her story in motion; Instead, she needs to hold the reader back. While Martin gives his massive novel velocity through a lot of force pushing it forward, Flynn keeps her much less massive work from flying off the page by using force that slows it down.
In physics, momentum is the quantity of motion in a body, the mass of an object times its velocity. For us fiction writers, momentum is that quality that carries readers through a long work, that gets them to turn those pages. Being aware of the mass of material that makes up your work, the velocity at which your story moves, the force that puts it in motion or holds it back, and how those three qualities work together can help you create novels with momentum, novels that keep readers reading.
[simple_contact_form]