Grappling with Hooks

"Each time, storytellers clothed the naked body of the myth in their own traditions, so that listeners could relate more easily to its deeper meaning." - Joan D. Vinge

Puppies are irresistible. A cliché, maybe, but one that’s hard to argue. When you spot a rumbling, tumbling ball of frolicking fur, you can’t resist. Even if you don’t like dogs. Puppies are powerful magnets that draw you against your will b/c the pull is beyond your ability to resist.

Why? There’s the cuteness factor, but the underlying vulnerability and unconditional love complicate matters. They generate conflict, soften the hardest of stone cold cynics, and punch holes through the barrier of cliché to capture the rational mind within.

That’s what a good story hook does. I’m wrestling with this in my current wip (work-in-progress), so it’s near and dear to my heart. Since hook is the launching pad for all other story elements, it helps to get it right. It sells your idea and attracts readers. It’s the warm furry coat encasing all that boundless energy and eagerness into a package that is both universal and unique.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer had a distinct hook. California teen loves clothes and slays vampires. You can almost guess that from the title. What you may not guess? The girl behind the myth is as defenseless to the human condition as the next gal.

Joss Whedon, the creator of Buffy, took the classic horror movie moment – the flailing, falling, female victim – and flipped it upside down. In Whedon’s universe, the girl does not collapse in a heap at the monster’s feet. She pivots, blocks, and delivers a roundhouse kick that can topple a one car garage. The ultimate powerpuff girl with fashion flare. Gidget, the next generation.

Finally! A teen role model a mother can get behind.

Buffy is no Rhodes Scholar but she’s nobody’s dumb blonde, either. On the surface, she’s like any transplanted teen. She relocates to a new town, leaves behind all her friends, and struggles to remake herself at a new high school. Every kid’s nightmare. But a universal one.

With two, tiny exceptions. One, the town, Sunnydale, is located over a Hellmouth. That’s pretty unique in my experience. Two, a stranger appears on her sixteenth birthday to give her the news all teenagers long to hear – she’s a superhero! But – and there’s always a but - she will spend the rest of her life fighting evil. And no one can know. Not even her mother. Stuck with the worse vocation since Obi Wan Kenobi and she can’t tell a soul.

Buffy rejects it immediately, but providence crashes the party. She corners a gang of vampires inside her old high school gym and burns it to the ground. She can’t explain this to the principal, her mom, or her dad. They think Gidget’s gone postal. Her parents’ marriage crumbles and Buffy’s mom resettles in Sunnydale for a fresh start…

…over the Hellmouth. The school librarian turns out to be a watcher, the man charged with training Buffy in the fine art of staying alive. He’s a proper British encyclopedia of all things that go bump in the night: demons, werewolves, zombies, incubi, succubi. Buffy can’t run away fast enough. In fact, she spends most of the first season ducking her destiny, but is constantly sucked back in b/c there’s no one who can do what she can do.

Complications. The best hook opens the door and invites conflict in.

She makes friends. Friends she’d rather not see turned into vampire cat toys. She grows fond of her father figure watcher. She can’t sit back and let demons have their due. They’ll eat everyone she cares about. Or worse – transform them into blood-sucking fiends.

The show is steeped in mythology, but it’s the human element that grips the audience. Like all superheroes, Buffy must hide her identity, but the way it’s done prevents story from descending into cliché. Safeguarding this secret - a whopper for any teenage girl – compounds her life, undermining her relationship with her mother. Buffy is forced to make choices she can’t defend, cutting classes during the day and breaking curfew at night.

She gets what every kid gets in that situation. Grounded.

Hard to save the world when you’re grounded. And a subtle reminder that Buffy’s still a girl, one who wants what every girl wants - to fit in, be accepted. Normal. Something she will never be.

Yanks the puppy heartstrings, doesn’t it? That’s what a good hook does - zeroes in on a universal theme then juices it up with the fresh squeezed fruit of characterization. Buffy loves her mom, sweats her grades, longs for approval. A human trapped inside a superhuman body.

This is no ‘monster of the week’ show. The question is never, “What new creepy crawly will Buffy face?” It’s, “What does she need to learn to survive? Why now?”

The hook is the ultimate teenage metaphor – high school is hell - where each new monster symbolizes another challenge in the march to adulthood: peer pressure, accountability, facing fears, the heartache of unpopularity. The list is endless, fascinating, and relevant.

And all circle back to the hook. Why does this work? Character development. A stereotype (sunny, blonde valley girl) turned on its head (vampire slayer) and littered with heart (family, friends, self-esteem issues), muscle (preternatural powers), and location (Southern California), location (high school), location (Hellmouth).

Grappling with a hook? Take a stereotype, twirl it in an unexpected direction, layer it with flesh and bone, and set it in an unlikely place. Then see where it takes you.

On a personal aside, it's my sister's birthday. Happy Birthday, Rita!