Seven Basic Plots

Seven Basic Plots

Up the front, Catherine is yammering away. Before her are a bunch of cheap desks and at three of those desks is a head. There’s baldy, bad perm job, and barista undercut. Close to the holidays, you find out who’s really dedicated, or desperate. Catherine instructs us to close our books and asks Marge to come up to the front to deliver her writing effort this week. Bad perm job fishes around in her purse and pulls out a few crumpled sheets. I close the book. Thud. Sorry, but there is no way to close this thing quietly, it’s just too giant. Booker’s Seven Basic Plots, it's as thick as the bible. It’s our bible, our guide to salvation.

We smile and tell our friends it’s just a hobby, as we hand over our latest short story for them not to read. But it’s more than that, it’s our lottery ticket. Something to break us out of our routine, elevate us, make us memorable. It might be me, or baldy, or Marge, who has the next Harry Potter inside us, or I’d even settle for a 50 shades of grey. One helping of fame and the money, sans the respect.

Marge is reading some kind of mystery tale. She is ploughing through the lines, her eyes not once leaving the page. Or at least, I assume that’s the case, as she hasn’t removed her sunglasses. Underneath the dark shades is about five layers beyond too much make up.

Catherine is now sitting in a chair without a desk at the front of the room. She sits diagonally, knees facing us, but she’s twisted to face the speaker as well. Every few lines taking a moment to nod encouragingly.

In Marge’s story. A husband is dead. He's tripped down the stairs. A little odd, so the death requires an investigation. The police, however, are baffled.

Another nod from Catherine. All that encouragement earns her around $30,000 per year. The school thinks she’s qualified because she has a piece of paper that says so, and the students think she’s qualified because she’s the one standing at the front. But all the while she’s running around trying to hide the fact that though she may teach creative writing the grand total she’s actually made from writing creatively is a big fat zero. She doesn’t have to worry, though, comedies are always brought to a joyful conclusion.

Marge continues. The wife is now in interrogation, she has sunglasses on too. But she is stone cold and deflecting every question. If wifey was answering truthfully she would say: “A simple wire at the top of the stairs did the trick and down went the monster. Drunk and dumb he didn’t stand a chance.” The story ends without a conviction and a trip to the Bahamas.

Catherine stands again to conclude the preceding’s.

Undercut’s undercut swishes back and forth as his eyes switch from the clock on the wall to the watch on his wrist. Somewhere better to be perhaps? Sometimes, however, sacrifices must be made. With his trust fund frozen he is spurred into action. Out into the big bad world. If the big bad world is a community college campus chasing easy credits. Setting out with his faithful party, or to party, then on with the adventure. If he can just survive the babes, booze, fast cars and manage not falling asleep in the final he can meet his destiny atop Mount Trustmore. With his newly acquired magical scroll, he will vanquish his father, Mr. Undercut. Rightfully claiming the treasure he is owed. Some characters have an arc, and some just have a flat line with one heartbeat.

Our bald fellow is hardly focusing any better. Probably reliving his day. The story of his great escape from globalisation industries. How he slipped past the crushing PC power of the HR administrator, navigated his way through the ink spills and paper jams, past the snapping jaws of the man in the bankers collar. His evil curse “can you work late tonight?” whistling over his bald head and pushing his coworker back into the lair of despair. But at last, he was into the safety of the number 8. The gas powered doors seal shut behind him, the same ones he came through that morning when everything about this world seemed so bright. He is delivered back to a wailing child, or two, or three, and a disinterested wife and a mortgage of twenty, thirty, forty years. Which place was the and back again? Depends on which way the bus is going.

There is a screeching of chairs and I snap awake. The lesson is over and half of the class is already out the door, led by Catherine. My departure is slow as I try to force our bible, “Seven Basic Plots”, into my bag without splitting the stitches. This week’s homework: Rebirth and Tragedy.

I notice a manuscript sitting on an empty chair. Baldy’s chair. I tuck it under my arm and race out the door. Through empty corridors and down spiralling staircases. My footsteps echo loudly. I pass through the largest door out onto the street and the cold hits me hard. A familiar site greets me, the back of a shining dome. Only, this time, it doesn’t bob up and down and up and down through 60 minutes. It moves further and further away transited by the number 72 to another world.

On my own journey home, since I can’t fit it into my bag, I’m reading the manuscript. And it is brilliant. Hemingway, Steinbeck, Lee. It’s everything I want to read, and everything I want to write. The bus takes me in circles for hours. It’s a page turner, a hit. King, Rowling, James. I throw Booker onto a seat and gently place the Baldy inside my satchel. Our bible stares at me.

Thou shalt not covet your classmates work.

Undercut appears in my mind, with his key to a kingdom. A do nothing that gets everything. This could be my rags to riches tale. A nobody from nowhere who becomes a literary giant.

Thou shalt not steal your classmate’s ideas.

And then suddenly Marge pops into my head, with her bad perm, black eyes and her story. We all know the steps. How to hide the clues, the police methods, and the forensics. Baldy probably hasn’t shown anybody this. He probably doesn’t even have a family. Perhaps I could invite him over to return his manuscript. Perhaps there are tarps down because I’ve been painting.

Thou shalt not kill.