Suspense, or, the building of expectation, is a crucial ingredient in many works of fiction and non-fiction. The trick is to give readers a trace of what they want, a foreshadowing of something, a hook, and so on. Once the reader is hooked, the author cunningly reels them up a series of minor conflicts, ever closer to the amazing climax before heading down to the wondrous, longed-for resolution. Dogs will chase bones in much the same way. This voluntary submission to hope is arguably the essence of what I, as a writer, resist. I resist it because I have no ability to hope, or yearn; at least, not on good days when laughter, wisdom and cunning are with me. On those days, I have plans, intentions, and a happiness that cannot be suspended.
In some genres, like journalism, a mild form of suspense is created without effort on the writer’s part, as readers come out of sheer curiosity, already addicted to journalistic gossip, eager to escape from both ennui and the overwhelming question, forever hoping they will not be affected by the news, or find themselves in the news, or just the contrary.
Beyond the written word, suspense and hope are nearly omnipresent. Shopping is exciting because its faithful minions never know exactly what they’ll buy, or why they’ll buy it, and when they have it, they’re dying to see how it will improve their value in the eyes of others.
Hope is precisely what should be overcome, cast out of Pandora’s Box … and yes, out of the book, as “book” was derived from “box.”
But what would fiction look like if it were entirely stripped of suspense? How could it still be interesting? Let our hopes be directed here, towards hope’s “end.”
