Unanswered Phones
A lot of trouble could have been avoided if Mr. Darcy had simply sent a text.
London 2011
A lot of trouble could have been avoided if Mr. Darcy had simply sent a text. Or if Don Quijote looked up a few facts along the way. How about if K. had GPS in his pocket? Even a single email would have made Odysseus’ journey more pleasant. Certainly both Romeo and Juliet would have appreciated short, informative, and timely voicemails.
To the detriment of all of these unfortunate characters, however, coincidence and chance and lost opportunity are the hinges on which drama swings. Tension builds because of missed connections and unexpected encounters. And patience is considered a virtue in fiction, just like in life, partly because it’s so rare. The passions that are fundamental to drama—jealousy, rage, revenge, to list but a few favorites—typically come from misunderstandings, from the letters not yet received, the missed phone calls, the stranger spotted in the park.
But what happens once every character has instant access to every other character? A tiny bit of technology creates a structural problem for fiction writers. A character with a mobile phone is a character who can always call for help, ask for details, and get clarification. Characters with phones can never become lost, yet that’s a timeless fictional tool. And, in reverse, characters with phones can always be reached, which is a real hinderance to suspense.
Twelve Angry Men was adapted, staged, and filmed numerous times partly because of the constraint of its structure: what happens when all characters are trapped in a room and forced to agree? Although there are many stories with similar constraints, the setting was still atypical—the restriction to a single room created the pressure. But squint and consider today’s world, a world where every character now has a mobile phone: aren’t all modern characters also trapped together in a jury room? The setting might be worldwide, but, with everyone having instant access to everyone else, the world becomes remarkably similar to a cramped room.
A small prediction: over the next generation, an unusually large number of stories will be set right before the ubiquity of mobile phones, just to make the writer’s job a bit easier. There’s no real significant difference in atmosphere between 2003 and 2013 in most of the world, and there’s no adjustments needed to a depiction of anger or elation. The difference of connection during that time period, however, can cause havoc to a plot that requires coincidence, or, more likely, absence. If you set your story in 2003 rather than 2013, it’s perfectly reasonable to have a character leave the office late, stumbled down a dark street at night, and step into a bar for adventure, unaware of the ongoing emergency at home.
Another small prediction: more writers will solve the connection problem by creating narratives with multiple time periods. Unless your story includes a time machine, characters still can’t reach each other when they’re living in different years, or even on different days. If one narrative occurs in 1995, or just last Tuesday, that narrative can’t be interrupted or learn the secrets of the present day. Temporal changes are a reasonable way to deal with the connection problem, and writers will surely become even more addicted.
A final small prediction: there will be more stories involving characters who haven’t yet met. It’s a slight variation on the temporal solution. Characters who don’t know each other can’t talk, so a narrative can proceed will plenty of secrets and confusions and dangers—while the potential meeting between those characters is delayed and delayed until the finale.
What’s obvious but still notable is that these factors aren’t just influencing our stories; our stories are simply reflecting the factors of life that are influencing us, too. Just like your favorite character, you have less separation from your friends, and from your enemies, so the potential for chance—in regard to encounters—has simply diminished.
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