Three Elements of Alchemy in Story

Alchemy isn’t magic, yet it is. It happens when we combine disparate elements and create something unexpectedly new. Something greater than the individual parts, in a big way. That’s a magical result, at least to me as a writer. Alchemy, when it works well, surprises me. Delights me, too.

I’ve learned that alchemy in my writing happens when I combine three elements—setting, action, and a character’s physical state—in certain ways. It took me a long time to learn the formula. When I remember to use it, I create the magic that good literature offers, where my reader can lose themselves for a few hours, dwelling in a different world that I made for them.

It works for me with fiction and memoir and nonfiction. It’s not limited by genre.

This week, I’d like to share my formula—the perfect ratio of the three elements that combine to make the best magic. We’ll look at each element separately, first. What it contributes to the mix, when it’s working well (and not taking over).

Element #1: action

Action is about movement and change. I think of author Dennis Lehane’s famous comment about this, paraphrased here: If your character is in the same room for more than one page, get them out of there. If I’m remembering correctly, he learned this from a mentor or teacher, and it shaped how he wrote action in all his stories.

Movement in story, when someone acts in some way, creates change. We witness a character interacting with something, someone, or some place, and we begin to know them more fully as we see how they respond.

Action is the first element of alchemy. Ideally, your story’s moments of action form a shape or rhythm. You can chart this on a storyboard or in an outline. You ask yourself: what’s actually happening here?

Does stillness count? Sure. It’s a moment of pause or reflection, often internal, but it happens more in the alchemy element of character than via action. It doesn’t move the action forward.

When I forget to use this element of action, my story loses tension.

How does this translate to nonfiction? Memoir is easy—most memoirs have plenty of things happening, which is how we readers see the narrator grow. In prescriptive nonfiction, anecdotes or case studies are used to create the action. I think of Brene Brown’s books, how often she places a story about herself or someone as an illustrative example. This keeps action on the page.

Remember: it’s only by witnessing a person in action that we really know them.

Maybe you’re a writer who loves action. You read and write intense, plot-based stories. Things are always moving. That’s great, but if you want alchemy, that magic to happen, consider the other two elements and how you might bring them in. Too much action without a sense of person or place can feel like movement without purpose.

Element #2: character

This one took me a while to learn.

When I used to include character on the page, I went with internals. What the character was thinking or feeling. But these are not always tangible, or demonstrated, to the reader, so they lend less alchemy. What they are thinking or feeling also could be unreliable. They may not be telling themselves (or us) the truth.

Alchemy comes instead from moments when we witness the character’s internal self coming through their external self—how they present themselves in the world, and how much of that is truly who they are. People unconsciously reveal themselves through small gestures, what they prize, what they avoid.

I’m in awe of the power of small gestures, especially. A twitch. How they move their hands. The itchy ear. Or the power of a favorite piece of clothing worn a certain way. (Consider the night fairy dress in Laurie Frankel’s brilliant novel, This Is How It Always Is.) Or a prized object that carries a secret meaning for the character.

All these small items of a character’s external world reveal emotion and meaning. Emotion and meaning create alchemy. But, as with action, this has to be externalized. We can’t just get alchemy (emotion and meaning) from the character thinking about their shaking hands. We need to see them.

And as with action, it’s good to have enough but not too much.

One of my all-time favorite examples of this alchemy element done well is Judy Blundell’s 2008 young-adult novel, What I Saw and How I Lied. If you haven’t read it yet, run right out! It won the National Book Award, no surprise. On the first page, Blundell introduces the two main characters via certain physical details that completely show their future trajectories in the book: the mother who smokes in the dark and whose lipstick-covered lips catch on the cigarette paper with every drag--a tiny but revealing sound heard by her not-sleeping daughter; the young girl who carries Baby Ruths in her bike basket to the foggy beach each morning to eat breakfast alone there.

When I am developing a character, I make a list of these kinds of details. I push myself beyond the obvious, if I can. I try to follow Blundell’s example and capture two, three, or four details of my character’s physical state--maybe one item of clothing, maybe a movement she repeats unconsciously, maybe something that aches or itches, maybe an object she carries everywhere. What’s unique? What’s unexpected? What will reveal something greater than itself?

Another hint: the fewer but more potent these character clues, the more alchemy. Less is more, as long as it’s potent.

Element #3: place

Many writers have a imbalanced relationship with place in their stories. This is my view from decades of teaching writers of all genres. So few of us write place well. We tend to either ignore it or do it too much.

Either the writer considers any setting description impossibly slow, so they avoid it entirely (these are often writers who love action above all). Or the writer is so in love with setting that it’s poetically presented, and it takes all the oxygen from the room, if you will. Don’t get me wrong. I love writers like Leif Enger and Irish writer Niall Williams, who are known for their lyrical prose. But they balance it with stuff happening, with characters revealing themselves through gestures and external quirks.

No matter where you fall on that continuum, know that place in story is a vital element of alchemy. Of the three elements, it’s the one that delivers emotion most impactfully. Surprising, I know! It’s because place is connected to the senses. And the senses are connected to the subconscious part of a reader through their memories. More on that below.

But first, placement of place.

Setting details are most effective when they are placed where the alchemy actually occurs. In other words, where the most emotion and meaning needs to be delivered to the reader.

This required me, when I was learning it, to again make a chart. Where in each scene, each chapter, each big moment of my book do I want to make sure the reader gets a real hit of feeling and meaning? Once I decided this, I could navigate the alchemy of place a lot more consciously.

Where do you not want to have place details? Where there’s action building to a height of tension. Place is a pause to reflect. Most times, suspense doesn’t benefit from a pause. Wait until the climax is over, then add in your sense detail, for instance.

It’s hard to finesse, though. I’ve seen so many writers try to “get it over with,” as if setting is just an item to check off their list for a successful story. They dump all their setting details in the beginning of the book, for instance, or predictably at the start of each chapter or scene. It’s as if they are literally “setting the stage.”

It feels artificial. It offers zero alchemy.

Judicious and conscious use of the senses (texture, taste, sight, sound, smell) is a main ingredient of successful place. Especially smell and sound, which, as mentioned above, immediately connect to the reader’s own memories of place and make your job almost effortless.

Place is the backdrop used by professional writers to reveal meaning and emotion. It’s less about the poetic descriptions, more about one tangible sense used in the right moment. Remember that whatever your character notices--or doesn’t notice--tells the reader a lot about their emotional state: their distractions, their memories, their angst. It’s too good a tool to ignore.

Finding your formula

The best way to learn the magic formula? You already know the answer: Read good writers.

Read them as a writer, not just for enjoyment. Study where they combine these three elements and how much of each they use to create an unforgettable moment.

We’ll play with this in our exercise this week.

Your weekly writing exercise

When you’re ready to experiment with your own story, choose a scene or section of your writing that’s not quite as rich and magical in meaning as you’d like.

Take a good look at each of the three elements: how much you’ve allowed them to be on the page. What’s not present? What’s too dominant?

Work with each element separately, to make sure you’ve covered it well. You can write more than you need as you’re doing this. Then look at the formula you’ve created.

Usually, action usually takes the most space on the page.

Then the physical state of the character.

Then setting.

In other words, make sure something external is happening, movement and change. Then make sure the character is revealing something via their external state. Finally, look at the setting details, the senses you’ve brought in, and play with placement.

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