Hanging from a Cliff

Jeffrey Deaver writes thrillers/suspense with a formula that becomes apparent when you binge read a series as I have a tendency to do. Each novel has two parallel storylines, often the heroes and the criminal. By the halfway mark, each chapter flips from one to the other and ends with a cliffhanger so that chapter six leaves you wondering what's going to happen to Amelia and the opening of chapter seven takes you to Criminal X.

You finish the book in one sitting because you want to know what happens to Amelia -- you have to read to chapter eight. But then chapter seven leaves you hanging, so you have to read chapter nine. And so on.

Charles Dickens is famous for cliffhangers, too. His books were originally published in serial format. Readers had to wait a week or sometimes a whole month before they could read the next installment.

For the record, I'd go crazy if I had to wait for the conclusion.

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Writers Write, a web site created in South Africa, has an excellent article on how to add cliffhangers to your writing. Keep the reader interested. Make them want to keep reading.

They offer some suggestions: a physical threat, a deadline that needs to be met, an accident, or unexpected news.

I've used this last one as the end point of my new novel. The novel, tentatively titled On the Brink, is not yet finished but has already reached 600 pages. It needs to be separated into two or three separate novels. I think I've found the right place.

Quick background: they are in the frontier wilderness of Pennsylvania, and tensions between the Native Americans and the whites are escalating, prodded along by the dishonest traders at the post. One of those traders is Duncan, and he recently -- accidentally -- wounded one Indian and killed another. Earlier in this scene, the other characters are at the settlement, and they hear shouting.

“Help! Help! Help!”

Everyone jumped to their feet. A wild, choked cry, accompanied by thunderous crashing through the woods, was getting closer. Lucy was reaching for her boots, but William was out the door in his stocking feet.

“Hello!” he yelled, running to the right, trying to see the figure rushing and stumbling and coming full tilt from the north, as fast as deep snow and tangled branches would allow.

“Help! Oh help!”

The Wallace brothers and Leech – boots, coats, and all – rushed past him, and as he turned back toward the house, Lucy was there, thrusting his boots at him and holding his coat open to help him. Then they, too, were running toward the frightened woman.

For it was Rose McNaughton.

“Rose, what is it?” Robert Wallace was the first to reach her and the first to speak. He tried to guide her toward the cabin.

But now that she had reached people, she was turning back, pulling his hand to follow. She was tired, and he was stronger. “Please, ye have to help.” She was sobbing. She saw Lucy and clung to her.

“What’s wrong, Rose? Tell us what’s wrong.”

“The Indians…the post…” Rose sobbed, choked, vomited on the ground, nearly falling face first as she did so. Robert swept her up in strong arms and headed toward the cabin, and she struggled. “No, ye don’t understand. Ye have to go after him.”

“What are ye talking about, girl?” David Leech demanded, urging Robert to stop so they could get the full story, though it was clear that Rose had nearly killed herself to get here and needed to be deposited as quick as may be beside the fire and Mrs. Leech’s ministrations.

“The Indians. They burned the post, and they’ve taken Duncan. I’m afraid they’re going to kill him!”

End Book One

What do you think?