So many times in classes I heard “When does the story end?” or “When should I begin a new chapter?” Signing inwardly, I always listened patiently to the answer – invariably – “when you feel it.”

I think a more accurate answer would have been “when there is nothing more to say.” This, in my opinion is the heart of the steeple-chase technique. As writers we all get stuck, write ourselves into a corner, or just get blocked. The steeple-chase, named for god knows what, allows an author to easily leap forward or backward in time, across geographic boundaries or into the head of a new character.

In essence, a new paragraph or chapter need not follow in sequential, logical time. Using the “what happens next” method and literally, tossing it into the air, to see how it lands – that’s the Steeple-chase.

Personally, I skinked through my junior and senior years and advanced fiction courses without ever turning in a steeple chase – I think the professor was feeling the apathetic burn out from a room full of graduating seniors – and just didn’t give a damn.

Since then, however, I’ve used the technique many times. Not only does it help advance your plot, but it frees the author of the mundane goings on in a characters life and advances the story to the next critical moment. No need to write about how when Molly got home from the hospital she made some tea. No need to point out how she was so exhausted she rummaged through her tea box, a wooden container with intricate designed carved into the wood, a gift from her grandmother when she first moved out on her own, and couldn’t decide between Chamomile and Earl Grey.

Unless, it advances the plot. It might be argued that that little blurb of fluff is “characterization,” but again, that characterization should be linked intrinsically to the story you’re trying to tell.

The tea-box takes on significance if it was Molly’s grandmother in the hospital.

Then, steeple-chase it right to the funeral – since we all know Molly Grandmother is doomed, otherwise why the momentary reflection on the tea-box – move the plot forward.

“Your Standing Nabokov is no match for my Surfing-Silicon-Gibson Style…”

“…only a master of evil Darth!”

“…a true samurai would never get so drunk…”

“Move with caution grasshopper! Your foe has studied under the Master, King. Watch for gratuitous sex and gore when the plot stumbles. It’s called the S. K. Fient.”

“…sweep the leg Johnny!”

You get the idea.

One of the penultimate exercises was the dreaded “Steeple-chase.” Only introduce to advanced fiction students, the Steeple-Chase was designed to be the fast-kick, cocaine dancers jump start to carrying a story forward. It was used to help define the work’s voice, the mood, the pace and form. The pattern of patterns, if you will. So vast, so intricate to appear as simple chaos and formless brilliance to the average viewer. But you and I, we know that nothing is without a pattern, right?

Writer > emotion > thought > word > sentence > paragraph > page > story < page < paragraph < sentence < word < thought < emotion < Reader

So on and so forth.

The Steeple-chase was for me, my own low-tech version of the Kobayashi Maru. For me, it was an un-winnable situation. No matter plot I pulled from my rapidly drying well of tricks, I never found one that was suited to the chaotic, slap-hazard, passionless, non-pattern of the Steeple-Chase. It didn’t help I suppose, I was suffering from a case of senioritis so intense, so visceral that I could taste the heavy vellum and lamps hide my diploma would be carved into…

The Steeple-Chase is really a good idea. Start, however you want, write however you want, and then change it, and write however you want but differently. I’m over simplifying of course. From the Profs and Instructors, it came bursting brim with the technical terms for their “forms.”

Since then, I’ve lead a few writing groups, mentored a soul or two in their scribble trick, lectured extensively (to any who will listen) on the art of story telling with the written word. I’ve internalized the Steeple-Chase and made the lesson easier to digest for those who aren’t on intimate terms with the “Forms.”

Simply put, when in doubt, time travel. Hit enter six times and write what happens to the character six days later. Or six years later. It doesn’t really matter. It’s a combination of “what happens next” and understanding that time doesn’t stand still for your characters. Even when they aren’t on the page, they have lives, goals, dreams, wants, needs. Take the time to explore the lesser seen side of your characters, their childhood, their elderly years. Are they still in one piece? I know one of my characters lost a hand when I wrote about his golden years. What!? How? What happened?!

And sound the chimes. Instant story.