In Libro Veritas: Why I Hate It When Characters Keep Dumb Secrets

There are some books that make me want to grab the main characters by the scruffs of their necks, sit them down, and order, “OK. You, tell him what you saw. You, tell her the thing you learned from the guy. NOW STOP RUNNING AROUND DOING USELESS THINGS AND HELP EACH OTHER.”

Other people’s problems are always easier to fix than one’s own, and that goes double when the other people are fictional. When reading a mystery, I want to shake witnesses who have something really important to tell the detective but refuse to do so until some specific criterion can be met (read: until there is time for the murderer to find out and kill them before they can). When multiple protagonists don’t trust each other enough or are too dumb to share their pieces of the puzzle, I would like to punch them through the page.

I don’t mind when characters have good reasons for not disclosing information. I understand that, say, the murderer probably doesn’t want to say anything that’s going to land her in jail. And protagonists whose goals are in opposition aren’t going to make it easy for each other, which is not only fine but makes sense (full disclosure: I may or may not be working on a story of this nature at the moment). But I don’t like it when characters’ motivations feel less like their reasons and more like author reasons.

I need to believe, already knowing this is a story, that the character’s predicted outcomes are reasonable. If I’m like: you’re worrying about nothing, there is no way things will be worse if you just tell him/her, then the plot has lost me. Duh, romantic hero, you’re in a love story. You can tell your paramour you did that seemingly bad thing for his/her sake because of course you’ll be forgiven. YOU GUYS ARE GOING TO END UP TOGETHER. See: happily ever after.

Sara Shepard’s Pretty Little Liars series (books, not the TV show based on them. Sorry) has a lot of characters who hide secrets from each other, and she uses ways that work for me and ways that don’t. Reading the first few books, I wanted to shake the main characters for not banding together and sharing information about their common enemy, A.

But just as I was about to lose patience, Shepard does something interesting: she has the character with the strongest moral sense decide to tell everyone everything she knows — and she gets punished for it, big-time. Suddenly, I believed the other characters have good reasons for not telling their secrets, even though the adult I am and responsible teenager I was are still screaming, “Tell somebody who can help you about your eating disorder/sexual orientation/secret boyfriend! That’s what adults are there for!” Shepard demonstrates that, actually, the rich suburb where these characters live is a pretty toxic environment, and most of the adults are horrible people.

On the other hand, although I loved Libba Bray’s The Diviners and can’t wait to read more, I found it frustrating that the main sometimes-viewpoint characters (Evie, Memphis, Sam, and Theta) are clearly Fated To Be part of an Avengers-style team that’s going to have to work together to stop the bad guys, but they’re all too insecure to tell each other what they know. It’s like watching Captain America running around yelling about the threat he’s trying to take down, and Tony Stark and Bruce Banner being all coy and refusing to go Iron Man/Hulk because they’re worried he won’t be their friend anymore if he finds out their secret identities. Great set-up for catharsis when it eventually happens, but, gosh, it’s annoying right now.

In a way, characters who refuse to tell each other important plot points for obviously silly reasons (= reasons the reader knows are invalid, no matter how reasonable it is for the characters to believe they’re valid) are the invisible walls of literary narrative. The creator(s) don’t want this to happen yet, so leave it alone until it’s ready. You can’t explore those mountains, we didn’t render them!

When faced with this kind of problem, a writer has three choices: 1) find a better reason to delay the thing you don’t want to happen yet and let your characters talk to each other; 2) let that thing happen right now and make it lead to something even better than your first thought; or 3) find a better reason for your characters not to tell each other important stuff. Don’t make your characters not trust each other when the reader already trusts them. Show that it really will be disastrous for secrets to be out.

To be fair, I’m the kind of reader and viewer who thinks keeping secrets you want to tell is an absolute last resort. Aladdin, Jasmine is going to find out you’re not a prince eventually. Tell her now and save the heartache. Jack and Algernon, ‘fess up before Ernest blows up in your faces. And for goodness’ sake, Ford, if you’re so worried your wife is cheating on you with Falstaff, why don’t you just talk to her about it?

To make me root for a character keeping a secret, keeping that secret has to be enjoyable. I like seeing Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent run into problems thanks to Batman and Superman: it’s tons of fun watching arrogant jerks underestimate billionaire playboys and mild-mannered reporters when I know that actually they’re super-cool high-powered heroes. And it’s exciting to image the eventual emotionally charged scenes in which their loved ones have to reconcile their two contrasting identities. (See: every episode of Lois & Clark ever.) The scene I want to see is delayed, but I love every minute of waiting for it.

So for me, the rule of thumb is: will I like the story better or worse after the secret is revealed? If the answer is: better, because there will be more focus on the actual high-stakes plot, then I’d rather the characters spill. If the answer is: worse, because the highest possible stakes will be resolved, and the plot will move on to anticlimax, then let that sucker stretch as long as it wants.

In fiction, loose lips do not sink ships. (Though sometimes they make them canon.)