Mr. McGuffin’s Plot Device And Writer Unblocking Emporium

Today I’m over on Headstuff, the online cultural hub, with the following skit. Headstuff love content with actual content in it so I’m delighted to be there.

I reckon we’ve never needed a laugh more than we do this week, so here is my contribution to our newly hyper-globalised human condition.

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The shop door bell of Mr McGuffin’s Plot Device and Writer Unblocking Emporium tinkles pleasantly, announcing the entry of Writer 1, a woman wearing pyjamas and swathed in several cardigans. Mr McGuffin stands to greet her.

Mr McGuffin: Good morning, Madam.

Writer 1: Good morning. I’d like to buy a plot device, please.

Mr McGuffin: Certainly Madam. What genre are you writing in?

Writer 1: Crime, mainly. But lately, I’ve been branching into grip-lit. You know. Thrillers, that kind of stuff.

Mr McGuffin: Ah. Luckily, we do have a new grip-lit section. Tell me, is your crime domestic or commercial?

Writer 1: Definitely domestic. It involves several kitchen appliances.

Mr McGuffin: Lovely. Well, we have a marvellous array of old letters, tied into bundles with ribbon; secret diaries; grainy photographs, and bloodstained blankets. Or were you thinking of anything in particular?

Writer 1: I was rather hoping for something a bit more sinister.

Mr McGuffin: Than a bloodstained blanket?

Writer 1: Is it a baby blanket?

Mr McGuffin: I’m afraid we’re fresh out of those. There’s been a run on them lately. Could I offer you a bloodstained suitcase?

Writer 1: I don’t think that’s going to get me out of this jam. I have three characters sitting in an attic with no way of figuring themselves out of it.

Mr McGuffin: What if I told you the suitcase contains a strange old map, and is festooned with airline labels from Djakarta, Siam, and Persia?

Writer 1: Oooh, I LOVE obsolete placenames! I’ll take it! How much?

Mr McGuffin: Now that’s another story.

 

Writer 2 enters the shop, carrying a small dog wearing an unusual rust-coloured collar made out of puzzle pieces,and displaying a mysterious fear of bald men. Writer 2 embraces Writer 1, but they both make faces behind each other’s backs. Writer 1 leaves.

 

Writer 2: Hello. Is this the motive shop?

Mr McGuffin: Not exclusively, Sir, but we do have the largest selection of motives in the country.

Writer 2: Excellent. I need a reason for a character to burn down an entire Welsh village during a haymaking festival.

Mr McGuffin: Hmmm. Tricky. What age is your villain?

Writer 2: He’s 47. But a young 47, if you know what I mean.

Mr McGuffin: I see. 47 is a difficult age. I have some fabulous motives for octogenarian protagonists – going cheap, incidentally, in an end-of-season sale. And I can’t seem to keep motives for young adults in stock, even though there are only three types of those. But a 47-year-old… let me think. Is he religious?

Writer 2: I’m afraid not.

Mr McGuffin: Abandonment issues? Say, an emotionally detached father? Or a manic depressive mother?

Writer 2: No.

Mr McGuffin: An overly intense appreciation for fine art? A god complex of any kind?

Writer 2: Well, he does have an unusually heightened sense of smell. It’s sort of his thing. He can tell a wine by the nose alone, and once detected a rare cheese from two streets away.

Mr McGuffin: Oh! I have just the thing. [rummaging] Now, where did I put it… Ah! Here we go! [brushing off dust] I think you’ll find this is perfect.

Writer 2: [disappointed] A handkerchief?

Mr McGuffin: This isn’t just any old handkerchief. This is the handkerchief belonging to your character’s sister, who died of an extremely rare and fatal strain of allergic rhinitis – hay fever to you and me – brought on by the pollen from a genetically altered type of crop, which grows only—

Writer 2: In Wales!

Mr McGuffin: Precisely.

Writer 2: Brilliant! I’ll take three. Just in case the first two get lost.

Mr McGuffin: [wrapping up the handkerchiefs] Nice dog, by the way, Sir. What’s his name?

Writer 2: Oh, this is Red Herring. Isn’t he just adorable?

 

Again, the shop bell sounds. Writer 3 enters and stands patiently as Writer 2 leaves. She is shabbily dressed in clothes which would once have been quite grand, but are now threadbare and faded.

 

Writer 3: Hi. I hope you can help me.

Mr McGuffin: That’s what I’m here for, Madam. What do you need?

Writer 3: I’m writing romance, and my two main characters just fell over a cliff. But I can’t let them die. I’m afraid I don’t have much money.

Mr McGuffin: Oh, dear. Now that is a tricky situation. Have you considered a narrative device rather than a plot device?

Writer 3: Sorry?

Mr McGuffin: You see, back in the day, in order to rescue your characters, you could have to made the fall into a dream sequence, or a figment of somebody’s imagination. But that doesn’t wash any more.

Writer 3: Don’t I know it. That’s why I was rather hoping you’d have something.

Mr McGuffin: My best advice would be to use an unreliable narrator. I’m afraid I don’t sell those, but you can make one yourself if you have the time.

Writer 3: That’s just it. I don’t. Are you sure you don’t have anything?

Mr McGuffin: The only thing I would have in your budget is a Deus Ex Machina. But I don’t recommend them. I mean, you can’t just have someone paragliding past, or, say, a fighter pilot on training manoeuvres picking them up. That would be silly.

Writer 3: I’m desperate. I’ll take it. If I try really hard, I could work the Deus Ex Machina into their clothing, I dunno – tiny parachutes or something – and have them save themselves.

Mr McGuffin: On your own head be it. But I must ask you not to say you got it here. If you promise not to tell anyone, I’ll give you 50% off. Deal?

Writer 3: Deal! Oh thank you, Mr McGuffin! You’re the best!

Mr McGuffin: [sighing] You all say that, and yet you forget about me the moment I’m out of sight.

Writer 3 leaves, whistling. And as for Mr McGuffin… well. That would be telling.