Who is Chekov, and why are we talking about guns?

I’m paraphrasing here, but Russian playwright Anton Chekov once said, “If you have a gun on the wall in the first act, in the second or third, it must go off. Otherwise, don’t put it there”.

Go off, indeed, king.

There’s a number of dramatic principles and narrative techniques that we as writers can use to make our stories more engaging and dynamic. I don’t want to say ‘better’ because I’m not the authority on what counts as ‘better’. There’s writing out there on bestseller lists that I think is absolute tripe, and only popular because some menfolk can’t seem to get their acts together when it comes to satisfying their female partners (cough-fifty shades-cough). But who am I, a lowly modern day medieval peasant with only an A-level in English Language and Literature, to say what is good and what isn’t? I can only give my opinion and point you, dear reader, into a direction that I think might be helpful.

I plan to make this a series, exploring each of the ways writers can utilise tried and tested techniques to practice their craft, as I practice my own.

But really, I’m doing this for you. It’s all for you.

So what’s this about a gun?

Basically, Chekov’s gun refers to an item that appears in a story (usually in the first of a three-act structure) that becomes a significant part of the plot later on. For example, at the start of the story, the main character notices an unwashed knife left in the kitchen sink and makes a mental note to wash and put it away later. That knife becomes the weapon our main character plucks from the sink and uses to defend themselves against an intruder in the final act.

For most stories, there are rules that tend to apply if we want our story to be engaging to an audience. One of those rules is: if it’s not vital to the story, don’t include it. If it’s not enriching the world building, developing the characters, or serving plot, then there’s no point keeping it in. To paraphrase Chekov again, “if the gun’s not going to be fired, don’t have it in the story.”

You could argue that everything you’ve put in your story is vital to the plot and needs to stay. That’s your decision – writing is an artform, after all, and in the context of this rule: Chekov is a playwright. Can the rules of theatre translate into novel writing? (personally I think it can and often does quite well and vice versa – but this isn’t about me, it’s about you, the reader). Does a rule for one form of media count for another? How does one incorporate Chekov’s gun into other forms of writing?

Listen, I’m not the story police. I can’t tell you how to write. But: your audience may be expecting certain events to happen in a certain genre of story, and since you want to tell great stories, you might want to familiarise yourself with these events.

Let’s take a step back and think about our brains for a moment – don’t worry we’re not going too far into psychology territory, I promise. Our brains like the happy drugs. They’re filthy addicts, and they’ll do anything to get a hit of that sweet, sweet dopamine, endorphins, and all the other stuff that makes our meat suits want to live another day on this barren hellscape. And, one of the things that gives our brains the happy drug, is predictability.

It sounds counterintuitive – surely, we like things that are novel, new, and exciting? Well, yes, we do, but these can activate our stress response, and that’s how crossed wires can happen (and we end up loving rollercoasters or erotic asphyxiation). If you think about us as animals (well, duh), we get dopamine from stuff like chasing and catching prey (it’s why we like video games so much).

BUT!



Part of the enjoyment of that novelty is predicting the outcome and getting it right. If the rabbit weaves to the left, and you accurately predicted so and caught it, you’re going to feel pretty darn good. And you’ll receive further brain chemical rewards when your tribe gets to eat, and you’re commended for your hunting prowess. It’s the same for storytelling.

We love being able to predict what’s going to happen next. It’s why commercial pop music exists as a genre, and why Rogue One is the best Star Wars movie since the originals (fight me).



We like being able so sing along without fucking up the lyrics, or correctly guess who the killer is in the murder mystery. We typically enjoy being smug gits about stuff, and when we know how something ends, we can sit back and just enjoy the journey. By the way, its super cool to say “told you that would happen” every time you watch a film with someone. Your friends will definitely not want to throat punch you after the third or fourth time.

A way storytellers have incorporated this – whether originally on purpose or by happy subconscious accident – is through leaving breadcrumbs and clues for readers and viewers. Our brains can spot these clues and interpret them as we engage with the media. It makes the final outcome more subconsciously predictable, therefore less stressful for our brains. I hope that makes sense.



Now – if we watch something and it’s TOO obvious, we steer into boredom territory, because it’s no longer a challenge. It’s why TV shows for young kids are often seen as boring and predictable to adults (unless it’s Bluey. Bluey goes HARD).

On the other end of that spectrum, if we watch a movie and the killer turns out to be some complete rando who was onscreen, once, for two seconds at the beginning of the film and never appears again until they’re revealed, we’re going to be rightfully pissed. Every twist and turn in a story needs to be, in SOME way, predictable enough for it to be enjoyable without it being obvious or completely left field. It’s all about balance.

Remember kids: plot twists are only enjoyable if they make sense.

So, we’ve established that interesting, exciting (but subconsciously predictable) plots can make for engaging storytelling that gives us all the right brain chemicals.

This is why storytelling devices like Chekov’s Gun are effective. That knife in the kitchen sink that Stacy’s housemate forgot to put in the dishwasher in the first act suddenly becomes the one thing saving her from becoming plant feed when the villain shows up. It gives the audience a vital clue into the plot without spoiling it too much (if you do your job right) and then rewards them later in the story with a nice lil dopamine hit.


You’re welcome

There’s a variety of ways you can implement Chekov’s gun, depending on your genre. For romance, it could be an important love letter that is accidentally swept under a sofa and later revealed, confirming the writer’s true feelings in a pivotal scene. For Sci-fi, it could be a ray gun that’s actually just a cheap, novelty teleporter that becomes an important plot device when Lrrr, ruler of the planet Omicron Persei 8, is forced to shoot someone. The fun is in deciding which plot device you’re going to use and how well you’re going to hide it – just remember not to hide it too well.

Now, get back to writing.