Hello, all! This is the last blog post I’ll be writing before Halloween, so I decided to write about something spooky: Rosemary’s Baby, the much beloved horror classic by Ira Levin.
While its characters could use more depth and multi-dimensionality, the writing is solid and Levin quickly establishes an delightfully uncomfortable world where you’re never really sure who you can trust. It’s one of the few horror stories that really nailed dramatic irony. While the main character is obviously unaware of the danger she faces, it’s done convincingly and the reader is never left wanting to yell “HOW HAVEN’T YOU FIGURED THIS OUT YET?!” at the page.
Dramatic irony aside, there’s a more specific lesson that writers can learn from the book, and that they’ll want to know in time for some Halloween writing. Levin’s book is a great example of how you can subtly ease a reader into a disturbing, twist-heavy tale without them getting distracted or taken out of the story.
To explain how Levin does this, we first need to explain two of the core horror elements of Levin’s world. The is fairly obvious: dishonesty is the norm, in this world. Everyone lies in Rosemary’s Baby, even when the stakes are low and they don’t really have to. For example: after Rosemary and Guy move into their new place and get to know their neighbors, the Castavets, an incident prompts Mrs. Castavet to visit Rosemary. During the conversation, Mrs. Castevet asks Rosemary what her husband does and Rosemary says that “he does a lot of work in television and radio,” despite the fact that the only TV and radio work he’s had is in advertising, which the Castavets openly disdain. Lying about this wasn’t remotely necessary, but the characters just can’t seem to stop.
But, this is also an example of the second element of Levin’s world: expectations never align with reality. In most books, the white lie would’ve gone unnoticed and unmentioned, and readers would have forgot about it. After all, how often do people catch white lies or call someone out for them? But, as Mrs. Castevet leaves, she grabs Rosemary’s mail, looks at it, and says: “Ads. Well, it’s better than getting nothing, isn’t it?” As innocuous as it seems, the timing is suspicious enough for the reader to freeze and wonder: “wait, did she know Rosemary was lying?”
Aside from highlighting the earlier lie, this subverts expectations by leading the reader to think that, just maybe, you can’t lie around these people. You can’t get away with tricking them, even in simple situations.
The truth is that these two things—dishonesty and subverted expectations—are inextricably connected. At every turn, Rosemary’s new life, pregnancy, and home life go in directions she doesn’t expect. And every time she tries to confront the people in her life about it, they give her a very convincing lie. But, all these lies would have stood out as jarringly suspicious if Levin hadn’t established these characters as liars from the book’s first pages. Even thematically, the lies and subverted expectations create a tone where reality seems unhinged and the reader can’t feel safe. They can’t catch their footing, alternating between feeling helplessly open and claustrophobic.
So, what is there to learn, here? Well, on a surface level, the book is a good reminder that a solid way to make your reader feel insecure and uncomfortable— a great tactic for horror writers— is by wrenching control and knowledge away from them. Make it clear that both the reader and the characters are incapable of knowing or predicting the reality of the world around them, as Levin has done by filling his text with dishonest characters who, somehow, always seem to know when the protagonist is trying to pull one over on them.
But, if you choose this path, you need to start small and believable, and that’s the real lesson to be learned, here. As I mentioned earlier, the constant lying would have been jarring if Levin hadn’t already established this culture of dishonesty. Instead of diving right into big, noticeable lies, Levin has his characters telling white lies that seem reasonable and understandable early on. In fact, in the book’s first two pages, Rosemary is begging Guy to come up with a lie to get them out of their other lease so they can have a chance at landing the apartment they really want. It’s not a glaring lie, but it’s noticeable for the consequences it has on the story and the impact of starting a story with a lie.
In other words, when you’re building a tense, twisting world where the reader can’t catch their footing, you need to start small and gradually ease the reader into the labyrinth of your tale. You need to amp up the twists bit by bit, so that by the time the reader gets to the really crazy stuff, they’re already too deep into the maze to leave.
Of course, that’s not easy to do. As a writer, you should try to put yourself in the shoes of the character and the reader and ask whether you’d be able to look past these oddities if you encountered them in your day-to-day life. If so, then start to slope them up. You need to start slow and small, bringing the horror of the story to its tipping point so gradually that the reader doesn’t notice when everything starts to fall out of control.
Keep an eye on that progression during your own stories, and happy writing!
Featured image courtesy of S. Hermann and F. Richter!
