Writing popular fiction

one who really cares for her. This is a popular Gothic gimmick that never seems to lose its appeal, no matter how often it is used. The only variant on this plot that is commonly used is to have the orphaned heroine go to live in a house with her last living relatives. If you take this tack, remember that the relatives must be distant and all but strangers to the heroine.
    The pace of the average Gothic novel is considerably different from that of any other genre fiction, and the new Gothic writer should read at least half a dozen titles in the field to get the feel of this special rhythm. Gothic events develop slowly, against a moody background which must be fully and leisurely explored. Gothic novels are full of rainstorms, snow, thunder, lightning, leaden skies, cold draughts, and other gloomy omens which set the mood and act as generators of suspense as much as do the few violent incidents in the course of the story. Nowhere is the Gothic's subdued pace more evident than in the opening of the book. The reader's attention must be caught, but not by an intriguing plot problem that sparks a "need to know." Instead, the Gothic opens by establishing the mood of impending disaster, lurking evil. It makes the reader want to say: "Get away from this place. Leave. Get out. Run." Traditionally it will begin either with a description of the house which is to be the center of all the action, or with a scene that shows how alone and helpless the heroine is. Here's an example of the first type of Gothic opening, from Deanna Dwyer's
Legacy of Terror
:
Elaine Sherred was ill-at-ease from the first moment she caught sight of the Matherly house, and she would later remember this doubt, and wonder if it had been a premonition of disaster.
    The house stood on the brow of the hill, partially shielded from her by several huge Dutch elm trees, and it was sprawling, immense. That in itself was not what bothered Elaine, however; all of the houses in this exclusive suburb of Pittsburgh were extraordinarily large, and all of them stood on four and five acre estates which were carefully tended by the most professional of gardeners. What made the Matherly house different, and therefore disconcerting, was its rococo stonework. Beneath the deep eaves, under the thrusting, flat black slate roof, a band of hand-carved story-stone ran across the entire facade and continued down the west wall as well. Indeed, those stone angels and stone satyrs, frozen nymphs and bas-relief urns, trees and flowers and planets and stars probably encircled the entire house, like a ribbon. The windows were set deep in thick stone walls and flanked by fretted black and silver shutters which
contrasted starkly with the light stone of the walls. The main entrance was a door twice as large as any man could require, like the entrance to a cathedral, at least twelve feet high and five wide. Heavy brass handles adorned it, gleaming against the oak as did the brass hinges. The windows on either side of the door, unlike the other windows that she could see, were stained glass, in no particular pattern, the individual fragments worked together with lead. In the circle of the driveway, directly before the entrance, a white stone fountain, complete with three winsome cherubs whose wings were gloriously spread, sizzled and hissed like a griddle with oil spilled on it. The pavement immediately adjacent the fountain had been torn up and rich earth placed in its stead, banked by a second marble curb as white as the fountain itself. In this dark earth, a dozen varieties of flowers sprouted, blossoming in purples, reds, yellows and oranges. This dazzling splash was vaguely reflected in the white base of the fountain, giving the illusion that the marble itself shimmered and was somehow transparent so that you were looking through it to the flowers which bloomed on the other side.
    Immediately following the description of the house, we learn that Elaine Sherred is an orphan and that she has managed to face the world, alone, only because she has been especially wary of it, has challenged life as if it were an adversary. She is very practical, dislikes fancy people and fancy places. She knows how to cope with anything, by herself, if she can reduce it to the simplest terms, but she is frightened of colorful places and people. She is somewhat humorless, always expecting the worst, and she distrusts people who do not think the same way. The Matherly house, therefore, in all its