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physalian · 8 months

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Timeskips (A Deceptively Tricky Trope)

Anyone remember when we all went to the theaters to see Endgame and the trailers actually fooled us into thinking all the action happened immediately after Infinity War? Then 15 minutes into the movie, the Thanos we grew to love/hate dies and the bomb drops: “Five…Years…Later”

It’s a shame that the movie didn’t properly explore the worldly consequences of losing half the population in favor of a Marvel victory lap through all its greatest hits. That our heroes could do absolutely nothing for five whole years, opening on a shot of a cold and dark cityscape — that was the best use and execution of a timeskip I’ve seen in recent memory, even if the rest of the movie didn’t follow through with it.

Timeskips are an effective way to age up characters or age past the end of an era of peace, or the healing after a tragedy (or the lifeless aftermath of one). Usually, your established heroes do their heroic thing, and anywhere from a couple weeks to a couple months to a couple years pass before the story picks back up again. Some may have died along the way, the political climate has changed, couples have had children, or babies have grown into their own characters, relationships have grown, begun, or fallen apart.

These damnable plot devices are a double-edged sword. On the one hand, the author gets to skip sometimes decades of meandering plot and development to tell almost an entirely new story in the same universe, sometimes not even with the same characters who are now too old, too dead, or retired.

However, timeskips can also cause some massive confusion, missed opportunities, and fandom wars over whether or not the jaded and grizzled and depressed heroes we see on screen are, in fact, a realistic evolution from the last time we saw them (looking at you, Star Wars).

Sometimes, they’re used in a single episode, thrusting a present character into the depressing dystopian future so they can prevent whatever causes said future before disaster strikes (Teen Titans "How Long Is Forever?"), and all returns to normal by the time the credits roll. Sometimes, the author really wanted the drama and angst of a pregnancy, then got stuck with a baby that needs constant attention from its parents who can no longer go do Plot Things until the baby can take care of themselves (The Originals).

Sometimes it’s the jump between two eras of a series, where our heroes have had a couple years of practice and now we can make the tone a little darker and the action a little more visceral. Or, it’s expected of a multi-book saga that regularly jumps a year ahead with each edition, leading up to the big prophecy (Percy Jackson, Harry Potter).

The Fundamentals of a Good Timeskip

As requested by Anonymous!

Telltale signs of a dubious skip:

Audience is expected to care more about an undeveloped newcomer than the pre-existing cast, because the current cast does without explanation

Audience is “told” to accept Catastrophic Event without being “shown” how and why it happened

Characters die, break-up, disappear, marry, change teams, or change entire personalities for ~drama~ and no other reason

The Book You Never Wrote was way more interesting than the future you brought us to

The new plot depends on Events Unwritten, but never shows or explains Events Unwritten

Timeskip only exists because the author is unable to make the leaps in logic themselves and hopes you won’t notice

The legacy of past heroes is trashed completely for More Story

Signs of a successful skip:

Characters we know and love are still themselves, just a little older and wiser

Characters that do change do so logically, within reason, and could have been extrapolated from the last publication

Radical changes and the new hellscape you threw your heroes into is given ample screen time to show “How tf we got here”

The new world doesn’t disregard or ignore the legacy and victory of past heroes

Absolutely nothing of import or unexpected happened in the interim, except time

Anyone who dies off-screen won the story by dying of old age, or some other respectful avenue (popular with aging mentors and old masters, usually when their actor also passes)

Whether your timeskip succeeds or fails depends entirely on, in my humble opinion, how much story you skip and sacrifice to make the jump, and how radical the changes are from the past to the future. And, to what degree the skip serves as a means to an end or the centerpiece of the new story.

Meaning that since you leave weeks, months, years, or decades unwritten, how interesting was the Book You Never Wrote, and how badly would audiences need to read it to understand the jump from A to B?

If I’m writing a ten-year skip and half my heroes have died, half have ended wonderful relationships, two kids have been born, a known hero has become a villain, and an entire city’s been destroyed… that is a *very* interesting story I wish I had the opportunity to read, because it sounds like every character I fell in love with is about to become unrecognizable and very frustrating to follow now that I don’t understand why they make the choices they do — *if* I’m never shown evidence to support the leaps in logic.

If I’m writing a ten-year skip and all that happens in the interim is a minor child character is now a tween with a pretty average life, or my super-powered heroes have had only mediocre rogues to battle, or a character who began in the mail room is now a middle manager at their boring job, then, yeah, we can skip all that jazz and get to the good stuff. This is usually the setup for your “next generation” skip for any genre.

Good timeskips also depend on how readily the characters accept and acknowledge the changes that have happened off-page, and how much the future story now depends on the information the audience never received. If your plot and your characters constantly reference and argue over the Book You Never Wrote, your audience won’t be pleased to not have read said book.

I’m going to use specific media here because the nature of a timeskip concerns entire plots and my usual vague examples don’t suffice. How you write and implement one is entirely up to you and each of these have their staunch defenders, I just don’t like them and I’m here to explain why. Hopefully if you’ve seen at least one of them, you can use them as a shining example of what (or what not) to do in your own work.

The fandoms in question:

The 100

Star Wars

Percy Jackson

Last Airbender/Legend of Korra

How to Train Your Dragon

The Little Mermaid

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The 100

The timeskips in question are between seasons 2 and 3, and between seasons 4 and 5. The first timeskip is a couple months between seasons 2 and 3. After a huge conflict (and easily the best season of the show by a country mile), shifting alliances, enemy-of-my-enemy, the best couple-that-never-was, the season ends with protagonist Clark unable to let herself enjoy the spoils of war because of the crimes she committed to make it happen. She leaves behind all her friends to go be a hermit, including deuteragonist Bellamy, who is Not Happy about this decision.

The problem: In between seasons, Clark hasn’t changed much, but Bellamy sure has. He gets a girlfriend, develops an entire relationship, only for this girl to get fridged within the first 50 minutes or so of season 3. He takes her death super hard and, with Clark not there, spirals into a bit of a blind-faith fascist turning on all his friends and becoming nigh unrecognizable. Without seeing the growing relationship with the fodder girlfriend, without seeing how hard life has been for him without Clarke, all his choices, all his beliefs, all his pontificating sound completely foreign and out of character and he does not recover until it’s almost too late. As he’s the deuteragonist of the show, you can only take yelling at your TV for all his stupid and OOC decisions for so long, when it could have been done so much better.

The second damning timeskip is five whole years between seasons 4 and 5. Bellamy develops another unseen romance up in space, his sister becomes a bloodthirsty underground queen, and Clark devotes her entire life to raising a little girl she finds.

The problem: Clark cares a lot more about protecting the little girl than anything else, a choice audiences can’t empathize with because we’re still siding with the characters we’ve watched grow and suffer for four seasons, making Clarke an incredibly frustrating character to watch.

Five-year timeskips are fine. I think I’m in the minority in hating this decision by the writers. However, when your characters’ motivations change so radically without you being able to follow that development, making their new choices seem incredibly inconsistent with who they’re supposed to be, the disconnect is super strong. We’re being told at this point to care about these strangers over the existing cast without ever having been shown why.

Star Wars

Timeskip in question: Return of the Jedi to The Force Awakens. Enough time for Rey to look like a 20-something and, I believe, the exact same gap between the movies in the real world. The argument over Luke’s character has been beaten to death by now. We end Return of the Jedi with the promise of a galaxy in peace after decades of civil war between the Rebels and the Empire and the ultimate sacrifice from Anakin.

The problem: We open Force Awakens like the war never ended. There’s still stormtroopers, there’s still the Empire (though, now it’s called the First Order), there’s still Rebels rebelling. The happily ever after one would expect between Han and Leia is shattered because their kid went Dark Side. Their kid went Dark Side because… well, one side, the other side, and the unrevealed truth.

It’s less “Luke would never make these choices” and more “How do you expect audiences to believe Luke made these choices without seeing the pain and trauma inflicted on him to end up like this”. The casual fan only watches the episodic films. Luke ended one movie as a semi-optimistic war hero. He began the very next film jaded and traumatized enough to debate, and nearly go through with, murdering his nephew because of what he *might* do someday.

That anyone expected that to go over well was deluding themselves, but everyone knows these movies are a mess.

There’s also the disappointment in realizing all that Anakin lived and died for fell apart in less than 30 years. Who are these people calling themselves the First Order? Where did they get the funds, the resources, the platform to become as big a threat as they are? How did the Rebels fail so spectacularly at building a functioning government? How do they not have the funds, platform, and resources to buy better ships and equipment? How did no one realize they were hollowing out an entire planet to build another Death Star?

The Sequel Trilogy lost audiences when it refused to provide any explanations at all for *why* these changes happened. The movies don’t care about *how* Ben became Kylo, they just need you to accept that it happened. They don’t care *how* the First Order rose, just don’t look too closely or it all falls apart.

The skip between Empire Strikes Back to Return of the Jedi is also a bit sketchy, because Luke has done all his Jedi training off-screen and can just pull abilities out of nowhere, but the plot of Return of the Jedi doesn’t depend on having seen Luke grow.

Percy Jackson

I feel bad putting this here because it’s not nearly as egregious as the previous two, but because the original series was so good, these choices are that much more baffling. The timeskips in question: Sea of Monsters (2) to Titan’s Curse (3) and Last Olympian (5) to Lost Hero (6).

The books focus on a singular week or two per year, so Percy can age from 12 to 16 in time for the Great Prophecy by the end of the series. This series is filled with timeskips and unseen content, but the jump between books 2 and 3 is the most jarring. I just did a retrospective for both of them so if you happened to read that, I’m repeating myself a little.

The problem: At the end of SoM there is a huge shakeup in the realm of who will actually be the chosen one — a discarded chess piece has been revived and brought back onto the board. In the missing months, Percy has built an entire friendship and rapport with his would-be rival, and so many reunions were left unwritten between Thalia and the friends she left behind. It’s the depth of the missing content that really feels like they forgot to print a chapter in either book, particularly when she’s so important to the story.

Percy references quite a few times how good friends he and Thalia have become. Fantastic, on what page might I read that development, when the author spent quite a bit of time building up the presumption that you two would hate each other?

The other timeskip is the complete opposite. Last Olympian to Lost Hero is, I believe, only a month. Once again, we have a presumed happy ending and ultimate sacrifice completely torched for the sake of More Story. The original five-book saga culminates with the tragic death of a villain we’d watched for five whole books. His argument was the thesis of the first series.

The problem: As with Star Wars, everything that character died for is rendered mostly moot. There is evidence that his death meant something, in the positive changes seen in the lives of those that survived him, but he died preventing armageddon… and a month later Bigger Badder armageddon is on the rise.

I almost wish the timeskip here had been longer. A couple years, at the expense of aging up the heroes to their twenties. His legacy on the story is virtually nonexistent. When you look back at the horrible tragedy that was this kid’s life, all it amounted to, everything he fought for, everything he believed in and died for and lost friends for… bought only a month of peace.

The Last Airbender and The Legend of Korra

Obviously, the timeskip in question is between these two series, about, what, sixty years? Last Airbender ends with, once again, the world at peace, ish, with lots of cleaning up to do, reparations to make, and governments to reshape. In the gap between series, almost everyone we knew has passed away, or aged out of being useful to the plot. Aang, of course, had to die so Korra could be born.

In the first season, because I’m reasonably confident all they planned was one season, the 60 year interim sees a lot of radical changes. Fan favorites die, the old ways are lost, the status quo is nothing like it used to be. So how do they get away with it?

Firstly, the show doesn’t begin with the main villains having already conquered Republic City and trashing everything the heroes fought for. The entire season is a crawl, then a plunge, toward disaster. They let you enjoy the fruits of the old characters’ labor, see the world that they built, before the new threat attempts to burn it down.

Secondly, because almost the entire original cast is dead or absent, there are no relationships sorely missing context, and there’s no *subversive* twists to what the audience could extrapolate from the ending of the old show.

LoK did make some radical changes to the world, but, crucially, it didn’t change the surviving core characters — we still have a known point of reference through which to view all the other changes. Katara is still Katara, she’s just older. Zuko is still Zuko, he’s just older. Katara didn’t become a persnickety, bitter bat and Zuko didn’t launch the Fire Nation Invasion II and return to his angsty ponytail-era.

It also helps that Korra is, like us, an outsider to this strange new world, a perfect vector through which the audience can ask questions and get answers on how, why, and when everything changed. LoK, unlike Star Wars, cared and thought about the *how* and the *why*.

If you’re going to write a story about the next generation without compromising the legacy of the old guard, Legend of Korra is a solid example of how to do it convincingly, respectfully, and entertainingly, even if it did drop the ball on some characters *cough*Sokka and Suki*cough*

How to Train your Dragon

But an even better example? How to Train Your Dragon to How to Train your Dragon 2. It’s been five years, a massive risk for your children’s animated fantasy series, but it’s also been almost five years of real-world time. Those who were Hiccup’s age when the first movie premiered are still Hiccup’s age when they head back to theaters. Not to mention the optional Netflix shows to help fill in the gaps.

Once again, there’s no *subversive* choices made with the relationships. Hiccup is still with Astrid and they’ve grown out of their awkward teenage phase. Their personalities haven’t radically changed either, only matured, the main group of heroes have had time to foster deeper bonds.

There’s no surprise children, no important characters who got killed off screen, and the changes to their homeland seem reasonable and logical given the time frame. A place that once feared dragons is now dedicated entirely to their preservation and conservation.

This is a timeskip that took advantage of every benefit of skipping time. The audience can very easily fill in the missing years with their imagination, because the jump from A to B makes perfect sense.

Frozen and Frozen II relied on the same mechanic of the audience growing with the characters with that one musical number. I’m not a fan of the execution of either of these movies, see this post about Frozen’s convolutions, but the execution of the skip itself is well done. All that’s happened in the interim is Elsa getting a little more comfortable being a person, and time has passed.

The Little Mermaid

The gap between Little Mermaid and Little Mermaid 2: Return to the Sea double-skips. First, it skips ahead to Ariel and Eric having an infant Melody, then about twelve years later to Melody being a tween and the new protagonist of the story.

Why it works: Melody is remarkably like her mother and rides the line between endearing and annoying very well and the plot depends on the skip happening at all – twelve years removed from the ocean and Melody has no idea her mother was a mermaid. Ariel and Eric (and Flounder) have grown to become wizened and worrisome parents and absolutely nothing remarkable happened unseen between the credits of the first movie and the second skip in the second movie. They get twelve years of peace, respecting the first movie’s legacy, and it’s through the actions of characters we see on screen that start jeopardizing everything.

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Another feature I didn’t touch on earlier is that, by virtue of being a musical, the opening song to the Little Mermaid sequel efficiently catches audiences up on all the necessary exposition, all the old familiar faces, and where everyone is now in about 4 minutes. Frozen II does the same.

The Percy Jackson books also give a “previously on Percy Jackson” exposition speedrun at the start of books 2-5 and notes any important details that occurred in the missing months (save the glaring omissions detailed above).

If your time skip is just a plot device to get from A to Y, a well-handled exposition speedrun to catch everyone up won’t offend anyone, so long as you do it tastefully. If your skip is the centerpiece of the plot and the “how did we get here” is the big mystery, jarring your audience with the unexpected future on the opening pages is the point.

Do your best to avoid awkwardly having your characters state “X years have passed,” in dialogue because it’s always obvious and you can do better. Have somebody reference their upcoming birthday so audiences can do the math, or an anniversary. “X years have passed” cracks the immersion, as your characters don’t know or care that a time skip has occurred.

Or, if you’ve written a narrating style that talks directly to the audience, the narrator can just say “X months ago we did Y in the last book, reader, you remember how fun that was?”

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TL;DR, terrible timeskips happen, in my opinion, when the writers are disinterested with the interim and want to get to the good stuff without providing a logical jump to get there. Or, they happen when the time the story skips to jeopardizes where it came from without explanation. Whether that’s undermining the legacy of the original hero, ruining relationships and killing fan favorites for *subversion points* and *drama*, or creating a world so far removed from what audiences expected that they’re left confused watching their heroes make baffling decisions based on development they’re promised did happen, but is never shown. It’s one thing if you take your wide-eyed hero and toss him into a bleak future where everyone’s shocked by his pessimistic outlook, it’s completely different tossing your hero into a bleak future and none of his friends seem to care.

#writing advice #writing resources #writing tips #writing tools #writing a book #exposition

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