Sorry, Buffy. Keep slaying those vampires. Ours has been a passionate journey. I've watched every episode -- all seven seasons -- at least three times. I've sung the praises of your hot plots, clever dialogue, nifty cliffhangers and shapely narratives. But enough is enough. I've found another. I've left you for Veronica Mars.

The television series "Veronica Mars" ran for three seasons on the CW. I did not see a single episode in 2005 and 2006, but have now enjoyed the first two seasons on DVD. Admirers have described "Veronica" as Buffy meets Nancy Drew meets Raymond Chandler. Set in the mythical Southern California town of Neptune (not far from Buffy's Sunnydale, I imagine), the series takes a hard look at class differences in high school, from kids who live like billionaires to Latino biker gangs from the wrong side of town. The glue that keeps this world from flying apart turns out to be a middle class kid named Veronica Mars (Get it? Neptune aligns with Mars?)

Veronica Mars

She is, of course, blond, spectacularly cute (Buffy, are you listening?) and, much more importantly, the cleverest girl on the face of the earth. The daughter of a former sheriff, now a private detective, Veronica helps her dad with his cases and has an "office" in the ladies room of Neptune High, where students with problems seek her out.

Throughout the first 44 episodes, Veronica tracks down murderers, stalkers, missing kids, missing parents, adulterers, dog killers (Michael Vick, are you listening?), lecherous movie stars, gay bashers, gang bangers and on and on. Why am I telling you all this?

Because along the way, I've noticed a new narrative form. Take a seat, pyramids, hourglasses and nut graphs. Make way for the "umbrella."

This name was given to me by my brilliant young colleague, Ellyn Angelotti, who also turned me on to Veronica and lent me her collection. It turns out, of course, that the umbrella (or the bumbershoot if you prefer) is an ancient form, going back in English literature at least six centuries.

Roy Peter Clark

Here's how it works. First, you need a broad story arc, something that will carry the audience from the first episode to the last. During season one, the big question was "Who murdered Veronica's best friend, the hot and spicy Lilly Kane?" The question is raised in episode one, but not answered until episode 22. In the second season, the big arc (the top of the umbrella) was "Who placed a bomb on a school bus, killing several students?"

The problem with such long arcs is that they are hard to sustain. (Think of the disastrous final season of "Twin Peaks.") Readers and viewers need something to enjoy with each episode, a small arc within the big one, a narrative with its own complications and resolution. Here's a description of season two, episode 10: "Christmas is anything but holly jolly this year. Veronica pulls jury duty on a case that sparks confrontation in the jury room. And the Lilly Kane/Aaron Echolls sex tapes vanish from the sheriff's station." Notice how the episode offers a tighter narrative (the jury room) but also advances the larger one (the murder victim's sex tapes).

Lest we think this is all so edgy and post-modern, flashback about 600 years when one funky poet, Geoffrey Chaucer, begins construction of "The Canterbury Tales." The big arc (sometimes called a frame) carries 30 pilgrims from London to Canterbury, from the City of Man to the City of God. But along the way, each pilgrim tells a tale. Combined, the stories reveal the diversity and complexity of English society during the late 14th century, from the oh-so-sacred to the scatological profane.

So now you can add the umbrella to your closet of narrative strategies. The big arc is the top of the umbrella, and the stories within the story form the smaller arcs around the edge.

[Let's have a vote: Which name do you prefer: Umbrella or bumbershoot? Can you think of other examples of this form?]


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