Larry Brooks's Blog, page 33

The Secret To a Successful Concept

Here it is, right up front. No elaborate setup. Not even a needs-analysis as a lead-in. We’ll get to that once you know what a successful concept is… and what it isn’t.

The secret of a successful concept is to move from the situational to the actionable.

From a state-of-being to a call-to-action.

From a snapshot toward a moving and evolving set of images and possibilities.

From an explanation to a proposition.

From a character to a journey.

From a story about something to a story about something dramatic.

That last one is the whole enchilada.

Because it forces you to understand what the term “dramatic” means in the context of storytelling. What it means to you, as the writer. You’d be surprised how many writers don’t understand that term.  I see it all the time in the story coaching I do.

In fact, it is this particular understanding that separates the published from the unpublished. Right there, squeezed into that little metaphoric tortilla. The whole meal deal… is drama.

I’m not referring to “high concept” versus character-driven stories.  Both require drama, summoned to the narrative through conflict.

What drama means leads to one thing, above and in addition to all else. It leads to the possibility and implication of – here comes the most important word in all of fiction – conflict.

Until you get the possibility and/or implication of conflict into your statement of CONCEPT, either directly or through implication, then that statement isn’t sufficient. It isn’t good enough, in that it isn’t rich enough.

To put this a bit more more positively… it isn’t done yet.  Which means it isn’t ready yet.

And that, too, separates the published from the unpublished.

The latter writes what they deem to be final drafts from concepts that aren’t complete. Aren’t finished. Aren’t inherently dramatic… enough.

You’re still searching for your story if you can’t describe your story in a way that shines a light on the forthcoming conflict within it. And that’s why you need to get this nuance down pat… the difference between an idea and a concept that is deep and promising enough for the story itself.

I ask everyone I work with this question: What’s your concept?

In the workshops I give, in the conversations I have with those who say they want to write a book, and as the lead question in my story coaching process.

Too often I get answers that aren’t concepts at all. Oh, the writers think they are, they’re all excited about them… but they’re not. They’re ideas. Situations. They’re static snapshots in time, rather than dramatic sequences of time.

“What’s your concept?” I asked.  ”Well, my story is about my grandmother growing up in Iowa,” she answers.

Not a concept.  Just an idea.  Not a sequence of dramatic events, but a snapshot of a woman standing in a field of corn.  At least at this point in the story’s development.

That’s the seductive trap: Concepts that sound like stories, but aren’t.

The trap snaps shut on you – it devours you – when your start writing from that undeveloped idea, rather than from a sufficiently dramatic concept.  The is knowing when it’s no longer un-developed.

“But wait”… I can hear you pantsers yelling. “That’s not how I write! I like to discover my story as I go along!”

Nann Dunne and many of her commenters talked about this in the most recent (before this) Storyfix post. Me too… many times. This is another key difference between the published and the unpublished: published authors… whether they plan, pants or do some combination of both… understand when they are still searching for a story, and when they have found it.  And, thus, when they can now write a draft that works optimally well.

There’s another helping of whole enchilada for you. This is a deal breaker… and it is often broken right at the opening gate, where concept creates the landscape for everything in the story.

Your concept needs to be deep and wide… and promise drama.

If it doesn’t,  then you need to remain in search mode until it does. And, you’ll have a completely different and better (sufficient) answer to my question – what’s your concept? – when it does.

The classic non-conceptual concept: What I did on my summer vacation.

“Concept” is a relative term. As storytellers, we need to not accept the thin end of that stick and shoot for the loaded end, where dramatic weight, thematic resonance, freshness and compelling energy reside.

The following are concepts that, for writers, aren’t conceptual enough:

A story about growing up on a farm.

A story about having the bank delivering a foreclosure notice.

A story about finding your birth mother.

A story about a boy going to another planet or dimension.

Notice what these have in common: there’s so clear hint or promise of drama. There is nothing that sets them apart from, well, a diary of a character engaged in these journeys. There is no conflict… yet.  Even if the arenas are vivid.

It’s not that they’re bad. It’s just that they’re not done yet. And the draft that is written from these incomplete concepts will suffer for it.

The Key: Moving from “idea” and “arena” toward “dramatic possibility.”

Here are those same concepts, rewritten with drama and conflict leaping out form between the words. The former were ideas and arenas… these are concepts:

A story about growing up on a farm… as a black slave in love with his white master’s daughter in 1861 South Carolina? Or, set in 1961, with the term “slave” being relative, in that case.

A story about having the bank delivering a foreclosure notice… when the hero knows the banker is taking revenge after his exposure in an affair with his wife.

A story about finding your birth mother… and discovering she is, in fact, your sister, too… who is now a U.S. Senator.

A story about a boy going to another planet or dimension… to find a cure for a fatal disease that is about to wipe out mankind, beginning with his father, who is the scientist that can make it happen.

Drama… conflict… plot… character arc… across the board. And in way that the original “ideas” didn’t define or promise.

Of course, all of these would benefit from a transformation into a “what if?” proposition… written as a propositionthat does two things:

1. Asks a compelling question that elicits a hunger for an answer… and,

2. leads to other dramatic questions that resides either higher or lower than the initial one in the hierarchy of the story’s dramatic roots.

For example: “What if a boy grows up as a slave in 1961 South Carolina and falls in love with his master’s daughter? What if that daughter is half-white, from his relationship with an other slave years before? What if that slave has hidden the fact she is, in fact, his mother? What if she is killed by the master before the truth is revealed? What if she left her son a hidden note, to be delivered if anything ever happened to her? What if he is forced to choose between his new love and her father, the master who murdered who he now knows is his mother?

Concepts are seeds.

They grow and spread. It is our job to cultivate and weed out what works, what flows in a direction that creates the best dramatic garden possible, rather than a field of wild flowers.

It’s good to know what you’ve got before you begin to water them. Especially if your end-game is to sell what you’ve grown and feed an audience with it.

It begins with a concept that is enough. With these standards on the table, you get to decide when that happens.

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If you’d like to see if your concept is deep and wide enough, in a dramatic sense… click HERE.

If you’d like to see if the story you’ve written or are planning fulfills the promise of your concept, click HERE.

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WANTED: A WordPress guru or expert who can help me fix a problem. I’m developing a new website for a book I’ve written in another niche (not about writing… it’s about successful relationships), and in the process of getting the new site up and running I inadvertently screwed up, rendering the site inaccessible, either to me through the WordPress sign-in (where I need to delete the plug-ins that caused this problem), or through the URL itself. If you can point me toward a resource that can help with this, I’d be most grateful.

In fact, I’ll offer a FREE $100 story review to the first writer/blogger who can make this problem go away. Email me at: storyfixer@gmail.com.

The Secret To a Successful Concept is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

A Wannabe Writer or a Wannabe World Traveler?

A Guest Post by Nann Dunne

For just a few minutes, instead of thinking of yourself as a wannabe writer, think of yourself as a wannabe world traveler. You’re standing in your hometown, smack-dab in the middle of Kansas City, Missouri, with a map in hand. You must decide which way to go to achieve your goal of traveling the world. Perhaps these thoughts pass through your mind:

• If I go east, I’ll have to travel through the crowded eastern corridor and then to Europe or Africa. Those are large continents where people speak different languages from mine and I won’t be able to understand them. Not sure I want to start that way. Maybe do it later.

• If I go west, I have to travel through deserts and high mountains. From there, I’ll have to take a ship, go across a number of islands, and then hit the oriental countries whose customs are so different from mine. I’m not sure I’m ready to try that route.

• If I go north, I’ll go through Canada and have to cross over the Arctic Circle and the North Pole before I land in civilization. That sounds pretty difficult to set out with.

• If I go south, I have to go all the way through Mexico and South America, and like north, I have to cross Antarctica and the South Pole before I get on real land again. I think that way’s too cold to put at the beginning of my journey.

Too Many Choices?

So there you are, map in hand, with plenty of choices and directions on how to get there. But you know what? Too many choices have stymied you. Suppose you narrow it down and decide to first go to New York City. Your map shows you hundreds of ways to get there, and still you hesitate. The choice of routes is overwhelming. You decide not to move until you know exactly WHERE you want to go and exactly WHICH streets on the map to follow to get there. So you sit in your hometown and puzzle over the answers, hoping somehow they’ll be revealed to you.

Suppose, instead of sitting there thinking about it, you get moving and keep heading due east. Eventually, you’ll near New York City and then you can aim directly toward it. You might take a wrong turn or two, but as long as you recover your direction and keep traveling toward the general area of your destination, you stand a good chance of getting there. Doesn’t that sound better than sitting there waiting for answers that might never come?

Now Switch to Writing

Let’s look at you now as a wannabe author. You’ve read tons of books on writing, plotting, theme, characterization, setting, pacing, revision, etc. You’re overwhelmed with information. You keep hearing that before you begin to write, you should know your characters intimately; you should choose a memorable setting; you should know your beginning, middle, and ending; you should know your First Plot Point, Midpoint, Second Plot Point, and Pinch Points; in fact, you should know the end of your story before you begin it. And the only way to achieve all this is to outline your story ahead of time.

That’s what all the outliners say.  (Larry’s note: well, not ALL of them, and certainly not me, someone who does advocate outlining in some form; while I may have sounded like that’s what I was saying in the past — pantsers are a very sensitive lot — that’s NOT what I mean, then or now… find your story HOWEVER you need to find it, that’s what I mean, and on that count, Nann and I are on the same page.)

And you know why they say it with such authority? Because that’s what works for them. They don’t seem to fully comprehend that any other way of writing could be as efficient or as rewarding. The big flea/ flaw in that ointment/argument is that the wannabe writer who doesn’t have all those answers in hand and doesn’t know how to puzzle them out ahead of time is in danger of giving up in frustration.

Maybe You’re a Pantser

I believe most writers are pantsers. Outliners tell us that pantsers wander all over the place in search of their stories. Maybe that’s true of some pantsers, but by no means is it true of all of them. I know many pantsers who have written tight, concisely written, well-plotted stories—perhaps while outliners were still searching for answers to put in their outlines. And no one will convince me that many outliners don’t also write and delete parts of their stories that wander beyond the outline. Some admit they change their outline as they go, sometimes even their ending—and doesn’t that sound similar to pantsing?

I’m not putting down outliners. My point is that if you’ve tried outlining and can’t make it work for you, DON’T GIVE UP. Maybe you’re a pantser at heart, and your story will unfold as you write it. Maybe using parts of each method will work for you.

A long time ago, a writer whose work I respected, and still do, had words similar to these to say about writing. “You want to write a story? Pick one or two characters, put them in a setting, and start writing.” (Larry’s note: be careful here, this is a viable way to SEARCH for your story… not a way to write a draft that works; that ONLY happens — to ANYONE — after you’ve FOUND your story.)

I tried that simple advice, and it has worked for me. In the processes of choosing a character and deciding on a specific setting, my brain swirled with many ideas of conflicts—and other characters—she might run into. The more I wrote, the more ideas that came to mind. I kept all the scenes connected to either the plot or related subplots that occurred to me along the way. About halfway through each story, a possible ending came to me and I aimed all the threads toward that end.

I still write that way. But I believe writing is a constant learning process, and so I tried outlining my current Work In Progress. When I finished, I had lost interest in the story and couldn’t write it. I kind of felt I had already told it—only to myself, of course. But to me, part of the joy of writing is “discovering” the story as I write it. I literally deleted that outline and have been writing the story from scratch. But that’s me, not necessarily you.

Either Method Can Work

My method suits me. I currently have five works of fiction published. They’re not Pulitzer Prize winners, but a lot of readers have told me they enjoyed them, and all of them, including the first two that were published eleven and twelve years ago, are still selling at a regular pace.

Pantsing works. Outlining works. Whichever method feeds your need, write, write, write. Don’t just sit there over-thinking it. You can’t finish if you never start.

About Nann Dunne

Author of: Dunne With Editing: A Last Look At Your Manuscript

Check it out at www.nanndunnebooks.com.

See Nann’s fiction at www.nanndunne.com.

Nann’s blog: www.justaboutwrite.com/blog

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From Larry…

Done with your NaNoWriMo?  Here’s hoping.  Now what?  Hmmm….

Go HERE to read how another another blogger is blaming me for not finishing her NaNo.  In a good way.

Go HERE to get the skinny on getting several thousands of d0llars worth of professional coaching on your story (including your NaNo)… for only several dozens of dollars.  Not an exaggeration.

 

A Wannabe Writer or a Wannabe World Traveler? is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

New: Two Affordable Story Coaching Options… That Can Put Your Story Over the Top

Today I’m launching a new story coaching package, this one even more affordable than the recent $100 service that was rolled out (with great success, for me and for the takers) a few months ago, and remains available.

This new one, a high level conceptual analysis, is only $35.  

That’s not a misprint.  And it can save your story’s life.  Even before you’ve written it.

I developed both programs for just this reason… I see too many stories that are compromised at the design stage.  No matter what your creative process, the end-game is the same: a story with solid dramatic chops, a rich and compelling set of characters, great pace, vivid settings, powerful themes and a visceral impact on readers.

I don’t have to actually read your draft to see if these are in play… indeed, you don’t even have to have written one yet.  By looking at the bones of the story I can determine how these essential elements will combine to tell your story.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  Here’s a brief review of both plans.

Story coaching: the application of analysis and feedback toward the improvement of your novel or screenplay.

When I analyze a story, I use 12 effective literary criteria to discover the richness, and the soft spots, of a story: the Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling… and the Six Realms of Story Physics.

I’ve written books on both, by the way… which you can check out HERE and HERE.

The process is like an MRI for your story.  At the price of a dinner or two.

It costs thousands for a full manuscript analysis.  Worth it, too.  Call me if that’s your preference, I do these all the time.

But if you don’t have thousands to spend… if you only have a few dozen dollars to spend on this… then I have something exciting to offer.  Something that’s completely original in the story coaching business.

You don’t even have to have a finished draft.  In fact, this process is equally effective and empowering for story plans as it is for completed manuscripts.

How does it work?

Rather than reading an entire draft, I ask you questions — the Questionnaire itself serves as a powerful story development tool — and based on your answers (and, at the higher level, a short narrative synopsis), I then analyze your story for its inherent dramatic potential.  I’m like a building inspector in that regard, poring over a blueprint rather than walking the halls of a building the day before a grand opening.

To use another analogy… it’s like an MRI for your story plan.  If there’s something questionable there, I’ll call it out for you, with rationale and creative options.  Before it kills you.

The Two Options

The new program is called “The $35 Conceptual Kick-Start Story Analysis.”  I’ll help you frame and define your story concept, and then analyze how well it relates to the most important moment in the story, which is the First Plot Point.  This relationship is critical, and it’s the most common weak-link in stories that aren’t dramatically sound. Get this key moment wrong and the story is handicapped, often fatally so, before it even begins.

I’ll assess how your plan works at the conceptual level, and back up the feedback with rationale and creative options.

Click HERE for more on this new program.

The existing program is called “The Amazing $100 Story Coaching and Empowerment Adventure.”

This is a deeper set of questions (in and of themselves serving as a rich story development template) which, along with your narrative synopsis of your story, allows me to evaluate the story’s concept and narrative structure, including each of the four contextual/sequential parts and their key transitional milestones, along with critical elements of story physics.

Click HERE for more on this program.  Over 100 writers have opted in since June, and the results include everything from Epiphanies to re-boots to sudden fits of renewed enthusiasm and hope.

Both levels offer RUSH OPTIONS for a few more dollars, for which I’ll work longer days (rather than bumping anyone from the line).

Let me know if you have questions.

I encourage you to give this a try… it can save you a year of frustration and perhaps a rewrite… maybe even a rejection letter.

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I do this for a living.  This… as well as writing books on storytelling and related posts here on Storyfix… and writing novels of my own (my newest, “Deadly Faux,” comes out late 2013 from Turner Publishing, who are also re-releasing my entire backlist of titles).  That said…

Just to round out the story coaching menu here...

I do FULL manuscript evaluations at a base rate of $1500 (please, do compare this to other providers, who may or may not have a bestselling book out on the criteria for story functionality…).  Those who used the $100 level coaching package to develop the story later pay only $1200 for a finished draft review (based on 80,000 to 1o0,ooo words).

I also do PART 1/FIRST QUARTILE ( through the First Plot Point) evals for $400, which includes the same Questionnaire used in the $100 program.  The first “act” of a story makes or breaks the entire project… easily 75% of the problems encountered in a full analysis are either vividly evident or suspiciously lurking in the first 100 pages.  Those who later opt to have the full manuscript analyzed pay only $1200 (additional) at that level.

Some writers desire ongoing coaching during the development process… I do that work at $50 an hour, using a draft-down against a deposit for a few hours.  Most projects require only four to 10 hours of coaching.  These clients also receive a full manuscript review for a discounted $1000 fee.

I don’t believe in brutally honest feedback.  Just explicitly honest feedback that is useful and relevant, which, when it isn’t what we want to hear, can sometimes feel a bit on the brutal side.  I wax the same level of enthusiasm when I see gold as I do when I see a crack.

My goal is to make your story better, plain and simple.  Sometimes we have to get out of our own way to make it happen… I coach that, too.

 

New: Two Affordable Story Coaching Options… That Can Put Your Story Over the Top is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

When Muse and Plan Collaborate — One Writer’s Journey

Prologue (from Larry): What you’re about to read is a response to a recent Storyfix post about good vs. “bad” ideas.  It’s from a guy whose mind, I’ve learned, is massively alive and deep in a “Life of Pi” sort of way, embracing ideas and integrating mental models into an interpretation of life and its submission to natural law.

It’s raw, unedited, heavy… and totally brilliant (IMO).

And it may be you, as well.  All of us bring some hint of pantsing to our planning, and/or planning to our pantsing, and  the ensuing dance can be the stuff of crazy-making.  For me, and hopefully for you, Kerry brings a little sanity and clarity to it all while poking the creative bear with a provocative get-off-your-ass stick,

Enjoy.

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A Guest Post by Kerry Boytzun

That was a great article, at least it was timely for myself as I’m struggling with finding my story, or perhaps just proceeding normally for someone who never wrote a novel, read your book, and really when it comes right down to it— doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.

So I let the Muse or my Intuition run it. Most of the time. I find that it’s a balancing act—“searching for the story” that’s just outside of the light my idea is shining into the darkness of the creative ether.  I’m not sure but I think this is all natural. I am going back and forth from “designing” (Left Brain?) a story to letting my imagination (right brain but really the Muse) see what it can make of what I’ve given it from the design shop. If I let my Muse run unchecked, it’s akin to getting high and describing how my day went up to the point the nebula of the inner black galactic circle had giant flying bunnies bounce out asking me where the nearest 711 is for a slurpy (remember slurpies?). BUT if I just do the Story Structure stuff—I find myself staring at a bunch of characters and possible plots without any feeling into it. In fact I find myself losing interest. Maybe it’s just me and my Alien genes (I must be alien cause I’m so different from everyone else).

In spite of all that, I find that my best writing, whether non-fiction or fiction, comes when I let my Muse freewheel on a subject I am pondering over. Preferably pissed off and agitated enough to go dust off the soap box. Okay my soap box is well worn from use and has speakers mounted on it…

Thus you’re accurate with the description that the search for story is a courtship. Because that’s how the above feels to me. Great writing too, regarding the more it relies on work instead of the hormones that got you into this—if that ain’t the bloody truth I don’t know what is. Kind of like the guy who chased the bad guys down (and they ran from him) until he cornered them all in the caverns and found out that he was over-matched from the get-go.

I think that some, perhaps all, of those Amazon toads that are bashing your system are in the same boat I’m in BUT they’re not realizing that they have to use BOTH sides of their brains, the planning part and the imaginative part. Hell we’re not educated that we even have two halves of the brain and what that signifies.

My metamorphosis of a so called wannabe writer, has been to read lots of novels and watch lots of movies, and then discern what made them different and why (this was 20 years ago). I read Jerry Cleaver’s Immediate Fiction (8 months ago) which was good but wasn’t much for planning, and then I read Editing books by publishers, etc. Oh yeah, years ago I read How to write a damned good novel which was good but not much for planning. Then I read the software book theory Dramatica Pro (about 5 years ago) which is very intriguing and very complex—unwieldy for planning.

Let me elaborate on that: in NLP and in Dramatica Pro, both of which are dealing with psychology, they will ask questions to which one would hopefully be able to answer. BUT here’s the catch: what they’re really asking for—searching for—is that which I, the customer, do NOT have an answer for, otherwise I wouldn’t be interested in their system (NLP or Dramatica). It’s no different than the Master asking the Grasshopper what he wants from life. It’s a stupid question because a grasshopper by definition — doesn’t know anything. He’s not the all-knowing one because he hasn’t had the (life) experience yet. Thus I find myself unable to answer many questions about my story—for which I don’t know because I haven’t found the story. **That being said, nobody will find the story for me but me—kind of like life experience—so I HAVE to search for these answers that I don’t know—in order to find the answers.

That’s bloody hard!

Hence, the attraction to pantsing because one avoids the weight of the burden of not knowing what you’re asked to know—but instead just moves forward and writes away in this case (no different from romancing the girl that gave you that look from across the room and taking it from there…see if you get along instead of asking her what she values in life…NLP) to see what you can make of what your wrote. Kind of like driving to an unknown destination while checking the rear view mirror to see if anything is of interest that you’re leaving behind.

Okay I got sidetracked (imagine that). Back to my metamorphosis: Four years ago I figured out I couldn’t use Dramatica and instead got one of the founder’s lite replacements called Story Weaver which asked me yet again a bunch of questions that I didn’t have answers to. Larry, realize that YEARS of my life are flashing by while this is going on. I started it back in the late 90′s, but because I don’t know where to go—I get stuck and then get distracted by having to make money to eat, etc. LOL. So, what 5 months ago I get back into it, read Cleaver’s book and then was reading Outlining your Novel where the author had interviewed YOU. She’s to blame. Always a woman…Jimmy Buffet (I love Key West) Anyhow, I get on your website and then get your book. I’m back in the saddle, you’ve filled in a lot of gaps. And I’m still stuck searching for the story.

What I’m doing currently, is I’ve created a bunch of characters that have surrounded an idea. Okay more than one idea. And there’s back history and research.  If you saw the attachments I’ve sent you, the mind map picture shows a LOT. And that’s all real good. What I’ve found is that I have given my Muse something to do.

As of late, my Muse told me to write as if I’m one of the characters describing their life, just as if you met them at a bar and are asking them what do you do? I’m writing what the characters are saying, describing, and thus fleshing out what my story idea looks like on stage or the screen. For me that works. I’m seeing different characters and their life goals and desires, intertwining politics and how all their lives cross over one another’s path. That’s the key for me.

Somewhere in that collage of character’s life path’s is revealed an authentic story whereby ONE of the characters did something that affected ALL of the other characters. Interestingly, this wasn’t the hero, nor the actual antagonist. This character decided that he didn’t like the way things had gone for the “family” or “organization” or “syndicate” that he was a member of. No, he had the foresight and the wisdom to see that they were on course to destroy themselves without them even realizing it. It’s common actually amongst the powerful. Power takes over wisdom and eventually the organization becomes neurotic and implodes. Call it Nature. This organization was destroying its own food supply of sorts. Thus this character decided he had to do something. BUT this isn’t something that is done overnight or in a few years. It will take probably over 5 years and will involve changing the perceptions, understandings and thus goals of key people that can change an organization. Some call it mutiny. Others call it a revolution. The USA called it…America. It’s good if you’re left standing.

Moving along, my hero is caught up in the scheme of things as a glorified consultant who was invited to the party. When his life changes as a result—that’s his FPP.  I’ve come to realize that this Epic Story had a beginning long before my hero got involved most unwittingly. That was the back story. Now I’m searching for what part it plays in the big picture scheme of things so that the concept can be flushed out and the Ending be obvious  Overall my Story involves Change, personal, inner, and the outer regime type.

But I can’t find it by answering questions. But I can’t create the basic building blocks to arrange the above back story stage without the questions. What a tangled web that Story ideas weave into a concept.

I don’t know how much of this is helpful. Half of it is to help others and yourself. The other half of it is for myeslf. I am finding out that if I think to myself—that’s one thing, but if I write to myself—that creates something that seems to be more powerful. And I can look it over and get more ideas from it.

On another note, you’re dead-on with the Bad Ideas bit. Oops, I was going to use the computer hacker figures it out but after what you wrote, I decided that what needs to be shown not told is HOW the hacker found out the secrets. For example, I’m in IT, and if I wanted to find out what the CEO was thinking about X and Y—all that has to be done is to hack his mailbox from the Exchange server and look at his emails. This was done in the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo novels somewhat. Hacking in novels and Hollywood has hardly been accurate—not even close. But even if it’s done well, it’s not as scary as getting information the old fashioned way, where the hero places bugs in the CEO’s office, or taps his phone. Better yet is talking to his secretary and bribing her or blackmailing her for information. NOW we’re talking…do something that gets us worried, that makes us unsure if WE could do this (for moral reasons or that we’re chickens) but that’s why we read novels—for those who have the guts to do what we wished we had the guts to do—and see if they get away with it.

While I’m at it, another thing to blog about one day is what Ben Affleck spoke about in a recent interview regarding Tone in movies. Tone is the ambiance that the audience applies to your story. Publishers call that Genre. Today we have artists saying you can mix genres, such as comedy and drama. That’s bullshit. Ask the guy I was talking to yesterday about a movie he watched the other day (new one) where he couldn’t figure out if the movie was a comedy, drama, love story—or as he put it—what the Frack was supposed to be happening with this movie? Ben—in the interview—said that he was directing a drama and by the time you (he) are editing the movie—it’s too late to change things IF you have messed up your Tone. In other words, he said you can’t have too many jokes in a drama or the audience will think (perceive, respond) that the movie is a Comedy—AND as a result won’t have any FEAR for what happens to the heroes. Because it’s a comedy and bad things don’t happen (if they do then it feels weird and the audience feels like they’ve been fooled—not good for the writer) to the characters, only funny things. Maybe that’s why I don’t like most of this new Hollywood crap. Anyhow Ben said you’re Fracked if the tone has changed and there’s nothing you can do about it.

For me it’s simple: is your story Serious or Light. Serious is drama. Light is humor. Action—well that’s a story minus the depth…blow them up real good…fun but shallow…chase scenes. Patterson makes tons on it for reasons I can’t give other than he appeals to those who can’t figure out anything complicated. Or they’re just lazy minds. Love stories…can be both but the scene moments are the same but the end results are serious or light.

I’ve decided to write it seriously. Jim Butcher writes the Dresden files of which most of the time the hero, Harry, is a smart ass and it’s comical. Hence I’m not worried about what happens to him or his crew. Ever. It’s exciting but not fearsome. But I feel unfulfilled reading his books as the love is never deep and it’s never serious, other than the odd scene that it seems someone else wrote (Butcher wrote a scene where at the end Harry’s nemesis White Council Wizard sacrificed himself for the woman he loved and told Harry he was sorry…it was awesome…someone needs to tell Butcher that’s what he needs to get into).

But for a serious book (not the movie) Michael Crichton’s book, Jurassic Park was scary with the dinosaurs. They were eating people like popcorn. Getting off the trail at the park was tantamount to being added to the menu. BUT that book was Fracking GREAT. I remember the scene where the archaeologist and the kids are on the raft floating down the river and the T-Rex is ignoring ALL the other dinosaurs and instead pursuing these guys like they owe her alimony. The T-Rex showed incredible intelligence, craftiness and intelligence—Crichton’s point for the whole DNA GMO thing in the first place: your creation will kill you because although you think you OWN them, think again—like a Honey Badger…your creation doesn’t give a (swear word, rhymes with “frack”) what you think. It will eat you for dinner first chance it gets.

THAT’S a story! It wasn’t number 1 for nothing.

When Muse and Plan Collaborate — One Writer’s Journey is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Two New Movies That Demonstrate Story Physics

Watch and learn.  And have some popcorn while you’re at it.

I saw two movies this weekend that made me itchy to get back to you with a strong recommendation.  Not just because they’re excellent — they’re both in the thick of the emerging Oscar conversation — but because they have something to show you. Teach you.

You… me… anyone who aspires to write compelling fiction.

Even if you’re a novelist and not a screenwriter.  Especially that.

The first is “Lincoln,” the Steven Spielberg opus that previews like a life story… but isn’t.  It’s a small sliver of time in Abe’s life — four months, to be precise — and it showcases two things that are sometimes hard to wrap our writerly heads around.

This film shows us that even when the centerpiece of a story is the hero… even when the times and the setting are part of the appeal… when history is the star… even when there is an entire life worth writing about…

… what makes it all work is this: the hero NEEDS something, the hero WANTS something,… the hero DOES something heroic to achieve it… and there is OPPOSITION to those needs and wants… in the midst of compelling STAKES.

In other words, a PLOT.

A plot driven by EXTERNAL conflict becomes the stage upon which character, theme, and historical relevance are given a voice.

Oscars all around for Spielberg, Daniel Day Lewis as Lincoln, Sally Field as his wife, Tommy Lee Jones as the unsung hero of the day, and Tony Kushner (of “Angels in America” fame, who also wrote “Munich” for Spielberg) as the screenwriter, working from a 2005 book by Doris Kearns Goodwin called “Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln.”

The other film is…

“The Sessions,” starring Helen Hunt and John Hawkes (who, coincidentally, has a key role in “Lincoln,” as well), based on an article by the real like hero, Mark O’Brien.

Bring a hanky and a hat — this is a sexually-oriented tale that pulls no punches.  Helen Hunt will be in the Oscar race if nothing else than for her courage.  It’s as thematic a film as I’ve ever seen, and you don’t have a clue that it is until you’re in the parking lot wondering why you suddenly want to reassess your entire life.

Like “Lincoln,” this film is character driven but relies on a PLOT to make it work.

Such stories always do.

THAT’s the thing I hope you’ll take away from this.  As a story coach I frequently see concepts that seem to forget this, that substitute character and history for dramatic concept and are left with no real story milestones to propel an unavoidably episodic narrative.

The other learning point here is THEME.  

Theme is one of the Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling, but the hardest to engineer into exposition.

The best themes are an outcome of the story, rather than a focus or an agenda of it.  Like conceptually-driven external conflict, theme is a tool best understood when witnessed and, even more effectively, consumed.

Both films deliver a banquet of consumption on these critical storytelling skills.

Two New Movies That Demonstrate Story Physics is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

A Farewell to Art

There are three possible takes on the title of this post. 

First, you may think I’m about to wax cynical about the triumph of commercialism over “art” in fiction.  While that’s a viable arena (and an oxymoron), that’s not what this is about.  I wish it was.

Then, you may be familiar with my colleague, Art Holcomb, whose posts frequently grace this site with eloquence and wisdom.  Happily, that’s not it either… Art Holcomb remains a welcome and appreciated part of Storyfix.

Today’s post is a farewell to a writer friend who passed away yesterday.  His name was/is Art Johnson — that’s him in the photo – and I wish to honor him by introducing him to you posthumously.

Art Johnson was an inspiration.

I’m not sure how old Art was, but I’m guessing it was somewhere near 80 or so. 

He wasn’t a close friend in a personal sense – he had plenty of those — but I’ve known him as a writer for two decades, someone who has attended many of my workshops, and who trusted me with two of his novels for coaching and analysis.  In fact, his last email to me was in response to a Storyfix post called “Suffering is Optional:10 Ways to Totally Screw Up Your Novel,” and his message was: “Writing a great story is hard, but reading your stuff is harder. Can you please increase the size of the print?”

Loved that guy.

He was at a writing conference this weekend when his heart, which was huge, decided it was time to end the story.  He passed a few days later (yesterday, as I write this) in the loving embrace of family and friends.  And no doubt, with a story he wanted to finish before leaving.

For me, Art embodied what is the Great Gift of writing. 

He was always hatching a new story while polishing another.  He’d recently self-published one of the novels – “Dead Man’s Bay,” available HERE for 99 cents– which I’d helped him with years ago.  It’s a story that never left my head (my personal litmus test for dramatic viability) for its vivid landscape and high-stakes tension. 

Writing kept Art young at heart. 

Kept him noticing the world around him, engaging with it, asking it questions, offering up answers.  He never stopped thirsting for knowledge and the company of others, and with his close friend (and mine) Martha at his side, he traversed the country in search of the next level.  He was as alive with curiousity and energy as any teenager, and his dream never lost its hope.

Writing is always a journey. 

If you’re on it, then you’re in possession of that gift.  May not feel that way, but if Art were with you now (who knows, this post might connect you…), he’d assure you it’s true.

The destination never arrives, because there is always another story to discover, another tale to spin.  Through that lens, Art was as successful a writer as anyone I’ve known.  He would tell you that he was blessed by the storytelling bug, but I say he was a blessing to it, because he embodied the writer’s life.  Full and passionate and without a finish line.

As I write this, and as you read it, he is out there somewhere, discovering the next story, the biggest of all .  I send him my thanks and affection, and wish him God’s speed and His warm embrace as he begins his next draft.  He will be missed.

His legacy, his example… and his book… remain with us.  May we all leave something of value behind, as he did.

****

If you knew Art, or wish you did, I invite you to comment here.

Thanks to Marjorie Reynolds for the picture.

A Farewell to Art is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

The Commodity of Courage — A Guest Post by Art Holcomb

 “The chief commodity a writer has to sell is his courage. And if he has none, he is more than a coward. He is a sellout and a fink and a heretic, because writing is a holy chore.” ~ Harlan Ellison

I believe a writer must have the courage to:

START IN EARNEST: Not in fits and starts, but as if your life and world depended upon you taking this path. This could be the hardest thing you have ever done, because the need comes from some unspoken, ancient, and deep. 

Harder still, because you must cast aside every day any voice in your life that says that this is not your destiny. No one will really understand you – that is, except the audience who await your arrival.

It’s just one step into the darkness. 

So . . . take a breath, center yourself . . . and begin.

DO INCREDIBLE EXPLORATION: Talent is important and wonderful and amazing and – in the end – is not enough to make you a success.  But exploration matters, because writing is more about being REAL than being right.  Being authentic in what you say gives power to your words and makes it easier to finish each piece. 

80% of all writing happens before you type CHAPTER ONE or FADE IN. 

At least half of THAT writing is done out of the chair.

Inspiration and discovery combine when you commit to doing this deeply and well.

SAY WHAT OTHERS WILL NOT:  I know you have seen things in the corners of Creation.

You have felt and done things that have changed your life. And you stand now – in this place and at this time – to testify – to tell YOUR TRUTHS to others through the greatest vehicle there ever was for truth: Story.

These things are often dark and byzantine and intense and uncomfortable and some of them frighten you.  But it is because of this that you MUST say them because they are the very things that make vital, personal, and spiritual the connection between you and your readers.

You have to go deep every time.  That means taking the risk of making your readers uncomfortable because you’re making them think and feel. So write the passages that will cling to your readers, the ones that will return to them sudden and unbidden in years to come. 

It’s what writers like Ellison have done for me.  You can do it for the next generation.

MAKE MISTAKES: Mistakes are the only way to know that you’re pushing yourself beyond whatever your limits are right now.  Later, you won’t make these same mistakes anymore… you will make new ones.

And that’s how you grow. 

But if you are not regularly making mistakes, if the writing is coming out “perfectly” in first draft all the time, it’s not because you’ve finally become the consummate professional . . .

It’s because you’re not trying hard enough and you’ve set the bar too low.

Reach farther. Write harder, faster, deeper. 

And when in doubt – always take the risk.

KEEP YOUR TALENT IN CONTEXT: I had my first public success in writing when I was 13. As a result I became prideful – and even a bit stuck up – because I thought I could do something that others could not, and do it well.

Years later, a day came when I called upon that talent to get me through and it failed me.   I came up empty – literally – and thought I was done for sure.

I felt like that, lost in an ever-increasing dry spell, for 11 years.

After trying everything I could to create again, I started doing research and setting deadlines and disciplining myself to produce good work on a regular schedule. Eventually, my productivity and quality came back and I got back in touch with my abilities once I realized that talent works best in harness and under the thumb of a good work ethic.

I never took it for granted again.

BE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR IMPACT: This is not meant for you to be careful about what you say for fear of offending someone.  Your words are yours alone, and people will react to them as their own lives, desires and circumstances dictate. “Offensive” is a label, not a critique.

But regardless of what you say, you must consider carefully the deeper meaning of your particular truths, and then have the courage to stand by what you say. 

“You are either master of your spoken words or slave to those best left unspoken.” – A. Lincoln.

SACRIFICE: Writing is more about choices than most people realize.  It’s not just the choice of what to say and when, but the thousands of choices you will have to make to give your writing a fighting chance. 

The image of the gentleman (or woman) writer at ease, working two or three hours a day and then lounging by their pool or living the life of ease has always been a myth.

There are things every serious writer, musician, and athlete must give up every day to afford them the time to learn and work their Art.  Writing, especially, is a lonely journey, even in the midst of a crowded coffee house, and to do this day in and day out is the active choice we make – moment by moment – as we each fight for our own relevance. 

Recognize and celebrate that sacrifice in yourself.  Respect and celebrate it in others.

SET AND HIT DEADLINES:  This is the great secret to a successful career as a writer. 

But it is at the same time both the most dreaded aspect of a writer’s life and the absolutely best tool you have in becoming a successful writer.  Because any open-ended writing project – with no concrete due date – is a project that will never be finished. 

I learned that while writing my first monthly comic book series in 1993. 

The prospect was very attractive: a completed comic book with words and story by me and art inspired by my ideas, in my hands published EVERY MONTH! 

Of course, if that were to actually happen, if artists were to have pages to draw, inkers and colorist to have pages to fill, a printer to have pages to print and my publisher to have a profit with which to continue paying me, I had to complete a new 22 page script with new story and new ideas each month!

On time. 

Every time.

Every month.

Since I very much enjoyed writing and eating, I learned to do it.

Since other people were depending on me, I had to make sure those stories were done and done well.  There was always another deadline and always another challenge and soon I realized that this was the only way to create a body of work.

I now apply this to all my projects, setting a deadline for each phase.  It’s how I must work to be successful.  It’s how Larry must work to be able to manage all of his many projects and achieve his many successes.  Best learn to embrace it now.

I like the way Chuck Wendig (the incredible prolific novelist-screenwriter-game designer) says it:

Write as much as you can…

Write as fast as you can…

Finish your work…

Hit your deadlines…

Try not to suck.

FINISH: And Chuck is right about this too.  So simple a concept, it lies at the heart of most writing failures. The secret saga of every unpublished writer is their embarrassment of unfinished work.  There should be a law that says that you are not allowed to call yourself a WRITER until you actually finish something.  Until then, you are an apprentice. 

This is not to penalize those learning their craft, but there should be a benchmark by which to measure yourself.  Because you will never get an audience until you publish and you cannot publish until you finish.

SUBMIT: In a world of e-publishing and blogging, the concept of submitting your work to another for acceptance can seem a bit alien. This is because both these institutions have devolved into their own forms of vanity publishing. 

But such format denies the most basic tenet of a writer’s development: the crucible of critique.

It is vital to the artist’s life that he knows directly how another well-informed person perceives their work. 

It is both feedback and benchmark. 

It is a way to tell how well you are reaching your audience.

It is vital to growth as a writer.

Without it, you can inadvertently join that unfortunate subclass of the writer:  the dilettante.  The person who lives their life as much as a work-in-progress as the pieces they cannot finish.  People can delude themselves so easily such writers can toil away at a piece for years without every submitting it to scrutiny, living in the mindset of a writer without accomplishing anything.

At best, it is the literary version of Sisyphus and the rock.

At worst, it is a Siren’s song, trapping you in your own desire.

Are you that person? Are you still writing something that you know is done but cannot seem to move past? Just decide to send it off and start something new. Take a chance.

Remember: courage isn’t really just a virtue.

Courage is a decision.

OPEN LETTER OF APPRECIATION

This post marks my 12th appearance and my one-year anniversary with Storyfix.

I’d like to thank you sincerely for the kindness you have shown me, Larry.  It has been my honor to share this time with you and your readers and I appreciate this wonderful opportunity to give voice to my often peculiar thoughts. I have found as I travel and lecture and meet other writers how Storyfix is well known as the home for writers passionate about their stories and their development as professionals.  I believe our ability to meet here and discuss both the fundamentals and the finer points of writing has made a profound difference in the lives of so many.

I know it has in mine.  I am very grateful.

Art

*****

Art Holcomb is a produced screenwriter and a published comic book author of such comics as Marvel’s X-MEN.  He consults and teaches screenwriting and comic book writing for the UC Riverside Extension Writer’s Program and elsewhere. 

His most recent story is ALWAYS WINTER BUT NEVER CHRISTMAS and is currently working on a book for writers entitled Perfecting Your Premise.

He lives in Southern California

The Commodity of Courage — A Guest Post by Art Holcomb is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

When Bad Ideas Sabotage Killer Concepts

Also known as, “The Attack of the Whopper Coincidences.”

Or, “Four Plot Points and a Funeral.”

Or, “Dancing with the Deus ex Machina.”

A good story is very much like a romance.  Not terms of genre – what you’re about to read applies to all genres – but in the sense that the relationship between concept and execution, as well as writer and reader, is a love story.  

It’s about initial attraction and chemistry.  Gratification, fascination, and soon, a deeper meaning and purpose. 

It always starts out so… well.

Then, ultimately, it becomes about something else, too.  Like, living together.  The pursuit of harmony.  Always the intention, rarely the case.  Because the deeper you go, the harder it gets.  The deeper you go together, the more it relies on work instead of the hormones that got you into this.

And that’s where the wheels come off in many stories.  But you don’t see these stories… because they don’t get published.  Not matter how sexy the original idea.

There are so many ways to mess up a great idea.

The first is to actually try to turn an idea into a story… before you turn it into a compelling concept.  Maybe your idea arrived fully cooked as a viable concept, but that rarely happens (which begs the question, can you tell the difference?). 

You can plan or you can pants, but the search for story is an inevitable part of the romance between you and your original idea.  Skip that courtship phase and you’re likely to end up with a broken heart.

A story is never built on a single idea. 

Launched, perhaps, but the ensuing exposition is nothing if not a series of subsequent and subordinated narrative ideas – decisions – along the way. 

Each one is a chance to make or break the whole dramatic enchilada.  Thus…

The second realm of story death comes with the inevitable challenge of making those ideas work.  It’s a qualitative thing, the very essence of art (and you thought art was the sum of all those pretty sentences)… the difference between superstar authors and the rest of us.

This is where so many writers trip up, falling victim to the siren song of the original idea (which, you soon realize, was only in it for the money from that first sizzling glance across a crowded room…).

The mechanics of exposition can kill your concept.

Because this is where writers get desperate.  They are in a corner (one into which they have written themselves) and they know it… so they jump the shark.  They change lanes from credible to unlikely, from necessary to eye rolling.

Happens all the time.  I know this because I read unpublished stories for a living.  And I’m here to tell you, it’s a deal killer.

An effective story needs to change along the way to the climax.

It needs to evolve.  Hidden things need to be unearthed.  Old assumptions need to be overturned.  Surprises need a door through which to enter the narrative.  

Your hero needs to discover things.  Find out stuff. 

This is the machine of your story.  The backbone of dramatic exposition.  Every story is a machine, and it is the concept that defines the scope of what the machine needs to accomplish along the way. 

Each story beat is a connection, a weight-bearing moment of forward-motion. 

And too often, writers make those connections using the prize from a Crackerjack box or a page from an old comic book instead of a finely calibrated fire-forged, finely milled, ingenious steel bolt welded solidly, logically into place.

The contrive.  They force.  They insert a concocted solution – a means of changing the story through discovery or disclosure – in the hope the reader will buy it.

They hatch and then implement a bad idea.  Or a weak one… which, make no mistake, is a bad idea.

And, like a computer virus or a deadly bacteria, the otherwise healthy and promising story concept is now infected.  Infections grow, they inhabit and destroy otherwise healthy tissue of the host. 

Bad ideas create a string of cause and effect, a domino theory of dramatic disaster. 

A Murderer’s Row of Bad Ideas

Some stories are more exposed to this trap and others. 

Time travel tales, for example, always need to address one unsolvable problem – they need to present and explain the impossible (the actual means and rationale for traveling through time).  It just can’t happen in the real world.  But it must happen in these stories, and so the writer is left to throw something against the narrative wall and hope that we’ll buy it, within a world of their creation. 

 

Time travel stories have tried everything to facilitate this critical connection, from looking at an old coin to closing our eyes and wishing real hard, to the old standby of climbing into a contraption that looks like a set piece from Jules Verne movie.  And we buy it, just like we buy the notion that the BCS (or the Electoral College, pick your unpopular analogy) is fair and relevant. 

We have to, or the whole thing won’t fly.

But for pretty much everything else in the realm of fiction, readers are unforgiving in these moments.  Fiction often demands more crediblity than real life.  And thus, the seductive song of the ridiculous.

Odds are that, within your narrative, your hero is searching for something: information, solutions, safety, a person, the past… whatever.  Your job is to bring them closer to finding it, step by step over the structural arc of the story, with compelling urgency and credibility.

But sometimes you hit a wall.   A paradox.  You find yourself in that corner.  Nothing seems all that credible.  And because you  are so immersed in the Big Picture of your story, and you must solve this problem to move the story forward,  so you jam something into that moment of connection and then move on.

Here are a few I’ve seen recently.

The hero is looking frantically for a lost loved one.  Can’t find her.  And then, while sitting in a coffee shop, the waitress happens to know where the missing girl can be found.  Never met the waitress before… she just knows.  Heard some guys talking.

Bad idea.

A woman seeking clues to her past receives information in a dream from her dead grandmother.  And this isn’t a paranormal story. 

Bad idea.

Hero leaves town.  Needs to clear his head.  And discovers, one thousand miles away, that the person or thing that will solve his problem is in an RV just across the road.

The teen hero of a YA novel is trying to prove the complicity of a city official in a crime.  The cops are in the pocket of the city official, and the teen can’t get anywhere.  So our prepubescent hero hacks into the police database to learn things.  Or breaks into the police station evidence locker to find clues.

Dreams and computer hackers are everywhere in stories that get rejected.  What a quick and easy way to get information into a protagonist’s head, right?  Don’t rely on them for your narrative connections. 

Always a bad idea.  

YA is a great and fertile ground for such credibility leaps.  Teens who outsmart the police, the CIA, and win hand-to-hand street fights with trained killers and armed military specialists.  One kid takes down a battalion of alien warriors.

Here’s an example of a weak idea, rather than an overtly bad one: the hero is stumped.  Then, one night, bolts upright because he remembered something. 

The adjectives that describe these mistakes are: contrivance, unlikely, lucky, impossible, ridiculous, convenient, OMG, less than credible, gifts from God, gifts from the dead or other non-humans.

They’re almost always deal killers.  Not just in the moment, but very soon after they are put in play from the narrative domino effect that ensues.

Contrived, unlikely story beats are like lies. 

They almost always come back to bite you.  And they smear your credibility in the process.  They render your Great Idea impotent the moment they hit the page.

Don’t let your great concept go down because of a weak connection, a flimsy narrative beat or an eye-rolling moment.  Put on your cynic hat – or rely on someone who will deliver an acid cynic test to the story.

Sometimes you’ll find that the culprit here is the concept itself.  Because there’s no other way to make it work than to assume the powers of David Copperfield or Jesus Christ himself.

A great concept is like a new-born.  So full of promise and potential.  So demanding of your best, most honest self. 

Don’t let it grow up to be a liar or a con artist.  Or even a magician.

Your story runs on connections.  On the creative decisions YOU make in building it.  Make them work, before you hit SEND.

*****

If you’d like to see if your story is teetering on the precipice of credibility abyss, click HERE.

When Bad Ideas Sabotage Killer Concepts is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Mastering the Fabulous “F-Word” in Fiction

Not to worry… it’s NOT what you think is. 

If that F-word offends and you’re just about to click off… don’t.  There are serious writing principles at work here.  Career-making stuff, in fact.

Not that I wasn’t tempted to go all snarky and positively puntastasique.  But when I realized how these words not only reflect the highest principles of storytelling – how they can unlock, unblock or otherwise clarify – I was suddenly possessed of a higher intention.

These are the killer F-words that can throw the curtain back on your understanding of what makes a story work.

This is going to be FUN.

My one and only pun (at least on purpose, a couple did simply announce themselves, toward the end), I promise.

Great stories have great structure. 

Not in terms of your plot, but in terms of the context of your story on several levels, and at specific places within the narrative.  I’ve described in it my book, and I’ve written about it here in at least 400 of the 500 posts on this website.

It’s also what I believe is the most helpful and powerful of all storytelling truths: you should be writing it from a “mission-driven” perspective.  In other words, every part and parcel of the story has a narrative mission. 

A specific mission, unique unto itself. 

Of course, you need to know what those missions are in order to shoot for them when you plan or draft your story.  Many writers do this instinctually, without assigning labels for the elements within a story.  Indeed, your really can feel your way toward finding and implementing these things. 

You can also feel your way fromLos Angeles to Hawaii in a row boat, but that’s another story.  A GPS trumps the stars and your Spidey-sense every time.

That’s what this is: a GPS for your story.  With defining labels for the specific contextual mission of your story at specific and crititcal locations.

And a lot of them start with the letter F.

If you’re new here, this can change your writing life.  If you’re not new here, this is yet another way –  not even an analogy this time – to consider and understand story architecture. 

A story unfolds in FOUR contextual parts: the Setup… the Response… the Attack… and the Resolution.  This is an ancient and global concept.  It’s story physics, and physics don’t lie.

Even writers who reject this notion find that their stories – the ones that work – align with this.

The First F-Word

In the opening quartile (roughly) of your story, the context – the mission – of those narrative scenes is to lay the FOREGROUND of your story.   To hook us… introduce the hero (in a pre-Plot Point) incarnation… to create stakes… to enlist our empathy… and to…

… FORESHADOW the approaching First Plot Point and the story that it launches. 

Yes, the FPP is the true “launch” of your story.  Everything that comes before that moment (the exposition in Part 1) is very accurately viewed as the Foreground of the story (even when massively dramatic things happen there, which is always a good idea).

Then the FIRST Plot Point Forces change into everything.

And Part 2 is thus underway.

I’ve described the context – the mission – of Part 2 as showing your hero responding to the new (or newly shifted) path before them, FRAUGHT with new (or newly revealed) obstacles and villains and stakes and danger and need.  Things in need of FINDING (safety, answers, hope) and then FIXING.  You can’t have them solving the problem this early, the job here is to create reader empathy and deliver the vicarious experience of…

… FLEEING from something.  Trying to FIND something.  This is almost always the contextual case in Part 2: the hero needs to get out of harm’s way, find shelter, discover safety, avoid further danger, gain information… to step back and regroup.

All of this happens in context to the story now having an antagonistic force presenting obstacles (because of opposing goals and/or just plain hatred and evil) to the hero.  This is the bad guy, the villain… the FOE in your story.  He may have been Foreshadowed back in Part 1, or even lurking about, but the Foe’s goals collide with the Hero’s at the First Plot Point that initiated Part 2.

But that Part 2 context of hero-wanderer-victim can’t sustain the rest of the story.  No, a story is about a shifting landscape for the hero, escalating tension and near-misses with hope, and sooner or later the hero needs to begin earning that nametag.

They need to begin becoming FANTASTIC.

New information sparks that mission-driven change at the Mid-Point.

And now the F-words are suddenly different.

In Part 3 your hero is a FIGHTER.  Some of that may have happened back in Part 2 (where our FIGHT or FLEE instincts are fully in play) but she or he shouldn’t have been winning much back then (Part 2 is the hole, the need, the quest, becoming darker and/or more urgent, because Part 2 is when the antagonistic Force gets some Face-time).

In Part 3 your hero is trying to FORGE a game plan, just as the bad guy is evolving one.  Our hero needs to FORGET the demons and ghosts that have hindered them in succeeding thus far, and to FIX what needs fixing.

Let me return to that opening groundwork for a moment to remind you of something important: it’s tempting to use all of the F-Words anywhere in the story.  Rather, these four contexts are the descriptors of the context of each of the four parts, and they are very different.  These F-words are context-rich weapons designed to help you place and optimize the story Physics (which at least sounds like an F-word) that will make your story Forceful.

Context, properly handled, is the most Functional of all writing tools.

The “Power of F” in Part Four of Your Story

Being the last of the four parts, this is where the story FINISHES, of course.  It is where the problem is FIXED, the goal FOUND, the solution having taken FORM.

It delivers the FINAL twist, some delicious irony, justice for the villain, hope going forward.Four Parts, Four Missions, Four Narrative Contexts… Summarized

Part 1: Foreground… Foreshadow… even Foster one world view that will be challenged or put on hold to Follow a new path.

Part 2: Flee… Find safety or strategy or Friends to help elude the Foe and discover a path to Follow. 

Part 3: the hero begins to Fix things, Forge a plan, Force and Facilitate things, Find solutions, Figure things out, and Form strategies.

Part 4: this is where the strategy or path to redemption has been Found, the problem finally Fixed, the past Forgotten and Forgiven… where Freedom (from the problem) attained.

It’s where resolution is attained, and the word “Fantastic!” emerges from the lips of your reader.

These F-Words are a contextual story roadmap.

Follow them, and your story will already be sticking in close to the optimal path leading to formidable dramatic tension, reader empathy for the hero, and the delivery of a rewarding vicarious experience for your readers.

They just might be the thing that stops you from saying F-it when the going gets tough.

*****

Click HERE to see how these Fantastic and Fundamental F-words are aligned and contributing (or not) within your story.

Mastering the Fabulous “F-Word” in Fiction is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Shot Putting and the Art of Story Maintenance

This is a tale of three writers, each with a story they think is good enough to find a publisher.  It is told, analogously, through the story of three athletes who think they are good enough to make an Olympic team. 

Even if that’s not your thing, the point at hand should be.

The athletes here are shot putters.  Two are hypothetical, the other is actual legend.

If you’re not familiar with that particular Olympic event, shot putting is when men and women who can’t fly coach because of their sheer mass heave a 16 pound (7.26 kilograms) metal ball as far as they possibly can.  Hopefully without sending their rotator cuff into apoplectic shock.

The two hypothetical athletes are 6’5”.  Both weigh in at 290 pounds, with approximately 14% body fat.  Both can bench press 315 pounds ten times, with a one-time max at about 455 pounds.   At a glance, on paper, they should compete equally. (If you’ve ever been at a writing conference and looked around to notice that everyone pretty much looks the same, including the published presenters, then you’re already on board with this analogy.)

But they don’t compete equally.

One hypothetical shot putter took third in the Olympic trials, throwing 68 feet, 6 inches.  He didn’t make the team.

The other hypothetical shot putter did make the hypothetical team, and won a bronze medal in the hypothetical Olympics, throwing 71 feet, 2 inches. 

That distance, however, was well short of the standing world record, set in a 1990 non-Olympic meet by the non-hypothetical Randy Barnes (USA), of 75 feet, 10.25 inches. Barnes then went to win the Olympic gold medal in 1996.  His world record remains untouched to this day.  (Think of him as the Dan Brown of the XXXXL set.)

In reality, the likewise 6’5” Barnes weighed in at one pound more than our two hypothetical athletes.  At the risk of giving away my point here… that extra pound wasn’t the difference.

The physics involved with throwing the shot were the difference.

All three athletes had equal size and strength (which is the case in virtually any professional sport, where bench players and everyday players look no different than the superstars).  Each had trained for the same number of years, with the same level of coaching.  But Randy Barnes, the world record holder with a real Olympic Gold Medal stashed away somewhere… he had all that, and something else.  Something that made his work better.

He had superior craft. 

Which was the product of superior physics.  His talent was defined by those physics.

And so it is with writers, as well.  

Because stories — all stories — are driven by forces of literary physics.

We all bring ideas to the keyboard.  We all create characters, and bring them to life with sentences and paragraphs.  And yet, one out of a hundred submitted manuscripts actually gets published. 

The difference?  Two words: story physics.

If you offer other explanations, such as: a better and more original idea, a more intriguing character, a wilder ride, a story that grips and won’t let go… those are simply outcomes derived from the very same thing: story physics… the inherent forces that cause a story to work… or, in their absence or softness, not work.

Story physics are the reason your last novel was rejected.  Only rarely do they tell us why, but when they do it sounds like this: “I liked your concept, but the character didn’t move me.”  That’s story physics.  “I never really got into it.”  Story physics.  “You write well, but this story just isn’t our thing.”  Again, story physics.

Writing talent is the sum of the applied forces of story physics rendered with artful craft.  One without the other doesn’t end up in a bookstore.

If you sat down and watched video of these three shot putters in action, their mechanics would appear to be identical.  The way they spin in the circular deck.  They way they use their lower trunk to explode and then extend at the point of release.  The way they follow through.  Only an expert would be able to break the differences down into millimeters and milliseconds, and even then, the differences are miniscule.

Don’t like shot putting?  Insert the game of golf into this analogy and nothing changes.  The pro who is exactly your size hits the ball further and straighter than you do (me, too).  Why?  Because of the physics in play at the moment of impact. 

Which is something the golfer is completely in control of.

Are you in complete control of the story physics driving your novel? 

Have you even considered them? Or are you settling for conceptual propositions and story beats that, at best, simply fit together and make sense?  Are you relying on the power of your concept, without understand the ways you can add to that power through optimization of available parts and milestones across the narrative arc?

The stellar mechanics those shot putters and golfers all have in equal measure… those are the ante-in to this level of competition.  Victory would be won with something beyond mechanics, even beyond the pure brute strength required.  Victory is when physics work together to create a sum in excess of the parts.

Make no mistake, if you seek publication you are entering a professional level of competition, one where nearly every manuscript has some level of craft going for it.  Story physics are your best way to rise to the top of that pile.

Pretty words have almost nothing to do with it.  That, too, is simply an ante-in, and one that can actually detract if taken too far.  Pretty prose is the equivalent of the shot putter’s designer track shorts that day.  Everybody’s got a pair.

Randy Barnes didn’t just go through the motions and hope his ball went further.  He redefined the potential power those mechanics were designed to impart.  He had better game.  Just like we must find a way to raise our game.

Which writing athlete will you be?

Factors other than routine mechanics – the stuff I write about – come into play: market timing… the size and clout of the publisher (which can determine whether a book gets reviewed or not)… the mood of the acquisitions editor or the Barnes & Noble wholesale buyer… the size of the promotional budget… the brand equity of the author and the presence of similar stories out there.

But let’s forget all those for a moment, primarily because these are things over which we have absolutely no control.

Let’s look at what you can control: the nature and level of the story physics you put into play in your novel or screenplay.  These are the creative choices we make in our narrative, and they are ours to control.

Not all ideas and concepts are equal in terms of compelling power.

Not all dramatic questions convey the same weight of conflict and tension.

Not all heroes are equally worthy of our empathy and our support.

Not all bad buys give us the creeps.

Not all stakes compel us to care equally, or at all.

Not all stories become microcosms of our world and its issues.

As authors we get to choose the state of each and every one of these variables in our stories, and at any time in the writing process.

Which means, ultimately, how well the story works is completely up to us.  Luck and timing be damned… stories are equal opportunity seducers of readers.  And readers aren’t easy marks.

Story physics is the stuff of that seduction.

Look at each element of available story physics and grade yourself.  If your dramatic tension, for example, is at at B-minus level, consider what you can do to raise it to a grade of A.  Do that for your premise, pacing, hero empathy, vicarious ride and the narrative strategy you are employing, and consider the cummulative effect of these grades.

Everything can be technically correct, and you can still end up with a C-plus story.  Easily.  The job then isn’t to change the structure, but to pour fuel onto it and ignite it to a higher level of impact.

Great stories are all about the compelling nature of the premise… the intensity of dramatic tension… the artful nuance and sheer power of pace… the degree to which readers empathize with and root for the hero while fearing and rooting against an antagonist… the delicious vicarious journey delivered to the reader… and the artful grace and touch of the writer’s voice and creative execution.

One writer never gets published.  One does, but remains mired in the mid-list, or lower.  The other… well, you know her/his name.  Time after time.

Is this talent?  Sure.  But what IS talent?  Answer: an instinct about story physics.  Nthing more.  Success at that level – a published novel, a screenplay sold, a bestseller – is rarely an accident, and even more rarely is it just plain luck.

It is almost always, when you break it down, a question of story physics.

*****

  

My new writing book, “Story Physics: Harnessing the Underlying Forces of Storytelling,” will be published by Writers Digest Books in June of 2013.

*****

Where are the story physics in your work-in-progress?  Too close to it to really know?  Suspect they’re fine but not sure?  Sense it’s not working as well as it should but aren’t clear as to why?

Consider my new story coaching program, which focuses in on key story moments in context to your overall conceptual framework to evaluate the effectiveness of your choices in terms of their underlying story physics.

It’s like an MRI for your story, but without the pricetag.  At $100, this might be the best investment you’ll ever make in a story you intend to spend a year of your life writing. 

Click HERE to learn more.

Shot Putting and the Art of Story Maintenance is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com